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[i]
It’s so easy to get under Barnes’ skin that Sam should maybe feel a little bit bad about it.
Except he really, really doesn’t. So sue him, he enjoys poking fun at the crazy ex-assassin on his team. Wasn’t a death wish a mandatory part of being Captain America? And, besides, it’s not like Barnes doesn’t give as good as he gets, most days.
Now that they’re an official team, things are starting to mellow out between them. Sam can’t say he misses the tension of the Flag Smasher days, the two of them constantly at each other’s throats. Now that Sam’s picked up the shield, carried on the legacy Steve left him, Bucky’s been a hell of a lot easier to work with.
Sam is still surprised that this is his life, some days. That he wears the stars and stripes, carries the shield on his back, that he’s technically the leader of the Avengers and the face of the United States of America. Still feels like he’s going to wake up one day and realize it’s all been a dream.
Maybe that’s why he wheedles at Bucky, instead of having any kind of important conversation. It’s so much easier to let humor smooth out all those rough edges than for Sam to sit down and ask what Bucky’s plans are for the future, if he’s sticking around, if he’s going to be Sam’s partner for the foreseeable future.
Except, today is maybe one of those days where he should dial it back. Feels a bit bad when Bucky abruptly turns from a conversation that involved Sam taking credit for a new shield maneuver that Bucky had taught him, and storms towards the plane.
He’s never sure what sets it off, these changes in mood. But Sam’s been a soldier long enough, been a counselor long enough, that he knows too much about PTSD and depression. Knows that sometimes there doesn’t have to be a specific thing that sets it off. Knows the moods can come out of nowhere, make you feel like you’re going crazy with it.
“Hey, Barnes!” he calls as he jogs toward the man.
“What,” Bucky says in that perfectly flat voice of his, the one that says Sam’s being an asshole and needs to stop poking.
“C’mon, man, don’t be like that,” Sam wheedles. Because, again, death wish. Can’t stand it when Bucky goes monotone and monosyllabic. Wants to annoy the emotion back into his expression, even if he’s not quite sure why. “I thought we were almost at the braid-each-others-hair stage of friendship.”
“What hair,” Bucky deadpans.
And, yeah, Sam maybe deserves that. “Aw, that’s uncalled for,” he says anyways. “You’re just being mean to me because I’m trying to be your friend.”
Watches as Bucky puts some visible effort into biting back a snarky comment. It looks like it takes a lot of effort, too.
Sam has that effect on people.
Really, though, Bucky makes it far too easy to mess with him.
Bucky sighs. “I’m not being mean.”
“Sure,” Sam drawls, “and you’re not a one-armed cyborg with memory issues, either.”
He’s rewarded with a half-smile. It’s about the best Bucky can manage these days, and it always makes Sam’s stomach lurch when he’s the one who brings it out. Seems like Bucky doesn’t smile nearly enough. And, well, Sam probably wouldn’t, either, if he had even half the trauma that Barnes does. Still, it makes him try a little bit harder to be the kind of asshole that can make Bucky’s grin go all sharp and sarcastic and funny.
“Lo and behold, he smiles,” Sam says, just to rub it in.
“I smile,” Bucky snarks back. The half-smile grows a little bit, and Sam’s stomach lurches. “When things are funny. Not my fault you’re rarely funny.”
“Rarely funny?” His mock outrage makes Bucky’s smile twist up a bit more. “You wouldn’t know a joke if it danced naked in front of you with the shield on its head.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Exaggerate much?”
Sam just shrugs. Yeah, that one maybe got away from him a bit, but he’s sure as hell not going to admit that. “Seemed funny. You know. Like a joke.” Waggles his eyebrows to make the point, even.
Bucky looks like he’s going to respond – his face does something, just for a second, before he turns around to hide whatever reaction he’s having. Sam’s… a bit disappointed, honestly. It’s nice to have someone to spar with, verbally speaking, and Torres is still too awe-struck to provide much of a challenge for him. Bucky is… entertaining, at the very least, even if there’s still room for improvement in whatever weird friendship they’re carving out between them.
Sam can at least tell that he needs space, though, so he busies himself with helping to load the rest of the plane.
Torres keeps up a constant stream of chatter the entire time. Sam mostly tunes it out, as much as he hates to admit it. Torres is great – he’s excellent backup, good at his job, incredible with logistics and planning. And Sam knows that he’s older – late twenties, at least – but sometimes he’s so excitable that he reminds Sam of Cass and AJ, of the way they constantly want to show off for him whenever he goes back home. It’s funny, yeah, but Sam is just ready for a bit of post-mission silence.
The thing is, the shield still feels like it belongs to someone else, which is probably why he feels like he’s dreaming and going to wake up any second now. And he knows, God, of course he knows that Steve would want him to carve his own path forward. But it’s hard to live up to the national icon of democracy and justice. Hard to sit through briefings and wonder what course of action he should take, if any, when he’s so used to following commands.
Sam’s a good soldier, is the thing. Always has been, even way back when, before Steve Rogers showed up on his doorstep with an ex-Russian-assassin in tow. He’s not used to being the one to call the shots. And it’s… different, knowing he’s the one making the life-and-death calls.
Once they’re up in the air, Sam finally sits down and straps into a seat across from Bucky. Torres is still up front with the pilot, checking out equipment and no doubt talking the poor pilot’s ear off.
“Here he goes again,” Sam says, mouth tilting up at the corners. It’s not quite a smile, not fully, but he is amused. It seems like every time they finish a mission, he and Bucky end up in some kind of weird staring contest. It was strange, especially at first – but now Sam’s come to expect it. Bucky’s his wingman, now, so if it makes him feel better to sit there in silence and stare, who is Sam to judge?
Besides, Sam knows trauma. Knows it more intimately than he ever wanted to. So he knows how sometimes it can eat you up inside, make you unable to string two words together. Sometimes Bucky’s silent stares feel like that – like he’s trying to communicate without having to speak. Other times it feels like he’s just trying to annoy Sam. Those are the times Sam stares back and tries to make Bucky blink first.
Today, though, seems like one of those days where words are failing Bucky. Sam doesn’t want to push, knows he’ll talk if he needs to. Or, well, trusts that he will.
Weirdly, Bucky’s stare goes a little glassy, like he’s thinking about something. Like it’s an accident he’s staring at Sam, lost in thought so badly he doesn’t even realize where his gaze is pointed. Sam stares at him for a few moments. Tilts his head. Bucky’s vibranium fist is clenched on his knee.
“You okay, man?” Tries to keep his voice soft. Doesn’t want to startle him out of whatever deep thoughts he’s having.
Bucky’s eyes refocus on Sam. It’s a slow refocusing, like he was far away inside his own head. There’s some kind of strong emotion in there, buried deep – and then Bucky bites his lip and looks away, nods once.
Sam doesn’t believe him, not for a second. Something has him all torn up inside. But he’s not sure if he has the right to pry. Sure, they’re a team now, but what goes on inside Bucky’s brain is still largely a mystery, one that Sam doesn’t know how to solve. There’s trust, sure, but… Sam isn’t the person Bucky goes to, to open up. Hell, Sam’s not sure Bucky goes to anyone, not even his therapist.
“You sure?” Sam can’t help but ask. Wants to make sure, even if there’s nothing he can do, that Bucky is okay.
Bucky nods again. Doesn’t resume his staring contest. Turns his eyes in every direction except back at Sam, like he’s pretending he’s not just avoiding Sam’s gaze. Well, that’s okay. Death wish be damned, Sam knows better than to push. So, he settles back in his seat. It’s going to be a long flight back to the States, especially if Bucky isn’t going to be speaking.
Sam’s not sure when Bucky nods off. Bucky doesn’t usually fall asleep when there’s still people around. Still too paranoid for that, too nervous about the world around him. Sam gets it, after all the shit the guy’s had to endure. If anyone has a reason to be paranoid, it’s him.
He’s lost in his own thoughts when he realizes that Bucky is… having a nightmare?
It’s a strange thing to consider. Sam’s no stranger to nightmares; he still can’t dream about flying without dreaming about people falling. And even before the brainwashing and assassinations, Barnes was a soldier. Neither of them are strangers to PTSD and the fucked up things it can do to a person’s brain.
But it’s one thing to think about it in the abstract, and another to sit there, strapped into a cargo plane, and watch it unfold before him. Bucky’s entire body has gone rigid, and his right hand is clenched so tightly on his knee that Sam can see all the bones standing out, skin gone deathly white under the pressure.
It’s – Sam’s in motion before he’s even fully aware of what he’s doing. Crosses the plane in a few strides and sits down next to Bucky, one hand hesitating as it reaches towards Bucky’s shoulder. He’s not entirely sure if it’s a good idea to touch him. Barnes doesn’t seem like the kind of person who enjoys being touched unexpectedly. But then he outright whimpers, hand curling impossibly tighter into his knee, and Sam can’t help himself.
He touches Barnes’ shoulder as gently as he can. Bucky wakes all at once, body jerking with the force of it, gasping for air like he’s just run a marathon. Sam can see that he’s not fully awake, yet – his eyes are clouded over with whatever he was just seeing in his dreams.
“Barnes,” he says. Just his name. Just to help him ground himself a little, bring him back to the present. Shit, Sam knows all the tricks for helping after a nightmare. Sarah had damn well done her research after Riley.
“’m fine,” Bucky mumbles. Closes his eyes. Takes several deep breaths. His hand’s still clenched so tight on his knee, and Sam’s not sure what to do. Not sure what he’s allowed to do. They’re friends, yeah, but there’s still so much tension between them, sometimes.
“Bullshit,” he says. Tries to soften it, make it gentle. “You have a nightmare?” It’s an obvious question, but he’s trying to gauge Bucky’s reactions. Trying to figure out how he can help without being a nuisance.
“What the fuck do you think,” Bucky says in his flattest voice.
“I’m tryin’ to help, man, you think you could stop being a dick for two seconds?” Sam snaps. Immediately regrets it. He’s too used to their snarky dynamic. Doesn’t know how to switch it off. He panics, just for a second, afraid he’s fucked it all up, that Barnes will tell him to fuck off.
Bucky just… pauses. “Sorry,” he says after a moment. Doesn’t look at Sam. Stares at the floor instead, expression pinched.
“Wow, I wasn’t sure you knew that word.” But when he says it, it’s softer than it usually would be. Bucky might deserve a bit of teasing, but Sam kind of gets it. He’d probably be an asshole, too, if their roles were reversed. And then he continues, softly, “Seriously, though, you doing okay? I know you’re not going to therapy anymore. Just wanted to check in.”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” Bucky exhales, scrunches his face up. His entire body is still tensed like he’s ready for a fight, knuckles white where they’re clenched on his knee. Sam knows he needs to relax – that kind of tension isn’t good for his body. It’s just going to make him feel worse.
He makes a decision. In the back of his mind, it feels like a decision he can’t walk back. Like it’s going to change something fundamental in their relationship. But – it’s an easy decision to make. Bucky’s his partner, now, his wingman. His friend. And Sam – well, Sam takes care of people. That’s what he does. It’s the whole reason why he followed Steve Rogers’ dumb, masochistic ass into battle all those times.
He pulls his hand off Bucky’s shoulder and puts it down on top of Bucky’s hand. Bucky jumps, but doesn’t pull away.
“Come on, you gotta relax,” he murmurs, because he needs to say something to fill the silence. And then he gently, carefully, cautiously pries Bucky’s fingers off his knee. And Bucky tenses like he’s afraid Sam’s going to hurt him - and that sure does make Sam’s heart do something funny in his chest – but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t try to make Sam stop. So Sam, ever so gently, starts to rub his thumb in circles along the tensed muscles in Bucky’s hand. Tries to massage out some of the stress keep him locked in that position.
Bucky’s silent while he does it. But maybe some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. Or maybe Sam’s just imagining it, too hopeful about the effect he’s having. Either way, Bucky still doesn’t pull away, and Sam counts that as a small victory.
“You wanna talk about it?” he asks.
There’s silence for a minute, but Sam can be patient. Knows what it’s like to have to put thoughts together after a nightmare.
“There was a – a man, in the bar,” Bucky says eventually. Voice ragged, hoarse. “Thought he was my neighbor.”
“The Japanese man.” Naka-something. Bucky’s mentioned him before.
“I – yeah.” Lifts his vibranium hand – it flashes in the low lights of the plane – and runs it through his short hair. “I killed his son.”
That’s – not unexpected, actually. Sam’s seen the notebook Bucky’s carried, the way he panicked when Zemo got his hands on it. Knows about his reparations efforts.
“You wanna tell me about it?” Makes sure to keep his voice even. Non-judgmental. Keeps his fingers ever so gentle on Bucky’s hand, like maybe he’s trying to give the man something else to focus on instead of all the shit in his brain.
“Not much to tell.” Bucky shakes his head. “Wrong place, wrong time. Couldn’t leave any witnesses, it went against my programming. Hotel Inessa, I think, but my memory’s fucking shot still. I remember his face, though. I remember how he begged me, how he told me he didn’t see anything. I remember feeling nothing when I shot him in the head.”
“Wasn’t you,” Sam murmurs. Because what else can he say?
“I know. But it was. It was and it wasn’t, and it’s complicated.”
And if that isn’t the shitty fucking truth, Sam doesn’t know what is. He can’t imagine what it must be like, having all those memories of doing something horrible, and trying to remember that you weren’t in control of your own actions. It makes his heart do something painful in his chest, when he thinks about what Bucky’s been through.
After a few more minutes, he lets go of Bucky’s hand. Puts his hand on Bucky’s knee, instead, and tries to communicate some kind of unspoken comfort. The man’s gone – not limp, but not tense, some kind of middle ground where he’s still managing to hold himself upright, but just barely. He’s clenching and unclenching the vibranium fist, exhaling with each unclench, and Sam recognizes it as a therapy tool, similar to one he used after Riley. And that – his heart lurches at that, at the recognition of Bucky trying to calm himself, at the thought of Riley, at the whole situation. Because the last person he talked through a nightmare like this was Riley, all those years ago.
“You wanna try to sleep again?” he asks, to cover the momentary twinge of pain that always accompanies Riley’s memory.
“I – don’t know.” Bucky takes a deep breath. And another.
“It’s still a long flight back to the States. Might not be a bad idea.”
Bucky shakes his head and leans back against the wall of the plane. Tilts his head up until he’s staring at the ceiling, eyes red like he could cry. And Sam gets it – gets the impulse to not go back to sleep after a particularly shitty nightmare, gets the fear that curdles your stomach until it’s all you can think about. But he’s also far enough away from his own constant-nightmares-every-time-he-sleeps days that he can look back and say, yeah, going back to sleep after was usually a good idea. But he damn well knows that he can’t force Barnes into anything. Wouldn’t even try. So he settles back, too, and buckles into the straps.
“What?” he says when Barnes look at him, exhaustion evident. “I just – I’m here. If you need me.” Shrugs like it isn’t a big deal, because it isn’t, Sam takes care of people, that’s what he does – and pulls out his phone so he doesn’t have to watch the indecision on Bucky’s face.
It takes a while for Bucky to relax. Sam can tell, even without looking at him, that Bucky is trying very hard not to fall back asleep. But maybe it’s Sam next to him, or maybe it’s just the exhaustion weighing him down, but he does eventually fall back asleep. Sam listens to his breathing even out, and smiles to himself. Bucky sure as hell needs more sleep. He thinks he’s subtle about not sleeping on missions, but Sam’s not an idiot. Has watched Bucky go three days in a row without sleep, and still function at a level Sam can’t even fathom. But it can’t be good for him. People were meant to sleep every day, serum be damned.
He’s distracted by the book on his phone. Doesn’t see it when Bucky lists to the side. Only realizes it when Barnes’ head lands on his shoulder and – somehow – doesn’t wake the man up.
Sam freezes, just for a second. But this is – this is fine, it’s not like Bucky’s the first person to fall asleep like that. Riley. Steve. Wanda. Hell, even Nat fell asleep on him once, like this, when they were on the run. And that was the first day that Sam really felt like he was on the team, not just Captain America’s second-choice wingman.
Wants to think it doesn’t mean anything, but he can’t fool himself. It meant something with Nat, and it sure as hell means something with Barnes. Both of them, traumatized to hell and back, couldn’t – wouldn’t – trust easily. Not enough to be vulnerable like this. But they trust Sam, for some unfathomable reason, and Sam’s – well, it makes him feel warm inside, that trust. So he does his best to stay still and quiet, to not dislodge Bucky’s head, and lets him sleep the entire way back to the States.
Misses Natasha, suddenly, with a fierceness that aches. Misses their quiet conversations about life and PTSD in the dark of a safe house, where words were unthreatening and they could both just ache with the sorrow of it all. Misses the way she relaxed around him, opened up around him, in a way that only he and Steve could bring out of her. Misses the way it felt like trust and love and friendship, all the way down to his bones.
This could feel like that, too, he thinks. He hasn’t been close with anyone since that – and no one could replace Nat or Steve, or the kind of friendship he had with them. But… well, Sam’s tired of feeling lonely, maybe. Bucky’s not a replacement, he’s his own person, but Sam doesn’t miss the way Bucky relaxes down against him, settles deeper into sleep, like it’s an unconscious reaction.
When they finally land, Sam’s maybe cramping a bit from staying in one position for so long, but he can’t even bring himself to tease Bucky about it. Because Bucky actually slept, the entire time, without any nightmares, and Sam’s not nearly heartless enough to tease him about something like that. Nudges him awake – and Bucky wakes the second Sam moves, rocketing to full alertness in the space of a heartbeat – and tries not to look at the soft, satisfied smile on Bucky’s face. Tries to ignore the way it makes his stomach flip flop.
“Thanks,” Bucky says, so softly that Sam has to strain to hear it.
Sam just nods. Gently touches Barnes’ shoulder as they stand. It’s – it’s not a problem. Definitely not a problem that Bucky’s smile is making his stomach somersault. Resolutely pushes it out of his mind as they start the arduous task of unpacking the plane of all their supplies.
They’re friends. And Sam’s glad for it, he really is, but after Riley –
Well. It’s been a long time since Sam’s stomach did that, is all, and he’s – he’s not ready for anything. So he pushes it out of his mind, and pretends that it never happened.
[ii]
Of course, pretending it never happened comes back to bite him in the ass.
He shouldn’t be surprised, not really. That many thoughts of Riley and Natasha and Steve in one day was bound to have an impact, no matter how far in time Sam gets from the beginning of his grief. Spends the next several nights waking in a tangle of sheets and sweat, heart pounding in his chest, after watching Riley and Rhodes fall through the sky. After his mind conjures up image after image of how Natasha might’ve fallen to her death.
So, it’s with some reluctance that he agrees to let Bucky crash on his couch for the night. Doesn’t show the reluctance, he’s not stupid; Bucky would never ask again, and they’re trying to make progress as friends, damn it. And when he finally tucks in for the night, leaving Bucky on the couch, he fervently hopes for a night without dreams.
Of course, nothing ever goes like he hopes. Sam wakes, yet again, in a tangle of sheets, a scream rising in his throat that forces back down, trying not to wake the retired assassin in the next room. It’s been a long time since he’s let anyone see him after a nightmare, and he doesn’t particularly want to start with Barnes. Thinks, briefly, about calling Sarah – hearing her voice might just help him fall back asleep and pretend nothing happened – but it’s like two in the morning and it would just make her worry. Sam’s fine, most of the time. Doesn’t need Sarah nagging at him about going back to therapy or starting up with the VA again.
So he climbs out of bed. It takes a minute to untangle himself from the sheets, but he does it, and once he’s standing he just stares around the dark room. Doesn’t want to sleep, but he can’t just sit there. Settles for going to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, trying to chase away the lingering ghosts of his nightmares.
There’s a noise, in the living room. A whimper of – pain? Sam doesn’t even think, just hurries out to the living room in his boxers and ratty t-shirt. Flips on the light as he goes, and looks around like there’s an imminent attack. But – Bucky’s asleep on the couch, slumped over like he was trying to stay awake and failed miserably, and clearly in the midst of a nightmare. Sam hesitates – does he wake him, how does he wake him, what does he do – but then Bucky wakes up all at once, shouting and flailing his arms, and there’s a thud as his hand connects with the coffee table, and another shout.
“Shit, man, you okay?” Sam asks.
Bucky sits up, gasping like a drowning man. “Fine,” he groans, but it’s not convincing. He avoids Sam’s eyes, instead examining the back of his hand where it slammed against the coffee table. There’s some blood, but it’s mostly just a scratch, already pinking around the edges. “Fuck,” Bucky exhales, so softly that Sam’s not even sure he meant to say it.
And then his eyes get that faraway look that Sam can – if not recognize, at least remember how it feels. Like he’s still partially in the dream, still remembering whatever awful things it showed him. Sam waves a hand in front of Bucky’s face, pokes his shoulder, tries to bring him back to the present.
“Barnes. Barnes, can you hear me?”
“No,” Bucky whimpers. It’s clear that he’s not responding to Sam, but something in the nightmare. His vibranium hand is clenching and unclenching again. In one smooth motion, his vibranium hand latches onto his other wrist, squeezing like he’s got someone’s throat under his hands.
“Bucky,” Sam tries, panic clawing up his throat. Doesn’t know how to help this, doesn’t –
But Bucky blinks at the sound of his name, eyes focusing on Sam’s face. Sam watches the realization flash across his expression, watches the self-hatred and loathing that accompanies it.
“Oh, fuck,” Bucky swears. Lets go of his wrist. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
He makes like he’s going to get up. Like he’s going to leave. And Sam’s heart does something painful at that realization. He wants to – he wants to help, wants to make Bucky feel better. And maybe it’s just him avoiding his own problems, but it’s so much easier to fix other people than it is to fix himself. So when Bucky goes to stand, he blocks the way. Puts gentle hands on Bucky’s shoulders and pushes him back down onto the couch.
The indecision is clear on Bucky’s face just for a heartbeat, and then he lets his knees buckle. Sam knows that if Bucky really wanted to leave, Sam couldn’t stop him. But Bucky lets himself be pushed back down, lets Sam sit beside him.
“Bad one?” Sam asks gently. It certainly seems more violent than the one on the plane.
Bucky just nods. Looks too strung out on fear and panic for words.
“Want some tea?”
“I – what?”
Sam just smiles and stands up. Bucky doesn’t seem like he’s in much of a headspace to talk about the shit going on in there, so Sam’s not going to make him talk. But tea – tea is calming. Sam can make tea and sit there in silence and give Bucky time to process.
“You like fruity tea?” he calls over his shoulder as he heads toward the kitchen. “Or you want, like, green tea?”
“I,” hears Bucky clear his throat. “Uh, do you have chamomile?”
Sam’s heart twists. Only has chamomile because it was Riley’s favorite, and he’d gotten a taste for it, way back when.
“Sure do,” he says, voice as even as he can make it. “Gimme a sec.”
Going through the motions of making tea is calming. Grounding. Gives him a chance to get his emotions back under control. It’s becoming clearer and clearer that he’s got some kind of feelings for Bucky. Maybe it’s just how close they’re getting, or maybe it’s the way Bucky is slowly opening himself up to Sam’s friendship. Maybe it’s how well they work together in the field, or the way Bucky’s humor is gentler, less sarcastic, funnier instead of biting. Like a hint of the person he used to be. Or maybe it’s just the fact that Sam hasn’t had someone this close to him in years, besides Sarah and the boys.
He brings the mug over to Bucky, dropping onto the couch next to him. Can’t help the way his cheeks darken when their fingers touch as he passes the mug over. Looks away, so Bucky can’t see what his face is doing.
It’s just a silly infatuation, that’s all.
They sit in silence. It’s… nice. Calming. And Sam’s okay, not as bad off as Bucky after his nightmare, but he can still feel himself relaxing back into the couch. Can feel Bucky next to him, sagging back into the couch like he can’t hold himself up anymore.
“You wanna talk about it?” Sam murmurs.
It takes Bucky a second to respond, but Sam’s pretty sure it’s because he’s halfway asleep, not because he doesn’t want to answer.
“Sorry I threw you off a helicarrier.”
Is that what he’s been dreaming about? Sam snorts. Doesn’t mean to; it just comes out.
“Long forgotten, man,” he says. Because it’s true – he never thinks of Bucky as the Winter Soldier anymore.
“Wilson,” Bucky sighs, and clearly tries to rouse himself from the couch. “I should –”
“If your next words aren’t go back to sleep, I’m gonna kick your ass,” Sam says. Can’t keep the fondness out of his voice. Bucky’s a dumbass masochist, just like Steve, that’s for damn sure. “And, c’mon, when are you gonna start calling me Sam? All this ‘Wilson’ bullshit like we aren’t friends.”
“Are we?” Bucky asks, voice suddenly serious. Looks at Sam like he’s expecting a certain answer and already bracing himself for it.
“Fuck, of course we are.” Sam rolls his eyes to cover the way his heart lurches at Bucky’s words. “Shit, you’re sleeping on my couch. We got takeout and watched a random documentary. We’re practically best buddies, you and I.”
Then it’s Bucky’s turn to snort. Seems like Sam’s words reassure him, though, because all at once the tension drains out of him and he sags back against the couch. Lists sideways, towards Sam, eyes half closed. Sam watches out of the corner of his eye as Bucky swears and tries to sit back up. He looks… well, half asleep, he looks younger. Hell, he and Sam are practically the same age in years actually lived, but Bucky… looks young in a way that makes Sam’s heart ache.
“Don’t want to… keep you up.” Bucky’s words are slurred, though, and sleep is clearly not that far off.
“Fucking hell, shut up and go back to sleep,” Sam grumbles. God, Barnes is too masochist for his own good. Is that a super soldier thing? “I got you, man. I’m right here.”
And that must be the right thing to say, because Bucky lists sideways again. His head lands on Sam’s shoulder. Sam tenses just for a moment, because he wasn’t expecting Bucky to do it – but then it doesn’t matter, because it’s a comfortable pressure against his side.
Can feel Bucky where he’s pressed up against him, still just the slightest bit tense, still struggling between sleep and wakefulness.
“Sleep, Bucky,” Sam murmurs.
And that’s all it takes. All the remaining tension bleeds out of Bucky’s limbs, and he settles heavily against Sam’s side, a warm and welcome pressure. And Sam has read about things like weighted blankets, but never really considered them before. That might have to change, though, because Bucky’s weight against him feels grounding in a way he didn’t know anything could. Feels almost drugged with it, all of a sudden, with the way the exhaustion crashes down on him. Can’t stop himself from listing to the side, just like Bucky. His cheek comes down to rest on the top of Bucky’s head. Bucky doesn’t even stir, already fast asleep. And that makes Sam feel so relaxed, the thought that Bucky trusts him enough to be able to sleep like this.
Can’t help the little smile that plays across his face as he falls asleep, surprisingly comfortable in Bucky’s strange embrace.
In the morning, Sam’s eyes aren’t even open yet before he can feel the weight of Bucky’s stare. They’ve apparently made themselves comfortable during the night – now Sam’s lying down on the couch, with Bucky a comfortable weight sprawled across him. And Sam honestly never wants to move. Wants to keep his eyes closed and go right back to sleep. Everything feels peaceful in a way that he wants to hold on to for as long as possible.
Instead, though, he mumbles, “You really gonna start the day staring at me?” Doesn’t open his eyes. Can’t make his expression any less fond right now.
“Sam,” Bucky whispers.
It’s just his name. But it feels like there’s a weight behind it, emotion. It makes Sam’s heart ache. Makes him want to reach up and wrap his arms around Bucky, pull him down into an embrace.
And then Bucky has to go and pull himself away, sit up on the couch. Sam feels the loss of the pressure like something’s been ripped away from him, and he doesn’t know what his face is doing, but it’s probably way too honest right now.
“’m awake,” he groans, and pushes himself up. Can’t dwell on the fact that he wants to lie on the couch and cuddle the Winter Soldier all morning. “You sleep okay?”
“No dreams.” Bucky’s whole face lights up when he says it, and Sam’s heart stops for a second. Can’t stop staring at how open and earnest Bucky’s face looks when he smiles, how fucking sweet he looks. How – how did Hydra ever look at this boy and think, yeah, he’ll make a great weapon. How could anyone look at a smile that sweet and decide to turn him into a monster?
And it’s not that he didn’t get it before, because he would’ve done the same thing in a heartbeat for Riley. But that – Sam can’t help but look at that expression and understand, fully and completely, just why Steve Rogers was so hell-bent on bringing his friend back. With that sweet, beautiful smile, Sam can imagine doing the same thing in his place.
“Good,” Sam says, because he has to say something, and his mouth is too dry for more words. Smiles back, and watches as a delicate pink flush spreads across Bucky’s cheeks. It’s attractive as fuck.
“I should – I should go check on my apartment.”
Bucky’s not looking at him now, and Sam – well, there’s maybe been a bit too much honesty in both of their expressions this morning. Sam can give him a moment, and not give him too much shit.
“Of course,” he says with a wave of his hand. “Go on, go check the perimeter, or whatever you’ll do the second you get back. Lord knows your apartment must be the single most secure spot in the whole city.”
Can’t stop himself from peeking over at Bucky. Does it just in time to see him flush a darker red. Sam bites his lip to keep from making noise at the sight of it.
“You’re just jealous of my skills,” Bucky says nonchalantly.
“Uh huh. Sure.” Wants to reach out and run his fingertips across Bucky’s day-old stubble. Wants to know what Bucky looks like first thing in the morning – and not on a couch – all sleep-tousled and snuggled into his blankets. Wants to know the exact best way to make him smile like that again. The realization hits him like a freight train. And all he can think, after his shitty nightmares, is, shit, I don’t want to be alone today.
“You got plans later?” he finds himself asking. “There’s a new MoMA exhibit, thought I’d check it out. Wanna go?”
“I –” Thinks Bucky’s going to say no, and his heart is already sinking, but then – “Yeah. Sure.”
“Cool,” Sam says, with as much forced nonchalance as he can muster. “One sound good?”
“Yeah.”
Sam leaves it at that. Makes a strategic retreat from the couch, where Bucky is still sitting, looking like he doesn’t know how to react to Sam asking him to hang out. Sam’s honestly not even sure what he’s thinking. But he just had the single best night of sleep he’s had in, like, five years, and it’s all because Bucky trusted him enough to fall asleep on him, and then slept on top of Sam like a weighted blanket. And he just keeps getting closer, digging into all the weak spots in Sam’s heart without even trying.
He just – God, Sam misses the kind of closeness that he and Riley had with every fiber of his being. And Bucky’s not a replacement for Riley, and Sam’s not even sure what he feels for Bucky yet, but it’s just – it’s nice to have a friend. Nice to have some to talk to, to pass some time with. Sam’s number of friends in the world keeps dwindling – it’s not like the superhero business has a stellar retention rate – and he’s maybe a bit lonely these days.
Bucky is, for some reason, a bright spot in an otherwise dark time. And Sam intends to take advantage of every moment of companionship he can, for as long as Bucky will let him.
[iii]
Sam staggers through the door, drops his pack the moment he’s clear. Everything is hazy around the edges, like maybe he’s pushed himself too hard, too far, too much. Pain, sharp and obvious, spike through his shoulder and down his arm. But they haven’t – they couldn’t stop to look at it, there was too much gunfire, and Sam –
God, Sam is just so tired.
“Oh, fuck, Sam, did you get shot?”
And then Bucky’s right there all of a sudden, fingers gentle on his shoulder where he’s trying to look at the wound, and Sam has to stop himself from leaning into the touch. Ever since that night on his couch, with Bucky’s weight a welcome pressure on top of him while he slept, he can’t stop himself from touching. He’s even gotten away with tousling Bucky’s hair. All friendly, all casual, all a lie. Sam wants, and he thinks Bucky might want, too, but maybe he’s just imagining what he wants to see.
“Just clipped me,” Sam pants. “S’no big deal.”
It’s not like he hasn’t had worse injuries. Doesn’t even feel like the bullet did much damage. But the weight of his pack kept pulling at the wound, making it ache, and Sam forgot just how much superficial injuries can hurt.
“Shut the fuck up,” Bucky growls, deep in his throat, and it makes Sam shiver a bit. “Sit your ass down, let me clean it before it gets infected, Christ.”
“I’m fine, seriously,” Sam says. But his words are undermined when he sways against the sink, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The adrenaline is receding like the tide going out, and he can feel his knees start to buckle with the effort of staying upright.
“Torres, how long until extraction?”
“Uh.” Can hear Torres typing away through Sam’s own coms. “Closest rendezvous is about ten hours away.”
“Fuck,” Bucky repeats for emphasis. “Sam, sit down before you fall over.”
“He okay?” Torres asks Bucky, like Sam isn’t on the fucking line too.
“I don’t know, the dumbass won’t let me look at him.”
Sam sits down. Tries to pretend that it was his choice and not the inevitability of not being able to hold himself up anymore. Tries to glare at Bucky for his damnable mother-hen routine, but he’s not sure how effective it is. “Told you, ‘m fine.” But even to his own ears, his words are slurred. Can’t sit fully upright in the chair, either.
“Minor blood loss, I think.” Bucky’s still only talking to Torres, because he’s an asshole like that. Bu his fingers are so gentle when he pulls back the top layer of Sam’s armor.
Sam hisses anyways, because it fucking stings. Especially when Bucky breaks out actual antiseptic cream, where the hell was he keeping that. Can’t sit still, even under Bucky’s careful administrations.
“Do you even know what you’re doing?” Tries to glare, again.
“I have a lot of skills,” Bucky says, so softly, not looking at Sam. And then, in a fit of melodrama, he hurls his coms across the room. Sam taps his earpiece with his free hand to silence it, because he’s not a fucking drama queen, thank you very much. “The Asset needed to know how to maintain peak performance on jobs.”
Sam stills. Isn’t sure what his heart is doing in his chest, but it’s painful.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “I – Bucky,” and then he has to take an unsteady breath. Wants to reach out and touch. Wants to reassure himself that Bucky’s there, that he’s okay. It’s silly, because it’s all in the past and Hydra’s gone – inasmuch as it ever is – but he can’t help it.
“Just… just let me patch you up.” Bucky’s still not looking at Sam.
“Alright. Yeah.” Because there’s not much else Sam can say to that kind of soft request.
And then Bucky proceeds with the single gentlest and most careful examination and treatment of Sam’s life.
He’s used to the medics in the Air Force. They’re good at what they do, and they take good care of the men under his charge. Hell, he’s even used to Steve or Natasha helping to patch him up. But this – the way Bucky’s fingers skate over his skin as he gentle cleans the grit out of the wound. The way he murmurs what he’s going to do before he does it, so softly he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing it. The way he smooths antiseptic cream across it, the way he smooths down the edges of the bandage to make sure it’s secure. The way he looks when Sam chances a glance down at his face – expression so focused, with so much care brimming in his eyes that Sam has to swallow before he says something stupid. It’s almost too much, the way Bucky’s treating him like something precious.
“Quit hovering,” he mumbles when Bucky’s just about done. Because he needs some kind of distance, before he forgets himself and leans into the feeling of Bucky’s hands on him.
“Someone’s gotta look after that impressive mountain of stupid you call Captain America,” Bucky drawls. There’s a hit of his old Brooklyn accent in his words, and, fuck, Sam should not find that as attractive as he does. Bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making an embarrassing noise.
“I dunno, man.” Rolls his shoulder before it can get too stiff, grimaces at the way the bandage pulls at his skin, but it – it really does feel better. Still hurts, but not as badly. “All I heard was you callin’ me impressive.”
Oh, fuck, is he actually flirting? Peeks at Bucky to see if the man reacts, but Bucky’s face is schooled into an impassive neutrality. He just snorts at Sam’s comment, and backs off, giving Sam space. And it shouldn’t make him feel this – this want, this longing, but all Sam wants to do is pull him closer.
“Go lie down, Wilson,” Bucky says. “Take some damn pain meds. I’ll check the perimeter.”
Sam is genuinely grateful for the opportunity to be alone for a few minutes, because what the fuck. Is Sam actually flirting with Bucky now?
He takes the damn pain medication. Sits on the edge of the bed and puts his head in his hands and just breathes for a few minutes. Can’t stop the restless pounding of his heart. Can’t stop feeling the ghost of Bucky’s fingertips so gentle on his arm, gentle in a way he didn’t know vibranium fingertips could be.
And Sam maybe has to admit to himself – privately, in the safety of his own head – that he wants Bucky to touch him. Wants to touch Bucky, wants to know what it feels like to kiss him. Wants, suddenly, with so much force that it hurts. Groans and flops back on the bed, one hand scrubbing at his face.
He’s felt this before. Knows the signs. Can remember, so clearly, the day he realized he wanted to touch Riley like that. The way he couldn’t stop staring. And Riley had been so fucking confident, had seen the realization on Sam’s face and didn’t hesitate to back him against a wall and kiss him.
Bucky’s – not like that. Or at least not to Sam’s knowledge. And Sam gets it. It was a long time after the trauma of Riley – hell, after the trauma of the Raft and being on the run – before he was… interested in anything again.
But, fuck, he wants to touch. Even just platonically. Wants Bucky to come back from his perimeter sweep and slide into bed next to Sam, wants them to lie intertwined until they fall asleep like that. And Sam’s never thought of himself as a sentimental person, but oh God the ache in his heart is terrible. All this wanting and longing bundling together until it’s the only thing he can think about.
Thinks he maybe falls asleep, because he startles when Bucky bangs through the front door of the safe house. He at least made himself ready for bed - he’s stripped down to his boxers and a t-shirt, warm under the covers already. Whatever pain meds Bucky gave him must be strong, because waking up feels like swimming up a flooding river.
Watches as Bucky paces over to the window and plants himself there like he’s going to stay there all night. And that really won’t do, not when there’s plenty of room in the bed for both of them.
(In the morning, Sam is absolutely going to blame this on the pain medication loosening his tongue. But he wants, and can’t stop himself from reaching out for it.)
“C’mon, Buck,” he says. Doesn’t miss the way Bucky tenses and then forcibly relaxes at the sound of his nickname.
“I can sleep on the floor,” Bucky mumbles.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Sam snorts instead of pleading with him. “I don’t bite.”
Bucky turns so sharply towards the window at those words. Is he – are his cheeks pink? There’s not enough light in the room for Sam to see clearly. And maybe he wants to think Bucky’s flushing so badly that he’s willing to see anything.
Tries again, because he’s a sucker for punishment.
“Buck.” Pats the bed for emphasis. And it’s definitely the drugs – that’s definitely why he’s acting like this, like he has any right to ask this of Bucky.
But it seems to work. Bucky turns toward him – and Sam can see the moment indecision gives way to resignation. Bucky peels of his layers of Kevlar and body armor, drops hidden weapons onto the table next to the bed, gun in ever-ready reach. He strips down to his boxers and undershirt, like Sam, and Sam can’t stop himself from staring at the way Bucky’s body has changed. He remembers so clearly the broad shoulders of the Winter Soldier, the bulk of his muscles, the way his body was large like Steve’s. Now, Bucky looks – well, softer. Not as broad-shouldered, not as bulky. But he still looks strong, solidly built, and Sam forgets himself just for a moment, staring at the muscles in Bucky’s arm working as they careful fold his equipment away.
And then Bucky’s sliding into bed next to him, and Sam can’t stop the little sleepy smile that spreads across his face. Feels almost drugged with exhaustion – but that’s probably the actual drugs he took. Bucky lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. Carefully not touching Sam. And it’s – Sam wants him closer, wants to hold Bucky in his arms, wants to fall asleep with his head on Bucky’s chest. Has to settle for curling towards Bucky, careful to keep that space between them.
“Did you take the painkillers?” Bucky asks, voice so soft in the darkening room.
Sam just snorts. “Did I take the painkillers.” A yawn cuts off the end of his sentence. He’s so warm and comfortable, all of a sudden. Doesn’t even matter that there’s a chasm between the two of them. Bucky’s close, and Sam is safe. Falls asleep staring at Bucky’s profile against the bit of light coming through the curtains and the feeling of safety burning in his heart.
Stirs awake sometime in the middle of the night. It still feels like he’s fighting an uphill battle – the adrenaline crash and the medication combining forces to make him feel drugged with sleep. Can’t tell what woke him at first – and then he hears it.
Bucky is crying.
It’s so shocking that Sam doesn’t know what to do at first. He’s never seen Bucky cry. Not once in all those years chasing him, the time he spent in Wakanda – and as much as crying is a normal reaction to trauma, something Sam has to remind vets of all the time at the VA, he’s never seen Bucky cry. Never seen him react like this. Whatever the nightmare is about, it must be horrible.
Sam can’t just do nothing, though. Fights through the sleep that wants to drag him back down. Props himself up on one elbow and puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Can feel Bucky’s panic when he wakes, and then – and then he starts sobbing, making these muffled noises like he’s trying to hold everything back, and Sam’s heart fucking hurts.
“Shh,” he murmurs. Reaches out and tugs Bucky closer under the blanket. “It’s okay, you’re okay.” He doesn’t know what to do, how to fix this. Isn’t sure that touching him is the right move, but he has to do something.
Bucky’s shaking, though, and clearly trying to shove everything back down. He rolls away from Sam, facing the opposite wall. Sam thinks maybe he doesn’t want anyone to witness his moment of vulnerability. But he can’t just lie there, so he settles for sliding a hand along Bucky’s hip, trying to remind him with a light touch that he’s there. That Bucky isn’t alone.
It takes a while – and Sam fades in and out of consciousness a few times as it happens – for Bucky to calm down. For those awful wracking sobs to turn into little hiccups and gasps for air, into quiet sniffling. He just lies there and lets Sam rest a hand on his hip as he struggles to get himself back under control.
And, God, Sam gets it. Gets it with every fiber of his being. He can’t remember how many times he broke down like this in front of Sarah. Can imagine, so clearly, how horrified he was to let her witness his weakness.
Bucky rolls onto his back.
“I don’t know why I’m crying,” he mumbles.
“S’okay,” Sam murmurs. “’m here.” Doesn’t know what else to say. Isn’t conscious enough to say anything else, really.
“Sleep, Sam,” Bucky whispers. And, oh, that makes Sam’s eyelids flutter. Makes a pleasant warmth wash over him. Makes him want to nestle deeper into the blankets and close his eyes and sleep.
“You ‘kay?” Sam manages to say. Can hardly hear his own voice, with how soft it’s gotten.
“Yeah, I am.” But there’s a tension in Bucky’s body that tells Sam that he’s not, he’s lying. Probably just wants Sam to fall back asleep so he can lie there awake and miserable all night.
Sam forces his eyelids open. It’s a lot of effort. But Bucky – he needs to sleep, too. And Sam can’t help the desire to take care of him that’s welling up inside of him.
“You gonna sleep, too?” he asks around a yawn.
“Sure.” Bucky won’t look at him, though.
“Uh huh.” And then, because he’s so tired that his self-control seems a faraway thing, “C’mere, you.”
Bucky doesn’t move, so Sam wraps his hand around his vibranium wrist. Tugs him closer, until Bucky has no choice but to roll onto his side, facing Sam. There isn’t enough light coming in through the window for Sam to see by, but he can imagine the exasperation on Bucky’s face clear enough.
“Mean it. ‘m here.” Sam sighs, sleep pushing insistently at the edges of his consciousness. Hopes Bucky listens to him, because Sam’s pretty sure he doesn’t have enough energy to stay awake much longer.
There’s a pause. And then, “Fine, I’ll sleep.” Sounds fond, almost – but Sam’s probably just imagining it.
And just like that, Sam loses his fight with sleep. He’s dimly aware of his head nodding forward, until it’s pillowed on Bucky’s shoulder. Feels warm everywhere they’re touching, the lines of their bodies pressed together. Curls into Bucky’s side. Hears, in a far-off way, the soft, contented noise he makes, just before sleep crashes down on him like a tsunami wave.
It’s probably the single best night of sleep that Sam’s gotten in years, right up there with that night on his couch. Unless something’s triggered him, he doesn’t have nightmares with the same kind of frequency as Bucky, and they’ve gotten rarer over the years. But it wasn’t until Bucky came back into his life that Sam realized how much he missed the closeness of sleeping next to someone, missed the intimacy of sharing that moment of post-nightmare vulnerability. The way he missed taking care of someone.
Feels amazing in the morning, when they wake to the bright sunshine of a new day. Sam’s awake first, and he can’t help the long moments he spends staring at Bucky’s face. He’s illuminated in the sliver of sunshine streaming through the curtains, and so beautiful it hurts. In sleep, he looks so much younger. It smooths out the lines of his face, all the trauma and pain he carries with him, until he looks almost peaceful. Staring at him, Sam can almost imagine the carefree kid Steve described from the 1930s.
And that’s when Sam realizes that this is going to be a problem. That he has feelings for Bucky that probably aren’t going away any time soon, because they are in fact getting stronger. He’s not sure how he feels about it. Hell, he’s not sure how Bucky would feel about it. Sometimes it seems like they’re flirting, and other times they’re back to their regular sniping like nothing’s happened.
Bucky stirs next to him, and Sam bites his lip. Can’t help watching the way Bucky wakes up. It’s so different from the way he usually wakes up - all at once, almost violent in the way he rockets back to awareness. But this, this is a slow unfurling of consciousness. Blinks slowly, languidly. Yawns and rubs his eyes. Peers at Sam under a curtain of dark lashes and smiles like he’s not fully awake yet.
“No nightmares,” he says.
And it’s just like that morning on the couch in Sam’s apartment. Bucky looks so surprised to have slept through the rest of the night without nightmares that it makes Sam’s heart hurt. But it – it’s so good, to see him so relaxed.
Fuck, Sam thinks. This is really going to be a problem, huh.
[iv]
“Man, it’s about time you pay back my hospitality.”
After the incident in the safe house, Sam is maybe being a little mean about it all. But he’s pretty sure that Bucky wants him, too. Just needs a bit of encouragement. So he’s pulled on what he considers a nice outfit – a t-shirt tight enough to make his muscles stand out, and old jeans that lie low on hips – and is gratified by the way Bucky’s eyes widen just the slightest bit when Sam walks in the door.
“Trust me, you’ll regret saying that in the morning,” Bucky jokes. Looks like he’s firmly decided not to engage in whatever flirting Sam is doing. And that’s fine; Sam can see the way he can’t stop staring, whenever he thinks Sam isn’t looking. He’s not blind.
Sam drops his bag by the couch and paces around Bucky’s apartment. Been a while since he’s been over – they usually meet out wherever they’re going, and Bucky’s no stranger to crashing on Sam’s couch these days – and he takes his time, cataloguing all the things that have changed. He runs his finger along a new addition to Bucky’s shelf – it’s a framed photo of him, Bucky, and Torres, just before they went out on their last mission a few weeks back. It’s a nice photo. Makes it look like Bucky has friends, a life.
“They would’ve put me up in a hotel,” Sam says. Just to be contrary. “But this is nicer.”
And nicer is an understatement. God. Feels so comfortable, being Bucky’s apartment, just the two of them. Can’t stop thinking about how he could push Bucky up against the wall and find out what noises he makes while kissing, and has to bite his lip to get his thoughts back under control.
The evening is comfortable in a way that Sam can’t help but revel in. He gives Bucky shit over the number of takeout menus he has, even though it makes him a hypocrite. Knows that Bucky’s trying – and failing – to not be horribly amused by it. And when they settle on the couch, Bucky keeping a careful distance between them, Sam can’t quite keep his eyes on the television. Even though he’s the one that insisted he introduce Bucky to the hot mess that is reality TV, Sam can hardly keep his concentration on the show. Bucky’s so close, Sam could just reach out and touch him and –
“Alright, man, I gotta turn in.” It’s his defense against the touching, against pushing Bucky faster than the man can take.
“It’ll go fine,” Bucky says. Misinterpreting the pinched look on his face as worry for the conference tomorrow. But the conference is almost completely forgotten in the midst of all his longing and wanting. “You know your shit, Sam,” Bucky continues, oblivious to Sam’s thoughts, “and you’re going to put those GRC assholes in their place.”
Sam manages a small smile. Tries to make his shoulders relax. Tries to pretend like he wasn’t just thinking about pressing Bucky into the couch and –
“Yeah.” Clears his throat. “Thanks, man. I gotta get up early, though, I don’t mean to kick you out of your living room.”
“No worries.” Bucky waves a hand towards the TV. “I wasn’t watching this crap anyways. C’mon, why do you watch this garbage?”
“For the entertainment, seriously, how funny is this shit?” Sam throws back his head and laughs. Bucky’s too easy to tease, the way he takes television too seriously. Trying to get him to try new shows is like pulling teeth, but Sam’s having too much fun with it to stop.
When he looks back at Bucky, there’s a pink flush across his cheeks that makes him look so damn pretty it momentarily catches Sam off guard. And then Bucky snaps out of his staring and remembers to be a good host. Gathers up some blankets and pillows and helps Sam turn the couch into a temporary bed.
And Sam is – mean. Knows what Bucky’s thinking, or at least can guess, with the way Bucky startles every time Sam touches him. So he goes out of his way to make all these little casual touches. Smooths out the blankets and lets his fingers brush up against Bucky’s. Lets his fingertips linger against Bucky’s when he hands Sam a pillow. Claps a hand on his shoulder when they’re done, all casual-like, and watches Bucky swallow his reaction. He’s maybe grinning a bit too much at it, at the thought that maybe Bucky wants him just as much as he wants Bucky.
When Bucky disappears into his bedroom, there’s a beautiful scarlet flush creeping up his neck. Sam wishes, more than anything in the world, that he could kiss along the edges of that flush, and maybe see how far down it goes.
Instead, he settles on the couch for a long night. He doesn’t sleep well in unfamiliar places. It’s just – he’s maybe a bit more like Bucky than he wants to admit, all that paranoia that comes from being on the run for so long. Likes to sleep where he knows he’ll be safe. And it’s not that he doesn’t feel safe in Bucky’s apartment. Knows that Bucky would do a hell of a lot to protect him, feelings aside. But it’s the first time he’s spent the night over, and Sam is just – a bit unsettled, after all the damn wanting of the afternoon.
So, he grabs his binder of his bag and flips open to a random page. He’s been collecting notes, doing research trying to be more than just the brawns of the operation. Has a collection of policy ideas for the GRC. His conference tomorrow starts with a presentation on the most effective ways to reallocate housing for displaced people – and this time with equity and compassion, not the callous refugee camps scattered all over Europe. Sam’s as prepared as he can be, but that doesn’t mean he can’t glance over his notes again. So, he settles in for a long night of reviewing, highlighter in hand.
He can’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes. Jerks awake, suddenly, unsure what woke him. Shakes his head, tries to clear the cobwebs, and then –
Hears a voice in Bucky’s room.
Sam’s moving before he’s even full registered what’s happening. Has heard enough Russian from Natasha to recognize it immediately. Bursts through the door, fully ready to fight some Hydra bastards in his boxers – but it’s just Bucky, who’s awfully still, mumbling words in Russian that Sam recognizes, even if he can’t understand.
It’s – is it a nightmare? Sam knows that the Wakandans got all the brainwashing out of Bucky’s head. Remembers the way Ayo looked at Bucky during the fight in Zemo’s apartment, remembers Bucky’s whispered confessions about what, exactly, Ayo had done for him. Doesn’t understand why Bucky’s speaking the words, unless he’s having a nightmare. But there’s just – there’s so much that Sam doesn’t understand about the Winter Soldier program, and he doesn’t know what to do.
Settles for putting a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“Barnes,” he says. Shakes his shoulder a little bit, but Bucky doesn’t respond. “Bucky, c’mon. Wake up.” It’s usually enough to make him snap awake, but this time –
Bucky’s eyes open. He says one more thing in Russian, and then falls silent. There are tears in his eyes, and his breath comes in quick pants, like he can’t get enough air.
“I don’t – I don’t want to,” he gasps. Thankfully, in English. “Please.”
And, oh God, the pain and horror in his voice threatens to tear Sam’s heart apart. His mind is reeling, trying to figure out if it’s a nightmare, or some kind of horrible dissociation, or some latent Hydra programming that they’re just now discovering, but he’s scared.
But not for himself, he realizes. Not that the Winter Soldier is about the wake up and resume his last mission parameter. No, he’s afraid for Bucky – of what it’ll do to him, all the progress he’s been making, if it turns out he can still be activated.
“What’s your name?” Sam says in as calm a voice as he can muster. Decides he’s going to treat it like a dissociation.
“I-I’m – I don’t…” Bucky whimpers. His whole expression is a mask of pain and anguish. And he’s shaking, so hard that Sam doesn’t know how to get him to stop. “I-It’s… I-I’m… Bucky?”
“Yes, you are.” The relief that slams into Sam nearly buckles his knees. “You’re Bucky Barnes.”
“Oh, fuck,” Bucky gasps. Sits up so fast that he nearly collides with Sam, who’s still hovering over him.
“Fuck, are you okay?” Doesn’t even try to keep his voice calm. He’s fucking rattled, and can’t hide it. Tries, though, to get a grip. If Sam’s rattled, he can’t even imagine what Bucky must be feeling right now. Stretches out a hand to touch Bucky’s shoulder, but hesitates. That was – it was one hell of a nightmare, and he’s not sure if it’s a good idea to touch, just then. Drops it back into his lap.
“Yeah.” Bucky’s still gasping for breath, voice ragged. “Just... just a nightmare. I’m not – I wasn’t – I…”
“I know.” Sam exhales the last of his tension. He needs to focus on Bucky, not on whatever panic he’s still got hovering in the back of his mind. “I know.”
Bucky looks absolutely wrecked. There are tears in his eyes, and his lip is split where he must’ve bitten it. The dark circles under his eyes are always bad after a nightmare, but it almost looks like he’s been punched in both eyes. And Sam can’t help it. He reaches out again. Wants to be a comfort to him, wants to help steady him. Wants, more than anything in the world, to help. So he – well, he just puts his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Trying to communicate I’m here without words, because Bucky does not seem like he’s ready for words yet.
“Want some tea?” he asks. Knows his way around Bucky’s kitchen well enough to know how to make him some tea.
“I – yeah, sure.” Bucky swallows. Takes another ragged breath.
Sam squeezes his shoulder, and then leaves him alone for a few minutes. Has to get his own pulse back under control before he can be any damn help. The act of making tea helps; it’s grounding, makes him focus on the items in his hand so he doesn’t pour boiling water on himself. Makes him stop and think about what just happened.
Bucky’s okay, he reminds himself. Or, at least he’s not the Winter Soldier. Okay comes next.
And, fuck, this is a hell of a time for Sam to realize that he’s in love with Bucky. Like, head-over-heels love, the kind he didn’t think he’d ever have again. Not after Riley. Wants, suddenly, desperately, to be able to speak to Riley. To ask him what he thinks of Bucky. Sam knows all the way down in his bones that Riley wouldn’t want him to spend the rest of his life miserable and pining. Riley wasn’t like that. They only ever wanted each other to be happy. If Sam’s moving on, he can at least be certain that Riley would want it.
But, still. He didn’t think it would happen again, no matter what Riley would’ve wanted. Because how can you imagine love after losing the love of your life? How can you imagine a world where you love someone else?
He didn’t mean to fall in love again. But it crept up on him. Bucky crept up on him, opening cracks that Sam didn’t even know were vulnerable. He’s just – it’s so – he actually acts like he gives a shit about Sam. Gives him shit about taking care of himself, and badgers him to take less risks on missions. Covers his six and never complains about Sam’s harebrained schemes, no matter how many times they get shot at. Lets him crash on his couch and puts framed photos of the two of them on his bookshelf.
Stares at the finished cups of tea for a long moment, before he finally picks them up. Revelations be damned; Bucky needs him, and Sam can damn well shove his feelings aside to examine another night. Right now, he has somewhere to be.
“Buck?” he asks, stopping in the doorway of the bathroom. Bucky’s just standing there, staring at himself in the mirror, with that kind of faraway look in his eyes that Sam recognizes. He jumps when Sam speaks, which – honestly, if it weren’t such a shitty night, Sam would’ve given him shit about his serum hearing failing him.
“Jesus,” Bucky rasps, vibranium hand going to his heart.
“I also answer to Sam,” he cracks. It’s a weak attempt at a joke, at easing some of the tension, but Bucky snorts anyways.
They amble over to the couch and settle beside each other. Sam picks up the afghan thrown over the back of the couch - and feels all warm inside when he realizes it’s the one he got Bucky – and drapes it across their laps, huddles down into its warmth. They’re right next to each other – and Sam’s definitely taking the shameless opportunity to sit as close to Bucky as he dares, pressing their legs together under the guise of both fitting under the blanket. Doesn’t normally get this close, when it happens – Bucky is still inherently a person who likes his personal space, and Sam respects that. But there’s something different about tonight. Something about the way Bucky stares into space, unseeing, hands clasped so tight around his mug of tea, that makes Sam think the closeness might actually be a comfort.
The silence is comfortable. Sam doesn’t mind just sitting there, the television flickering, and letting Bucky collect his thoughts. If he wants to talk, if he’s ready to talk, he will. They’ve sat up like this, together, enough times for Sam to know that.
Bucky finishes his tea and leans forward to set the mug on the coffee table. Sam can’t help staring at the way his muscles ripple when he moves his arm. But then Bucky sits back, burrows deeper into the blanket, eyes fluttering in a way that makes Sam’s heart skip a beat. Looks like he’s mellowing out, finally. Like maybe the tea is helping him relax enough to sleep again.
“I’m afraid,” Bucky whispers. “That I’ll never… be okay.”
In the gentlest voice he can manage, Sam says, “You are okay.” Wants to reach and cup Bucky’s cheek, rub his thumb across Bucky’s jaw, but he just barely manages to stop himself. “This is just… this is living, Bucky. Everyone has things they feel guilty about, things they blame themselves for.”
“Not like this,” Bucky mumbles.
“I,” Sam sighs. God, he is an idiot. Didn’t mean for it to sound like that. In his haste to say something, he forgets himself – reaches out and touches Bucky’s cheek with the kind of familiar intimacy that Sam craves with every fiber of his being. “I’m sorry,” he tries again, “I didn’t mean that to sound dismissive. What I mean is that there’s no set value of okay that we’re all trying to reach. Everyone is going through their own stuff. Yeah, yours is horrible. Yours is the kind of fucked up that most people wouldn’t be able to handle. But you’re here. You’re alive. You’re going through the motions, even if it doesn’t all feel real yet. That means something, Bucky.”
“What’s yours?”
Sam doesn’t talk about Riley. Oh, sure, he told Steve. Natasha knew before he even said anything, damn spies. And of course he talked to Sarah about some of it. Bu Sam – well, despite how outgoing he seems, Sam doesn’t open up to a lot of people. Even Steve only got a perfunctory version. Couldn’t see the emotions Sam keeps just below the surface, the depth of his pain. It was so much closer to the surface, back then. These days, he feels almost healed over, sometimes.
But it’s Bucky asking. And Sam’s a fool in love. And even if he wasn’t, he thinks he’d still share – because how can he not be vulnerable, when Bucky lets him in and lets him see his moments of weakness?
“Riley,” he says, voice so quiet he’s not sure Bucky can even hear him. And then, louder, “Steve never told you about him?”
Bucky shakes his head.
“My wingman, back in pararescue.” The love of my life. My best friend. We were supposed to grow old together. “We made it through boot camp, training, everything together. And all we ever wanted to do was fly. EXO-7 was a dream come true, and we thought – hey, we’re going to get to do some really amazing shit like this. All of our training, leading us right down this path. We were the only two to make it through to the end, to get the wings. And then on our first mission, an RPG blew him out of the sky.” Sam tilts his head back. Tries to guard against the wave of mourning that washes over him every time he brings up Riley. “I… I couldn’t catch him. Tried so hard. But I couldn’t do anything but watch.”
“You loved him.”
“That obvious, huh?” Smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Can’t understand how Bucky, of all people, is the one to figure it out. Steve never got it. Never figured out the meaning behind Sam’s words. Natasha might’ve, but it’s too late to ask her, now. “Yeah. My first everything.”
“Do you still dream about it?”
Nods. “And Rhodes. Leipzig.”
Sam lapses in to silence for a moment. Normally it scares him, giving up pieces of himself like this. He’s not sure if it’s the dark, or the vulnerability of the moment, or if it’s just – just Bucky, digging himself deeper and deeper into Sam’s heart – but he’s not afraid. Not right now. Sad, yes, at the memories. But Bucky is there, a warm line against his thigh, and Sam’s not afraid to let him see all the broken pieces Sam keeps hidden.
“Like I said,” Sam continues. Reaches over to squeeze Bucky’s hand. “Everyone’s going through it. Plenty of soldiers with PTSD out there waking in the night and feeling like they’re never going to claw their way back. Just. You’re not alone, is all I’m saying.” Me too, he’s saying. Wills Bucky to understand it.
They lapse back into silence. Sam… feels like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders. One he didn’t even know he was carrying. It’s not like Riley was a secret, but Sam doesn’t talk about him. Doesn’t talk about PTSD, or the shit in his brain. But it feels… nice. Nice to talk to Bucky, at least. Knows he’s understood.
They go back to the documentary, but Sam’s got too much on his mind to pay much attention to it. And he’s pretty sure Bucky’s not going to be awake much longer. Chamomile tea and companionship always seems to do the trick for him.
Sure enough, it’s not long until he’s nodded off to sleep and then jerking himself awake, eyes bleary with sleep. Sam watches him for a few minutes, because he can’t tear his eyes away. Watches the way Bucky’s expression smooths out, the way he goes slack and loose-limbed as he slumps back against the couch. Watches the way he blinks when he tries to wake himself back up, and the way it only takes a few seconds for it to start all over.
And then Bucky’s head lolls to the side. Lands on Sam’s shoulder. It takes a precious few seconds for him to wake up, to sit upright in a moment of panic. Still, no matter how many times they do this, Bucky hesitates to fall asleep on Sam.
“Buck.” Sam huffs out a laugh. “Sleep, man, it’s okay. I’m right here.”
Knows those are the magic words, where Bucky’s concerned. It’s like he needs permission, or reassurance, to actually be able to fall asleep on these nights. Maybe it’s his lingering guilt over keeping Sam up in the middle of the night. He’s hinted at it before, with mumbled apologies. Sam doesn’t know how to tell him it’s okay without revealing too much of himself.
Bucky falls asleep quickly, after that. His head drops back down onto Sam’s shoulder, body melting into Sam’s side as all the tension bleeds out of him. He’s out, too; doesn’t so much as stir when Sam fidgets. Bucky’s usually a pretty light sleeper. God, he must really trust Sam for him to be that unconscious. Makes Sam’s stomach flutter.
Debates – for several minutes – whether or not he wants to spend the night on the couch. It doesn’t sound pleasant, no matter how much he enjoys Bucky’s weight against his side. So, he wriggles out from under Bucky, and tries to lift him.
The first attempt is an utter failure. Forgets how fucking heavy Bucky is, especially with that metal arm. The second attempt goes marginally better – manages to get Bucky’s arms over his shoulders and his hands under Bucky’s thighs. And oh, God – Sam wasn’t thinking when he decided to pick Bucky up like this. They’re pressed chest-to-chest. Sam can feel Bucky’s heartbeat against him, slow and even. Bucky’s head lolls on Sam’s shoulder. Can feel every little exhale against his neck in a way that’s driving him crazy. Can feel the strong muscles of Bucky’s thighs.
And he’s – damn it, Sam is helping a friend. Makes it to the bedroom without tripping over himself, walking Bucky into a wall, or swallowing his own tongue at the way Bucky’s breath feels on his neck. Deposits Bucky in his own bed – and not very gently, either, he must really be knocked out. Goes to – he’s not really sure, honestly. Not sure if he should lie down next to Bucky or go back to the couch. But Bucky makes the decision for him. The second he’s lying down, Bucky flings an arm out, tangles a fist in the hem of Sam’s t-shirt. Prying his vibranium fingers apart is probably impossible, Sam reasons, so clearly he should just stay.
It’s a flimsy excuse for lying down next to Bucky, but Sam feels better for having some kind of justification that isn’t just oh God I really just want to sleep next to him. Curls in as close as he dares. Tucks the blanket around Bucky’s shoulders. Spends a few minutes staring at how peaceful he looks in sleep, before he rolls over and falls asleep to the sound of Bucky’s gentle breathing.
In the morning, he wakes with Bucky pressed against him, so warm and comfortable that Sam just wants to roll over and go back to sleep. Wants to press closer, forehead to forehead, wrap his arms around Bucky and just lie there. Instead, he’s stuck trying to pull his arm out from where Bucky’s rolled on top of it.
“Buck,” he murmurs, trying not to smile. “I gotta get up.”
“Five more minutes,” Bucky mumbles. His face is smushed up against a pillow. And Sam is definitely in trouble, because he thinks it’s adorable.
Huffs a little laugh. Can’t help it. “You can go back to sleep, man, but I gotta get ready for the conference.”
Bucky blinks. Sam watches as he lifts his head up, eyes still cloudy with sleep. Watches the realization - that Sam must’ve carried him to bed last night - pass across his face the way his cheeks go pink as he looks up at Sam. Sam feels a flush of his own starting to creep up his neck. Can’t stop staring at the way Bucky’s staring at him.
And then Bucky clears his throat. Tries to arrange his face into something neutral.
“You,” he clears his throat again. “You want some backup, today?”
And, fuck, Sam’s heart is threatening to burst right out of his chest. Wishes he could reach forward and pull Bucky to him. Wants to kiss him right then and there. Wants to climb back in bed, right on top of Bucky, and press him into the mattress until words are beyond both of them.
Instead, he says, “Yeah.” Smiles at him, too. Can’t quite keep some of his feelings out of his smile. “Yeah, that’d be great, thanks.”
They’ll get there eventually, he knows. Can feel it, with the weight of Bucky’s gaze. Can feel it in the knowing looks they exchange when their guards are down.
There’s no need to rush, though. Sam can wait until Bucky’s more ready to take the next step. Doesn’t mind giving him processing time, no matter how much he wants to touch him.
All that matters is that they get there in the end.
[v]
Sam’s thinking maybe he’s going to make his move, all smooth like, on the boat in Louisiana. Doesn’t count on Sarah hosting a cookout that weekend. Shouldn’t be surprised; his sister loves to cook, and the community damn well loves to eat her cooking. The party’s in full swing by the time Sam and Bucky arrive, fresh off their last mission, and Bucky settles in like it was the plan all along.
“Man,” Sam grumbles in the kitchen, far from super-soldier-hearing ears. “Why you gotta throw a party the same weekend I’m gonna make my move?”
Sarah points the spatula at him. “Don’t go bitchin’ just because you think you need to make it all romantic. You spend all your damn time with him, Samuel Wilson. Why you gotta pick my boat to make your move on?”
“Ouch, that’s cold.” Sam pretends to shiver, makes Sarah crack a grin. “C’mon, sis, that’s our boat.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Over my dead body,” she snaps, but she’s still smiling. “You ain’t even around to help work the damn thing.”
“I’m off saving the world!” Sam protests.
The spatula gets too close to him, and he takes a reflexive step back. Almost forgot how dangerous Sarah can be around kitchen utensils.
“Just because you’re Captain America doesn’t mean you get to piss on everything and mark your territory.” Sarah roll her eyes. “Men, honestly.” Swipes at him with the spatula one more time before going back to flipping burgers. “Besides, it’s not like they’ll be here all night. Make your move later, bro.”
And, well, she’s got a point. So Sam goes back out to the party, just in time to rescue Bucky from an aunt who’s too insistent on setting Bucky up with one of Sam’s distant cousins.
They spend the afternoon lounging around, trading insults over beers and goofing off with Cass and AJ. Bucky looks so much happier than he did the first time Sam saw him after the Blip. Looks more relaxed, more at ease with himself. There’s a lightness to his gaze that Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen. Can’t help the way his eyes are drawn to Bucky over and over again.
Eventually, they get split up when Cass and AJ pull Sam back into the house to look at an Avengers-themed art project they’re doing for school. When he comes back out, it’s just in time to see Bucky beating a strategic retreat back in through the kitchen door. Goes to follow, but stops just outside the door. Looks like Sarah’s beat him to it.
Sam hesitates. Eavesdropping is bad, yeah, but…
Well. It’s Bucky. He maybe can’t help himself from making sure the man’s okay.
Creeps over, as silent as possible, to the open window. Knows Bucky’s hearing is good, but he’s hoping that Bucky’s distracted enough by whatever’s going to not hear Sam’s approach.
“Did someone say something stupid?” Sarah’s asking.
“No.”
“Okay.” Hears Sarah put on her Calming Voice, the one she always uses to talk Sam through panic attacks and nightmares. “Can you take a deep breath?”
“I – no.”
“That’s okay. Try again for me.”
Listens as Sarah talks him through the panic attack. Sam finds himself following along, matching his breathing to Bucky’s. It’s an unconscious reaction, but it still makes him feel more settled, more grounded.
“It’s okay. I promise.” Sarah’s still got her Calming Voice on. “It’s not my first rodeo with PTSD.”
“Riley.”
Sam can’t help flinching when Bucky says Riley’s name. Even after all these years, it’s still… well, he’s not sure he’ll ever get over the initial spike of pain it still brings.
“Yeah.” Hears Sarah sigh. “He was… not in a good place when he came home, right after it happened. And believe me, that’s an understatement. Riley meant so much to him. He used to wake up screaming in the middle of the night, sure that Riley was dying all over again in front of him.” A pause. Sam wishes he could see what Sarah’s face is doing. “All the counseling in the world couldn’t make the nightmares go away. Sam was a wreck until he found a new reason to get out of bed in the morning. It was… a long journey, though, and not an easy one.”
He sneaks away from the window after that. Hell, he sneaks away from the party entirely. Goes and sits in the boat and just breathes for a few minutes. Tries to remember Sarah’s coaching and Bucky’s breathing and match it.
It’s not that he minds Sarah talking about Riley. Honestly, if anything, it’s a good sign. Sarah wouldn’t even bring it up if she didn’t trust Bucky, if she didn’t think Bucky was good for Sam. It’s basically as clear an endorsement as she can give.
Honestly, it’s more that she’s right. Sam was a mess, completely and utterly, until he found a new reason to get up in the morning. His first reason was his work with the VA. Wanted to help as many vets as he could who were going through the same thing as him. And it helped, to know that he wasn’t the only one still plagued by nightmares. But if Sam’s being honest with himself, it was nothing compared to getting back in the game. To teaming up with Captain America. To flying again. He was still mourning, still just going through the motions, until Steve showed up on his doorstep with ex-Russian-assassin, Hydra agents on their trail.
And now he’s here. Captain America. Talk about a reason to get out of bed.
Getting here has been… horrible. Death, pain, being thrown off a helicarrier, the Raft, being on the run for two years, fading into nothing for five years…
Horrible may be an understatement. But.
But.
Here is pretty good, isn’t it? Here has Sarah and Cass and AJ. Here has Bucky.
Mellowing back out is a slow process, but Sam’s so familiar with the steps. Breathes in and out in slow, deep breaths. Thinks about all the things he’s grateful for, instead of the things he regrets. And by the time he’s mellowed out, Bucky and Sarah are sitting at the table, talking about all of Sam’s embarrassing childhood moments. All he can feel is fondness, though, when he looks at the two of them sitting side-by-side. Feels like coming home, walking into a room that has both of them. Aches with that familiar longing – for this kind of simple domesticity he’s seeing, that he gets to experience once in a while when he comes back to Delacroix with Bucky in tow.
Maybe one day they’ll get there. Sam hopes so.
Of course, shit hits the fan that night.
He has nightmare after nightmare of Riley falling, Rhodes falling. Clint’s face when he told Sam about Natasha, once the battle was over. Bucky’s face, so devoid of expression and warmth, the last time he tried to kill Sam. Tony’s lifeless face, Pepper crying over him, Morgan at his funeral. So much death and destruction and loss, and it’s all Sam can do not to vomit over the side of his bed when he wakes.
Pads down the hall on bare feet. Avoids the creaky floorboards. Part of him wants to knock on Sarah’s door. But, God, she’s already been through so much with his PTSD. Doesn’t feel fair, to wake her up right now. She’s already spent the day taking care of the community, and the boys, and Bucky. Sam can damn well take care of himself and let her get the sleep she deserves.
Instead, he winds up in the bathroom. Stands over the sink, leaning on his hands, and stares at himself in the mirror. Doesn’t like what he sees. There are dark circles under his eyes. He looks pale and haggard. Feels like he hasn’t slept in weeks, even though he knows he slept fine just the night before. But the nightmares always have a way of making him feel strung out on exhaustion, always one step away from crashing.
Tea. Tea sounds good.
Going back to bed isn’t a possibility, not right now, so Sam makes his way downstairs. Skips the squeaky step and lands softly on the bottom stair. The room is mostly dark, but there’s just enough moonlight coming in through the kitchen window for him to see by.
And Sam just – just stands there for a minute. He wants tea, likes the ritual of it. Bucky’s maybe rubbing off on him a bit. But Bucky is asleep on the couch in the next room, and Sam doesn’t know how to make tea without waking up the guy with super hearing.
That debate goes out the window, though, when he hears Bucky mumbling in his sleep. Doesn’t even think before he’s sliding into the living room and leaning over Bucky to wake him up. Isn’t expecting the fist – thank God it’s not the vibranium one – that connects with his stomach, doubles him over as Bucky bolts upright, a shout hoarse in his throat.
Sam grabs for his wrists. And that – he doesn’t think twice about that, either. Doesn’t stop to consider the fact that mid-nightmare Bucky might actually be able to hurt him, even if it’s on accident. Just reaches for his wrists and holds them, trying to anchor Bucky back to reality and keep him from throwing any more punches.
“Buck,” he murmurs. And when Bucky goes still, he sits down on the couch next to him. Pulls him into a hug.
They don’t hug. Not like this. Well, not in the daytime, really, because they have hugged before, when they’re stretched out side-by-side in a bed, and Bucky’s gone sleep-soft and loose-limbed after a nightmare. But Sam – Christ, all he wants to do is help. Bucky is shaking in his arms, and all Sam can think about is how good it feels to wrap his arms around the man.
And then, suddenly, Bucky’s laughing. Sam can hear the note of hysteria in it. It’s enough to make him frown. But then Bucky presses his face against Sam’s shoulder and exhales a shaky breath.
“Fuck,” he wheezes. “Guess I have enough nightmare fuel even from before.”
“From the war?” Sam asks, even though he already knows the answer.”
“Yeah.” Bucky sits up, pulls away from Sam’s embrace, and Sam tries not to shiver at the loss of Bucky’s warmth. “You know. Wasn’t all fun and games, being a soldier.”
“I know,” Sam says. His voice is so quiet. God, he knows. “You wanna talk about it?”
There’s not really enough light to see by, but Sam can make out Bucky’s outline. Can make out the way he looks away from Sam, like he needs a moment to collect his thoughts. Watches Bucky run a hand through his hair. Wants to reach out and run his own hand through Bucky’s hair, just to feel how soft it is.
“Did Steve ever tell you how it happened?”
“Yeah.” Answers honestly, of course. But if Bucky wants to tell his own story, Sam is damn well going to listen.
“I could have gone home,” Bucky says as if he’s remembering something he’d rather forget. “I got captured in Azzano, subjected to Hydra experiments and Zola’s special attention.” Sam nearly flinches at the bitterness in his voice. “But I was good as long as I was moving, y’know? I didn’t want to go home and have to think about what they did to me. And it was Steve asking, you know how hard it is to say no to his stupid fucking earnest face?”
Sam snorts, even though it’s not funny. It’s just, it is. Steve’s dragged the two of them through so much on the strength of his earnest let’s-go-save-the-world face alone. Christ, Sam knows how hard it is to say no to that face.
“Asshole,” Sam mutters. “Never thinking about the consequences of his own damn actions.”
And then it’s Bucky’s turn to snort, and Sam tries to pretend that he’s not as big of a hypocrite as he just sounded.
“So, I follow him around Europe and kill some Nazis,” Bucky continues. “And it’s so much blood. We were trying to save the world, one base at a time, but all I could think about was how much blood I had on my hands.” He shudders. “And then we get word that Zola’s trying to escape on a train. Except it was a trap, of course it was a fucking trap. Blew a hole in the side of the train. I nearly fell, then, but I clung to the side. Steve tried to grab me, he really fucking tried, but the bar I was holding onto was unstable. It broke, and I fell.”
It broke, and I fell. Such a simple way of putting it. Sam can’t imagine the depths those words contain. The way the impact must have felt. The injuries Bucky must’ve received, serum or no serum, to have lost an arm completely.
Bucky huffs out a breath. Leans closer to Sam on the couch. “I killed a lot of people before then.”
“Me too.”
Sam’s confession is quiet. Really, it isn’t much of a confession, either. They were both soldiers. They both killed people in the name of doing good. Whatever the reason, there’s still blood on their hands.
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, so softly.
And it’s enough just to know that they understand each other. That they understand the weight of all those lives pressing down on them, staining their hands, in a way that few other people can. That understanding is one of the reasons why Sam worked for the VA. They were soldiers. They did what they had to do to survive and come home.
But they don’t have to like it. They don’t have to feel good about it. They can understand the necessity and still mourn the loss of all those lives.
Bucky presses closer to him. Lets his head rest on Sam’s shoulder. He’s a warm line against Sam’s side, and it chases away some of the chill of Sam’s ghosts.
They sit like that for some time, just listening to the sound of each other’s breathing. It’s peaceful. Relaxing in a way that few things are, these days. Sam can tell when Bucky starts drifting, when the exhaustion becomes too much for him to handle. Feels his head nod forward just a little.
“C’mon, Buck,” he murmurs. “Come to bed.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. His voice is already soft with sleep.
He doesn’t resist as Sam tugs him up off the couch and folds their hands together. Lets Sam lead him, hand in hand, up the stairs to Sam’s bedroom. There’s an ache in Sam’s chest that feels too strong to be ignored. Wants to curl up in bed, in Bucky’s arms, and drift away while Bucky’s chest rises and falls under his head. Wants it so badly that he can’t even think beyond the goal of getting back in bed.
Bucky sits on the edge of the bed like he’s not sure what he’s doing there. That uncertainty makes Sam’s stomach twist. He just – he just wants, so badly, and he’s trying to be patient, damn it. Trying to let Bucky process his emotions like he’s not an emotionally-repressed centenarian. Trying to be respectful of his autonomy and decision-making. But, Christ, Sam’s not sure how much longer he can hang on.
Like this. He can’t stop himself from reach out and tugging Bucky down into the bed, into Sam’s arms. Wraps his arms around Bucky’s middle and curls close. Feels vindicated when Bucky relaxes into his arms like he was waiting for it, waiting for Sam’s touch.
“I’m right here,” Sam murmurs once they’ve settled. Knows Bucky needs to hear it. Christ, Sam loves him so much it hurts. Almost can’t breathe with how much it hurts. But it feels so good to have Bucky in his arms like this, and Sam can’t help relaxing into it. Can’t help the way he unconsciously syncs his breathing with Bucky’s. Can’t help the way comfort and peace and serenity wrap his mind in a fog of safety until he drifts back off to sleep.
[+i]
He’s hovering in the air, wings wrapped around him like a straightjacket. Wriggles his arms free with some difficulty. Can’t figure out where he is – the sky is a dark expanse of nothing, darker even than new moon nights. No stars, nothing to break his sightline or orient himself by.
A body hurtles past him, and he flinches back out of reflex. Looks up – and sees Riley’s face, hurtling towards him. His slack, lifeless face. Sees the old EXO-7 wings, already a smoldering ruin, on his back. Reaches his arms out, tries to catch – but Riley slips through his fingers like smoke, and he wants to cry at the futility of the gesture.
Looks up against, just in time to see the next body. Rhodes, fuck. He knows how it’s going to happen – that inescapable dream logic making him certain – but he can’t stop himself from reaching out anyways, from trying. Seizes Rhodes’ wrist as he passes, but Rhodes fades into the same dust that Sam became when Thanos killed him, and a sob rips its way out of his throat.
And then body after body falls around. Some of them he recognizes – the Avengers, even those who are still alive – and others he doesn’t. Can’t stop himself from trying to save them, from trying to rescue them. No matter what he does it’s never enough.
Sam bolts upright, panting and gasping and fucking panicking.
“Rhodes, fuck,” he gasps, hardly aware of the words coming out of his mouth. “Fuck, I was just – just up –”
“Up there to watch,” a voice says, and Sam nearly sobs in relief. It was a dream, just a fucking nightmare, and Christ he is so tired of dreaming.
“Yeah,” Sam manages to say. He still can’t take a deep breath. The analytical therapist part of his mind starts a catalogue: rapid pulse, shortness of breath, feeling of impending doom, trembling, sweating, dizziness. All classic symptoms of a panic attack.
Cataloguing it does absolutely nothing to help. He still feels like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin with the weight of the panic pressing down on him from all sides. Can’t get a deep breath, can’t make his mind focus enough to walk himself through the exercises he’d learned after Riley’s death.
He moves more by instinct. Leans forward and presses his face against Bucky’s chest. Needs Bucky to touch him, ground him, but doesn’t know how to ask for it. But Bucky always seems to know what he needs, even when Sam doesn’t know, because he wraps his arms around Sam.
“It’s alright, you’re okay, I’m right here,” he murmurs in such a soft voice that Sam nearly sobs with it. Shudders, instead, and feels himself start to relax into the touch. Balls his fists in the hem of Bucky’s ratty t-shirt, clinging for dear life.
“Fuck,” he whimpers. Doesn’t want to feel like this anymore. Hates feeling this weak, this – this broken, this useless. Sam’s the strong one, or at least he feels like he should be. Knows that Bucky is still having a difficult time, and doesn’t want to trigger anything.
Except, Bucky’s doing something. Slowing his breathing down, making it deep and exaggerated. Sam doesn’t even realize he’s picked up on it until his shaking slows a little bit. And then Bucky squeezes a little harder, vibranium arm digging almost uncomfortably into Sam’s back, but Sam doesn’t even care. The pressure, Christ. It makes him focus on his breathing in a way that crowds all the panicky thoughts out of his head. Bucky squeezes again, and Sam can’t help groaning and melting into Bucky’s arms.
“Grounding?” Bucky asks.
“Yeah,” Sam mumbles. “Feels… good.” Feels almost drugged with how good it feels, all of a sudden.
“You wanna go back to sleep?”
Yes! his body screams at him. But Sam can’t fathom trying to go back to sleep and facing his ghosts again.
“Nuh uh,” he says. It’s very convincing of course. His voice comes out slurred.
“You sure?”
Sam presses a little closer to Bucky, face smushed against his chest. “No more dreams.”
“You wanna talk about it?”
Tenses. “I –”
“Only if you want to, Sam.”
“I know.” He sighs. Makes himself sit up before he does something embarrassing, like fall asleep on Bucky’s shoulder and drool. As exhausted and wrung out as he feels, he can’t stand the idea of going back to sleep so soon after that nightmare.
Sam pauses. Bites his lip. Bucky’s apparently picked up on what a ridiculous sweet tooth he has. It’s maybe bribery hot chocolate, trying to get him to talk, but he doesn’t care. Does the same thing with Bucky and his chamomile tea after his nightmares. “Hot chocolate sounds good,” he admits.
Bucky smiles at him. And he’s so beautiful that Sam just stares.
“Hot chocolate coming right up. You gonna be okay here by yourself, or d’you wanna follow me out to the kitchen?”
The question takes him by surprise. That Bucky would think to ask, since Sam just kind of… insinuates himself in Bucky’s most vulnerable moments. It’s… actually kind of nice. Bucky’s giving him an out, if Sam wants to be alone with his vulnerability.
He really, really doesn’t.
“I’ll follow you,” he says. The words come out so slowly. Feels like fighting an uphill battle just to string two thoughts together. “I-In a minute, gotta – gotta take a minute.” Takes a deep breath and tries for some kind of normalcy. “But, someone’s gotta be there to keep you from burning down the damn kitchen.”
Bucky doesn’t even give him shit for it. Sam peeks up at him. Bucky’s gone completely still, face turned a brighter shade of red than Sam’s ever seen. It looks – it almost looks like he’s just realized something, with the way he’s staring at Sam. And Sam has enough tact to pretend not to notice. To busy himself dragging the blanket around his shoulders, to let Bucky escape the room without having to say anything.
He feels the same as I do, Sam realizes. He just didn’t know it until now.
It’s honestly a relief, to know that it’s not one-sided. Though, Sam hasn’t really thought that in ages. Bucky’s not very good at keeping his expression neutral around Sam. Sam’s seen the fondness in his eyes, the desire, the longing. It’s, frankly, driving Sam a bit insane. But he wants to let Bucky come to him at his own pace. Knows how terrified Bucky must be, having feelings for someone for the first time in eighty-odd years. And he – he wasn’t allowed to want, wasn’t allowed to have his own desires. Sam gets that it’s a process.
Still. The confirmation is nice.
Sam gives up on dragging the blanket with him. It’s too heavy for him to wrap around himself. Doesn’t want to be that constrained, either. But he’s so cold, and he doesn’t have any warm clothes. Just the old t-shirt he wore over, that he wore to sleep. So he settles for picking up one of Bucky’s sweatshirts off the floor.
It’s immediately a mistake. It still smells like Bucky, and Sam has to blink back tears. God, he’s a mess. Maybe he’s done being patient. Maybe tonight he’ll kiss Bucky.
When he steps out of the bedroom, Bucky’s standing at the kitchen sink, taking deep breaths. His fists are clenched on the edge of the counter. Looks like a light breeze could topple him over. And this, this is why Sam’s waiting, this is – Bucky’s so overwhelmed. Can see it written so plainly on his face. When it finally happens, Sam wants it to be a good thing. For both of them. No fear, no uncertainty.
“You okay?” Sam asks.
He watches Bucky’s head snap up. Watches the moment he realizes that Sam’s wearing his sweatshirt. Bucky’s pupils dilate, and his hand clenches the counter tighter. Looks like he’s three seconds away from slamming Sam up against a wall, and Sam is maybe a little proud of himself for causing that reaction. Still, he can’t help but be concerned. Tinged with arousal, Sam can tell by the way Bucky’s holding himself, too tense and too still, that he’s more overwhelmed than Sam’s ever seen him.
“Too much?” he asks. Doesn’t specify if he’s asking about his nightmare or Bucky’s feelings. “I can –”
Doesn’t want to leave. But he will, if Bucky needs time.
“No!” Bucky’s eyes widen. “No, I – c’mon, don’t go, let me – let me repay you, fuck, just let me –”
“You don’t owe me anything, Barnes.” Tries to say it as softly as he can, because it’s true. Sam hasn’t been helping him through nightmares because he thought Bucky would repay him somehow. He did it because he wants to take care of him. That’s never something that needs to be repaid.
“No, I –” Bucky takes a deep breath. Looks up at him with such an earnest expression. “Please, Sam, I want to – I want to take care of you. The way you do for me. It’s not too much. I promise.”
Sam can’t help but stare at him. It’s written so clearly across Bucky’s face. The longing, the wanting. The way he feels about Sam is so obvious that it’s almost palpable, makes Sam’s chest ache. He wants to – fuck, he wants to step forward and back Bucky against the counter. Wants to make out with him until neither of them can breathe anymore. But Sam is – maybe not in the best frame of mind for it, himself. Can still see Riley and Rhodes and all those bodies every time he closes his eyes.
So, instead, he lets the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “Thank God,” he says, and shuffles forward to drop his head on Bucky’s shoulder, to lean against him for strength. “Jesus. I was – I didn’t want to –” Doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence. But it doesn’t matter, because Bucky wraps his arms around Sam and hugs him close, and Sam loses all ability to speak.
“I’m here,” Bucky says.
They stand like that for several long moments. The pressure of Bucky’s vibranium arm is incredibly grounding. Sam thinks back to that first night on his couch, where he realized he likes the pressure, likes the way it makes him feel grounded. Thinks a vibranium arm is much better than any weighted blanket could be. Makes Sam concentrate on his breathing, and all of the tension bleeds out of him bit by bit, until Bucky’s the only thing holding him up anymore.
“C’mon,” Bucky murmurs. “Let’s get you on the couch.”
Sam is so tired. Barely registers letting Bucky help him over to the couch. But he doesn’t want to fall asleep. So he stares off into the distance, unaware of anything else around him, until one hand appears in front of his face and another shakes his shoulder. Blinks back to reality with Bucky holding a mug of hot chocolate in front of him.
“Already?” Takes the mug, lets it warm his hands. “Fuck, this always happens when I have nightmares.”
“Losing time?” Bucky’s voice is sympathetic, like he might know something about it. “You cold?”
He’s shivering, Sam realizes, even with the sweatshirt on. “I – a bit, yeah.”
Bucky grabs the afghan off the back of the couch and settles it around Sam’s shoulders. Tucks him into the blanket, smoothing down the edges. Feels like being taken care of, and Sam wants to melt into the light, gentle touches. Settles, instead, for pulling the blanket close around him, hunching down against the back of the couch to sip his hot chocolate. It’s delicious.
They’re silent for a while after that, but it’s a comfortable silence. Bucky’s hand is on his knee, and that one touch keeps the worst of Sam’s post-nightmare thoughts away. Still can’t help dwelling on the two situations – Riley and Rhodes – and wondering what he could’ve done differently. If he could’ve made a difference. And it’s – with Rhodes, they’re good, they’ve talked it all out, but that doesn’t stop Sam from wanting to go back and let himself get hit, just so Rhodes never has to go through it. Or maybe if he could go back and take the hit for Riley, instead, none of the rest of it would ever happen. Doesn’t know how time travel works, but it –
Stops that thought in its tracks. It’s not a helpful one. He can’t go back and change things. And he – well, despite all of the terrible things he’s done through, Sam likes being alive, most of the time. Enough of the time for it to matter. And yeah, he’d take a bullet for his friends any day, but reliving Riley’s death over and over again isn’t helpful. And he knows that. Can’t help but want things to end differently, no matter how far away in time he gets from it.
“It’s always the falling dream,” Sam says, so softly. Is only half aware that he’s started speaking. “I… It’s never me. Falling, I mean. Always someone else. Riley, Rhodes. You.”
“Me?”
Didn’t mean to let that one out. “Just… fear, I think.” Exhales. “And you did – you fell, once. Steve thought you died.” And then, when Bucky flinches, “Fuck, sorry, I shouldn’t be bringing this up.”
“No, it’s fine, it’s –” Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t mind. Keep going.”
Sam takes a shaky breath. “Not much else to say.” Takes another sip of hot chocolate, just for something to do with his hands. It’s lukewarm, but still pretty tasty. Ends up staring off into the distance again, the cup growing colder between his palms.
He’s okay, most of the time. And most of the time happens more and more these days, the more time he spends with Bucky. They understand each other. They show each other all the little broken pieces they hide from the rest of the world. Despite everything he’s had to endure, Sam likes where he’s ended up. Actually feels good about the future, knowing Bucky’s there with him.
This time, he blinks back to reality with Bucky’s thumb a warm spot on his lip. Catches Bucky’s hand when he flushes and tries to pull away.
“There was… chocolate.” Bucky looks incredibly embarrassed, cheeks flushed a gorgeous scarlet, but Sam’s still a bit too out of it to really process that. Instead, he tightens his fingers around Bucky’s wrist, presses Bucky’s hand to his cheek. Closes his eyes.
“Your hand is warm,” he mumbles. It feels good against his clammy skin.
“I –”
Sam leans into the touch. It’s almost relaxing. Loves the way Bucky’s palm feels against his cheek, the way Bucky’s thumb is tracing along his cheekbone without him even realizing it. Wants to lean forward, turn it into a real embrace, but he might just fall asleep if that happens.
“Sleepy,” he mumbles.
Bucky clears his throat. “Let’s get you back to bed, then.”
Sam refuses to relinquish the afghan. Wraps it around himself and shuffles back into the bedroom, somehow without tripping over his own feet. Climbs back into bed and groans as he stretches out again. Bucky sits on the edge of the bed, watching him with an expression that can’t mask the force of the indecision he’s battling.
“No, man, come to bed,” Sam says. Can’t stand the thought of sleeping alone.
“I –”
“Buck.” Pleading. Just wants to – needs to – feel the warmth of Bucky’s body pressed against his. Needs Bucky there like he needs air to breathe.
Sees the moment Bucky makes his decision. Bucky lies down, facing Sam, and Sam curls far closer to him than they’ve slept before – that night in his bedroom in Louisiana notwithstanding. Needs Bucky’s arms around him to chase away the lingering ghosts, but he doesn’t know how to ask for it.
“Thank you,” Sam mumbles. His cheek is smushed against Bucky’s shoulder. It shouldn’t be comfortable, but it is.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Bucky whispers. “I just – I want –”
“I know.” Sam goes for painful honesty. Figures Bucky deserves at least that much. “But it… has been a long time. Since someone cared. Enough to stay, at least.” He’s fading already, but manages to lift his head, to peek at Bucky with lidded eyes. “I just… it means a lot.”
Bucky leans forward. Presses his forehead against Sam’s.
Sam is suddenly wide awake. Heart feels like it might beat out of his chest. Is Bucky going to –
The world narrows down until it’s just the two of them, just this one moment, Bucky’s lips a breath away from Sam’s –
Oh, fuck. And then they’re kissing, Bucky’s chapped lips rasping across his in a way that Sam can feel all the way down to his bones. Can’t help the little strangled gasp he makes. Melts against Bucky’s chest. Can’t think, can barely breathe, just wants and wants and wants.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans. Pulls back, but not too far just to press his forehead against Bucky’s again. He needs air, damn it. “Fuck, thank God, I was starting to think you’d never do that.”
“What.”
Bites back a laugh at the flat, unbelieving tone of Bucky’s voice. “James Buchanan Barnes,” he drawls, grinning stupidly, “I have been flirting with you for months.”
“I… what?”
Sam huffs out a little laugh. Instead of answering, he kisses Bucky again. More insistently, this time, the press of lips an intoxicating rush of feelings. And, Christ, it feels good to kiss Bucky. Feels like they fit together perfectly, even if it’s a bit cliché.
“Sam,” Bucky croaks, voice absolutely wrecked.
“Shh, baby.” Sam presses feather-soft kisses to Bucky’s forehead. Wants to reassure him that it’s okay, that Sam’s there. And now that he can touch, he can’t resist trailing his thumb along Bucky’s jaw. “I’m right here.”
He tries to be patient, even still. To not push too fast, because Bucky feels like he might fall apart at any second. Can’t help himself from slipping his tongue into Bucky’s mouth, though. And the groan that Bucky lets out is absolutely doing it for him. Wants to make Bucky groan like that over and over.
“Buck.” It’s Sam’s turn to groan when they pull back to pant, open-mouthed, against each other. “Fuck, God, I have been wanting to do that for ages.”
Bucky just presses his forehead against Sam’s and struggles for breath. They’re wrapped so closely together that Sam can feel the way Bucky’s hard against his thigh. And it’s maybe a little mean, but he shifts his leg to provide a bit of friction. Is gratified when Bucky loses his ability to breathe. He clings to Sam, the vibranium fingers into Sam’s shoulder in a way that might, just a little bit, be doing it for him. Moves his knee again and Bucky honest-to-God whimpers and presses his face against Sam’s shoulder. And, Christ, that sound is doing all kinds of things for Sam, but -
But.
“Too much?” he murmurs. Slides his hand up the back of Bucky’s neck, gentle, and runs his fingers through the cropped hair. Feels Bucky relax at the touch.
Bucky nods. Sam can’t tell what’s going on in his head, but that’s okay. They’ve got all the time in the world; Sam doesn’t mind being patient a little longer.
“So we’ll just sleep.” Brushes his lips against Bucky’s cheek, soft and gentle and careful. “It’s okay, Buck. There’s no rush. We can take as much time as we need.”
Feels the way Bucky relaxes at his words, the way he tries to curl closer. Wants to wrap Bucky up in his arms forever and forever. Wants to never let go.
“I love you,” Bucky whimpers. Sounds like he might be crying a little bit. And, Christ, when’s the last time Bucky felt like this? This good, this cared for, this loved? Sam’s willing to be it hasn’t been since the 1940s. God, no wonder he’s overwhelmed.
Carefully, Sam presses his lips to Bucky’s. Tries to communicate without words just how much he cares for Bucky. And then, just to reassure him, he says, “I love you, too.” Means it with every fiber of his being. He can’t imagine his life without Bucky anymore, can’t imagine anyone else here in bed with him like this. He needs it like he needs air.
It’s been a long and winding road, for both of them. But Sam’s glad for where they’ve ended up. If someone had asked him a year ago whether he could imagine being glad that he was in Bucky Barnes’ bed, Sam would’ve laughed until he choked on it. Now, though, he can’t imagine it happening any other way. Bucky fills all the empty places in Sam’s heart until it feels like he was always meant to be there.
Once upon a time, he felt like a cast-off. Steve came back, handed him the shield, and fucked off into whatever future he’d built for himself. Left Sam and Bucky and the shield behind to pick up the pieces, and Sam had – well, he’d understood, but he’d been pissed about it. Couldn’t help feeling like one of Steve Rogers’ abandoned pet projects. Resented being stuck with Bucky, of all people, and determined to build his own life from the ashes.
Now, though, all that’s changed. He’s not stuck with Bucky. The two of them, they’ve built this life together, made it into something beautiful and worthwhile and meaningful. Sam’s got the shield, and it’s good. Sam’s got Bucky, and it’s good. They’re not just Steve’s leftovers. Together, they can be something more than the ghosts of their pasts.
They curl up so closely, tucked against each other like two puzzle pieces. Bucky’s on his side, one arm flung out so Sam can curl up against his side, as close as he wants now that they’re not being idiots about the whole thing. So he tucks himself as close as he can get, feels the steady beat of Bucky’s heart under his ear. Curls one hand into Bucky’s t-shirt, clinging to him like he never wants to let go. Bucky rests his vibranium arm across Sam’s side, and Sam groans with how good the pressure feels. Goes boneless under the weight of it.
“We should get you a weighted blanket,” Bucky mumbles.
Sam’s abruptly reminded of how tired he is when exhaustion crashes down on him. He’s so comfortable, Christ, and it feels so good to be in Bucky’s arms. The soft kiss that Bucky presses to the top of his head makes his eyelids finally flutter closed. Sam sighs happily. Can’t wait to wake up in the morning in Bucky’s arms, to kiss him any time he wants. To not have to pretend it’s all casual.
When he falls asleep, it’s with a heart full of love and not a single fear of nightmares or the future.