darling, i can see your heartbeat through your teeth

by answered

Summary:

Ten, fifteen years ago, Sam could've never imagined that his rogue search for Steve's friend would develop the way it had, into this strong, unwavering, nebulous thing they carefully skirted.

But…buddy? Was that all? Sam hadn’t thought so. Sure, they’d never said it explicitly, had never brought it out into the open, so maybe, to Bucky, buddy was it. Best buddy, even.

It had hurt more than Sam thought it would, to have confirmation that this thing he was so sure of was one-sided. Maybe Sam’s deep-seated belief that they were building a life together, that they were a double-sided arrow pointing unfailingly towards a them, was just his alone, not something shared between him and Bucky like he’d thought.

No…like he’d hoped.

Maybe that was what hurt the most: to hope, to believe in something even beyond the point of logic, to give himself over to that quiet desire, the comfort they traded so easily between them, the home they’d built. Sam muffled a sob, though he was—alone. There was no one around to hear him cry, but even the sound was too much to his own ears.

How could he have let himself get so carried away?

Notes:

after years of lurking and building my own personal sambucky fic rec, i'm finally throwing my hat in the ring. i left BNW thinking, okay, headcanons grown, something has to be written here, but then this fic really took on a life of its own. it's emotional, it's angsty, sam has a panic attack (so beware) and then these husbands get everything they've ever wanted, all wrapped with the bow of a happy, smutty ending. i know what i'm about.

happy late birthday, bucky barnes, my gift is giving you what you want (and what sam has been too afraid to ask for)

basically, un-beta'd but i reread many times. all mistakes are my own and all formatting issues are ao3's fault

title taken from from kevin garrett's "telescopes" (100/10 song, go listen)

Alone in the Compound on a quiet Friday evening, Sam found himself yet again in uncharted territory: he couldn’t sleep. His restlessness wasn't a new occurrence. Having completed two tours and come away with nothing but new nightmares and a loss he’s spent years running from, his inability to sleep was actually older than most of his habits.

For the time being, things were as calm as a disgraced president and an almost fatally-injured coworker could reasonably allow. With Isaiah free and vindicated, Ross in the Raft, and Joaquin in recovery, talking and flirting up a storm in his ward at the hospital, for as chaotic as things had been for a moment there, Sam finally got the sense that they were through the worst of the storm.

So, beyond an unwavering concern for Joaquin's recovery, those weren't the worries keeping Sam up, anyway. He was recuperating; or at least, that was a kinder word for the aimless languishing he found himself doing after his fight with a Hulked-out Ross. 

The sleepless anxiety itching against his skin felt different this time. 

There were easy excuses: the weight of the shield never lightened, not even a little, though there were days he was able to bear it with a little more grace, a bit more strength than the day before. With the repair of the Paul & Darlene, the seafood business at home had found new life, and Sarah was managing better than he knew he could, not with his focus split in so many different directions. 

Sam sighed into his empty room. Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, that wasn't what was keeping him up either.

His eyes caught anxiously on the shifting shadows moving across his ceiling. He couldn’t deny it any further: this time—like so many times before—the thing keeping him awake was one James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky. Typical. 

How much of his life had Sam spent turning over the Super Soldier in his mind? From his reintroduction to a life on the run, a life encumbered by nonstop world-ending battles, to his own misshapen adventures around the world in search of a ghost, to being blinked out of existence, and brought back to fight—again—the spectre of the former-Winter Soldier was always there. Enough time had passed, and certainly enough had changed since then, for the ghost occupying Sam’s mind to shift, change shape into a surly ex-assassin who, for all intents and purposes, was the best friend he had left.

For over a decade at this point, Bucky had taken up valuable real estate in his mind. And for just as long, Sam had been able to mask his fixation through easier explanations.

When he couldn't stop talking about Bucky's stealth on the run—impressed and unwittingly attracted by his single-minded competence, though he’d never say it— or endlessly ruminating over those moments where Bucky allowed him to inch just a bit further each time, as if teasing him with the intimacy of being known, just to bolt again, Sam had marked his preoccupation down to what needed to be done if he was going to solve Steve’s missing person case and bring Bucky in from the cold.

When the men had fallen on the same side of the Accords, and the shadowy sketch of James Buchanan Barnes started to get filled out with all the intricacies of a man who had lived and died a hundred times over and was piecing himself together bit-by-painstaking-bit, Sam chalked his continued fascination up to the immediacy of Bucky's presence. They shared coffee and pancakes and a best friend and sometimes really close quarters in really shitty safehouses; of course Sam thought about him daily. It had just been the three of them on the run, after all. Proximity begat intimacy, however dizzying and complicated that intimacy was.

After dying, coming back to life, and fighting in what he thought would be the battle to end all battles, Sam had chalked his need to be around or near Bucky in those early days after the Blip down to his need for something familiar at the end (or beginning?) of the world. So, yeah, everything had a reason, even Sam’s unreasonable fascination with a terribly fascinating man.

Besides, whatever fascination Sam held, he'd known it wasn't mutual. Not really. Once Sam finally made it down to Delacroix, Bucky had made that pretty clear. Though Steve had left them for the past, Bucky would always have him, a brother beyond blood, and Sam just couldn't compare. With text after text gone unanswered, Sam had learned the hard way that shared battles and a mutual friend wouldn’t be enough to hold them tight and together. Still, it stung, being left on delivered by Bucky those first six months after they parted. 

Sam understood, he did. Generous and gracious to a fault, Sam had found ways to rationalize his newfound loneliness, even at his own expense. Wasn't that how it always went? Bucky didn't have to feel as compelled to him as Sam did, and he obviously didn’t, but Sam had thought, at the very least, with all they’d gone through, that they were friends. At least that much. God, Sam had just really needed a friend .

Maybe it was his own fault. Sam had grown familiar with the pressure and weight of being excellent , of going above-and-beyond, even before he’d joined up all those decades ago. That was the price and joy of being black and ambitious in this country. But he also knew that struggling was only as bad as he showed, and he couldn’t afford that kind of vulnerability—or any at all, really.

He was strong, charismatic, the light in any room, a friendly smile for anyone in need, shoulders for anyone, even strangers, to cry on. But that didn’t leave much room for himself. It was ironic, that: a counselor who prided himself on supporting the world around him, even as his own needs got swept to the wayside. It wasn’t fair, not really, but he knew he didn’t have the freedom or luxury of putting his own needs first, not like other people.

Maybe that was why he let the shield burn a hole in his closet for months as he threw himself into literally anything other than thinking about another weight added to his burden. He preferred to spend his time reforging weathered bonds with Sarah, AJ, and Cass, into doing what he could with Joaquin and the Air Force—into doing anything other than worrying over a mantle that would never really feel like his.

In any case, the only person Sam wanted to talk it over with, the only person who would get it even a little , seemed to want nothing to do with him. Nat was gone, though he never let himself linger too long there, lest the grief rip him apart, Steve was soft around the edges but at peace, and Bucky....wouldn't even text him back.

Even Sam's patience had a limit so when six months passed without word from Bucky, Sam gave up the ghost. He committed himself to moving forward. He couldn't—wouldn't—spend any more time nursing the quiet but intense ache of being ignored and forgotten. The shield was a gilded reminder of his burdens, and his decision to donate it to the Smithsonian had had something to do with putting all of that behind him. He needed a fresh start, and he needed to do it unburdened by the weight of Steve Rogers, god bless his aching soul.

Sam had thought that was the end of it. Relieved of the shield, he thought, now I can move on …until Bucky came storming into a hanger, pissed as he’d ever seen him. As if he had a right to his anger, when Sam had tried , god dammit. He had tried for months to get even a fledgling sign of life from the Super Soldier, just to be left out in the cold. So, Bucky could take his anger and stick it where the sun don’t shine, for all Sam cared.

But—

God , those months they’d spent fighting the Flagsmashers, the colossal mess of hurt, betrayal, and anger that had passed between them, the frightening intimacy of them pressed against each other, rolling in a field, their legs slotted together in a court-mandated therapy session, Bucky's hands on his hips on the Paul & Darlene, the way the Super Soldier had come to life in Louisiana, had slotted himself so seamlessly and so completely into Sam’s entire life, into his family, his community, his home…his heart…

They had really started to build a life together there. Once Bucky had made it known, not in words but in his increasing proximity, in the hard-won smile he let show more and more, that the only way he’d leave Louisiana or Sam’s side would be if Sam asked, Sam had gone all in. Truthfully, he had been all in a decade ago, the very minute he decided to abandon his normal civilian life in search of Steve’s friend, but he’d learned not to show all his cards, so he didn’t, erred on the side of coworker-turned-friend-turned-partner in everything, except that one thing he was just too afraid to ask for. Bucky was recovering, would be recovering for a long time, and Sam couldn’t make that choice for him, so he took whatever fleeting shows of intimacy he could get.

And it had been glorious. Really. A house, halfway between Delacroix and New Orleans, four bedrooms and a garage they’d turned into a training room, more for Sam’s benefit than Bucky’s. Places for Alpine and Figaro, rooms where Cass and AJ could stay on the weekend, giving Sarah time and peace for herself when she needed. They were uncles …together. Not married, not together in the way Sam desperately ached for, but their lives so inextricably intertwined, so wrapped up in each other, that Sam had known, even if it took some time, that they would get there. They would. He believed it with every bit of his desperate soul, and Bucky, who was sincere, earnest, protective, but so scarce with his words that he’d never say it, Sam knew he believed it, too.

That was why Sam couldn’t sleep.

All the things they’d let go unspoken, the tension they’d let slide underneath into the everyday fabric of a shared life, was now front and center, visible enough to bruise or sting whenever he thought about it. The truth was, Bucky had gone away, left him for covert work in the Thunderbolts and, now, campaigning for Congress. It had been months of not enough : not enough time together, not enough space for them to just be Sam and Bucky, not enough time spent in the home they’d carefully constructed out of memories and a commitment to making new, cherished ones.

But when Sam had needed him, reeling from watching yet another partner knocked out of the sky, there Bucky was. Just where he needed him. The weight Sam carried was immense, but Bucky’s shoulders were just as capable for bearing it, and he had done it unthinkingly. He just did , that was him. Where he lacked in verbosity, he made up for with his actions, with the unfailing support he gave Sam, no matter what.

They’d come a long way since that terrible, grating post-Blip silence.

And now here Sam was, watching the midnight hours stretch into early morning, as he turned the words love you buddy over and over in his head. He worried the words into pieces, unsure he had ever understood them to begin with. Really, Sam didn't know which part of Bucky's easy-flowing statement stuck in his brain the most. Love you? Buddy?

Truthfully Sam knew it was the latter. That they loved each other—as friends, partners, erstwhile roommates, fellow uncles—was no surprise. For a while now they traded proclamations of love as easily as smiles over breakfast, especially when Bucky would slink into their kitchen after a particularly restful night, his dark hair longer every day and sleep worn, his smile small but his contentment outsized. He’d rush to put coffee on, while giving Sam shit for drinking his OJ straight out the carton. Sam, often damp with the exertion of his early-morning runs, would ignore the heat of Bucky’s eyes, not yet awake enough to moderate the hunger shining in his eyes. Or, at least, that’s what Sam had thought. Now, not so much.

In any case, that they loved each other was a given. The mutual care and respect each man held for the other was hard-earned, forged through blood, sweat, no little amount of tears, and—above all—a commitment to caring and being cared for. Ten, fifteen years ago, Sam could've never imagined that his rogue search for Steve's friend would develop the way it had, into this strong, unwavering, nebulous thing they carefully skirted.

But… buddy ? Was that all? Sam hadn’t thought so. Sure, they’d never said it explicitly, had never brought it out into the open, so maybe, to Bucky, buddy was it . Best buddy, even.

Sam shifted in bed, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be sleeping much that night, if at all. He’d gone toe-to-toe with what people were calling Red Hulk and had only a few bruised ribs to show for it. He had been lucky. Luckier than Joaquin, than Riley, than so many who’d faced off a brave new world and come out none the better for it. It wasn’t his aching body that hurt, anyway. Not really.

Sam couldn’t run from the truth anymore: it was his goddamn heart.

It had hurt more than Sam thought it would, to have confirmation that this thing he was so sure of was one-sided. Maybe Sam’s deep-seated belief that they were building a life together, that they were a double-sided arrow pointing unfailingly towards a them , was just his alone, not something shared between him and Bucky like he’d thought.

No…like he’d hoped.

Maybe that was what hurt the most: to hope, to believe in something even beyond the point of logic, to give himself over to that quiet desire, the comfort they traded so easily between them, the home they’d built. Sam muffled a sob, though he was—alone. There was no one around to hear him cry, but even the sound was too much to his own ears.

How could he have let himself get so carried away?

After losing Riley and being wrecked by that loss, Sam had learned better than to let himself get attached so deeply again. And he’d done a good job, he thought, of avoiding anything beyond friendship. Steve and Natasha had been good friends, but they both had ways of holding themselves separate from the world, even from him. Their bond ran deeper than blood, but with so much going on, it had been easy to keep those most fearful parts of himself buried. He could avoid the fact that he’d never really recovered from losing Riley, that he’d rather give himself casually and once during one-night-stands than to suffer a loss like that ever again. Steve and Nat had known his loss, could sit with him through the worst of the nightmares, especially after Rhodey fell, but he could only ever let them get so close to his aching center.

Until Bucky. Bucky, who didn’t know when to stop pressing, who saw through Sam as clearly as glass, who recognized Sam’s ability to say so much, to take up so much space in any room, and still never let anyone too close to him. Bucky, who had never been satisfied with Sam’s distance, even if he had his own special way of showing it. Despite his scowls or his inscrutable stares, Sam had always had the sense that Bucky had him figured out pretty early on.

You don’t learn how to hide from someone without knowing their next move, Sam , he’d revealed in Wakanda. You came close but…I knew you, Sam. I always knew what you’d do next .

How did you square that kind of intimacy with just being a…buddy? Sam didn’t think friends said each other’s names the way Bucky said his, or vice versa. He didn’t think people who were just friends shared the kind of intimacy they did, even in the smallest moments, didn't think they’d fling their body into fire or into the path of a bullet to save someone who was just…a pal. A friend. But Bucky and Steve had been those kinds of friends, the kind that went deeper than blood. So maybe Bucky went into all of his friendships with the same intensity…?

Sam was going crazy. He didn’t know which emotion won out: confusion at being just a friend when his faith in something deeper was so…strong or anger, at himself, at Bucky, at Riley, at everyone in the world for letting him come so close to something he wanted and not letting him have it. 

God dammit . A sound, deep with the ache of a tired, desperate soul, left his body before he could stop it. Resigned, he sat up in bed.

“Lights up to 20%, FRIDAY. Thanks.”

Another sleepless night, that wasn’t unusual. But the pain was new. What did Sam even want? Before, maybe it had been enough to be freakily-codependent friends, because he’d always harbored that secret desire and faith. Now, he felt like he was losing even just that little. All he had left was a friend. He had to be okay with it. He would be okay with it.

But maybe not tonight. Maybe he just needed one night to really feel , to sit in the sinking sense of disappointment that was taking over his body. Maybe he needed to mourn the loss—of something he’d never even had—before he could straighten himself up and be alright again.

Okay. He could do that. He could get up, fix himself a cup of warm tea, hold his shaking hands against the side of his Favorite Uncle mug, and let himself break, just a little, before he put himself back together again.

He was all set to do it until he heard—something. Years of military training had honed his instincts, so he felt it in his gut the moment something shifted. Uneasily he reached for the gun he hid near his bed.

Someone was inside the Compound; he heard the steady gait of feet walking, not running, towards his room. FRIDAY hadn't alerted him of a break-in, and all the security measures in this place should’ve protected against any intrusions, but Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off .

Sam usually slept in just athletic shorts, but he’d gone to bed cold and had thrown on a blue sweatshirt that he knew, from its slightly-too-big fall against his shoulders, wasn’t his own but Bucky’s. He thanked his earlier self for small blessings; at least, if he had to fight for his life in these early-too-late hours, he wouldn’t have to do it naked.

The footsteps grew louder the closer they came to his room. He was the only one here, and whoever the intruder was knew it. He muffled a swear before hiding in the space just beside his door. Whoever it was, they wouldn’t last even one second before Sam could disarm them. He was ready.

The door opened slowly. Sam steadied himself, holding his gun to his chest, as he prepared for a fight, but—

“Sam, what are you- Wait!”

Sam knew that voice. God , did he know that fucking voice, and the sound of it disarmed him as perfectly as if he’d been physically struck. The fight fled Sam’s body as quickly as it had entered it, and so did his breath, so when he said, “Bucky? Jesus ,” it sounded weaker than intended. 

There Sam went, showing all his cards again.

“What the hell are you doing here, man? I thought you were in DC.”

The lights, dim by his own request, made everything look as if it were happening in slow motion, a sieve, a sort-of molasses that slowed his vision and processing. When Bucky reached out, grabbing the gun Sam still held up by his chest, he did it slowly, as if Sam was a skittish animal he was afraid to spook with any sudden movements.

Sam turned over the sight of himself in his mind’s eye: his heartbeat and breath rushing, pounding against his chest, his eyes frenzied and wide, jaw clenched. He figured, yeah , maybe he was just a bit skittish. The adrenaline leaked from his body the minute the gun left his grasp.

“Sam?” Bucky disabled the gun, tucking it away into his waistband. “Sam, hey. What’s going on?”

Sam felt the beginnings of a panic attack start to overtake him. “You're not supposed to be here. I thought you were…”

Sam’s breath quickened. Try as he might, everything felt like a nightmare that kept trying to pull him under. He couldn’t make sense of anything, not when he had just given himself over to the pool of emotion he was drowning in and then, in the same breath, prepared himself for a fight. He couldn’t clear his head enough to recognize the intruder as Bucky, who meant no harm to him.

“Hey, hey,” Bucky said, coming closer, reaching both his hands out to rest on Sam’s shoulders. “Sam, just breathe with me, okay? In, out. With me.”

One of Bucky’s hands—his right—reached down to grab his own, before pulling it onto the left side of his chest. If Sam focused enough, he could feel his heartbeat, steady and sure as his measured breaths. In, out. In, out . Together they breathed, moving in sync as Bucky shuffled Sam over to his bed, careful and soft as anything. He untucked the gun from his pants before placing it on the nightstand.

They didn’t say anything as Sam felt his breath even out and the racing of his heart mellow. Just like that, Sam came back to himself.

Bucky was…here? Yes, right here beside him. That was his knee pressed against Sam’s. Any other time Sam would berate him for wearing outside clothes on his bed, but he couldn’t find the levity in his heart to joke. He’d just felt his heart shatter, and here the culprit was, holding Sam’s right hand in his left, that vibranium arm that could cause so much damage being used softly in the care of him.

Sam didn’t want to cry. Not alone, and definitely not in front of Bucky; he was supposed to be strong and hold himself together and get the fuck over it so he could live to fight another day, but Bucky’s hand in his, his knee pressing against him, the tender care shining in his eyes, the worry …it was all too much.

Sam’s eyes, full as they'd ever been, ran right over, down his cheeks, across the full of his lips until he could taste salt. So much for being strong.

“Sam…?” Bucky was hesitant, but he didn’t flinch even a little. If anything, he pressed himself closer, as if to say, cry. I’m not going anywhere . Eventually Sam’s tears stopped, and when they did, Bucky continued, “Sam, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

Sweetheart . The sound of it hurt, but Sam had cried himself dry. He felt hollowed out, and his voice was hoarse, worn by pain, when he eventually spoke. “What are you doing here, Buck?”

Sam watched Bucky's face under the dreamlike light, watched his features soften, the way they always did before saying something achingly honest. Sam prepared himself.

“Sam, I came to see you. I needed to know you were okay.” Bucky’s voice was so matter-of-fact; neither man mentioned that Sam so obviously wasn’t okay. “I talked to Sarah. She told me you got away with some bruised ribs but that overall you seemed…fine? But still, I needed to see for myself.”

Bucky’s eyes were shrewd. They both knew Sam had a way of downplaying his injuries. He wasn’t enhanced, he knew that, but couldn’t some pain be his alone to bear?

“I’m good, man.”

Sam knew he wasn’t fooling anyone, but he could feel himself retreating back into his carefully-constructed shell. He was embarrassed that Bucky had seen him fall apart; this was supposed to be his cross to bear. Really, he was going to be over it by the time the sun rose. Bucky wasn’t supposed to be here, right here next to him, watching him fall apart. He wasn’t supposed to console him, to tell him it would all be okay when, even if he didn’t know it, he was part of the reason Sam had shattered in the first place.

“Sam.”

“Seriously, Buck.” Sam was restless. They were too close, the low lights, Bucky sitting so close that he could smell him—sandalwood, pine, citrus, and something so uniquely, so innately, Bucky —left him unmoored. Sam's defenses were down; he couldn’t handle this right now, or ever. “I’m good, man. My ribs are already healing. It won’t be long until I’m back in the field, kicking ass, taking names, fighting the good fight. I’m fine.”

“Okay….” Bucky's words trailed off, and Sam could see the struggle clear as day on his face. Should he let Sam get away with deflecting when he was so obviously not fine? How much should he let pass?

Again they sat in silence. Sam resolved himself to finally making that tea. He asked Bucky if he wanted a cup, to which he nodded, though he seemed thrown at the abrupt shift. Sam couldn’t let himself think about it. He slipped his feet into his at-home slides—he kept a pair in every place he called home—and started his way to the communal kitchen. He was happy he was the only one in the Compound.

Well, other than Bucky, who trailed behind him, hot on his heels. Closer than usual. He was worried, that much was obvious. But Sam couldn’t tell him what he was really thinking about, anyway. How would he say it? I thought we were working towards being more than friends? I thought I was more than your buddy? How could he say any of that and not ruin their friendship while he was at it?

He shook his head at his inner turmoil, and regretted it the moment he did, because Bucky missed nothing, not when it came to Sam.

“Sam, hey.” Sam ignored him, turning to the cabinets as he took down a couple of mugs and two bags of chamomile tea. He went through the motions of filling the electric kettle and turning it on, his hands shaking in the process. “Sam.”

“Buck, I swear I’m okay. I swear. Please just…” Leave it alone. Let it go. Sam couldn’t say it. He wouldn’t. They’d struggled too much, had been through too much together, for him to say that, to willingly put distance between them again. Sam was afraid that the minute he told Bucky to go, he would—and maybe he’d never come back. Bucky never did anything by halves. They didn't get to see each other much anymore, and Sam couldn’t risk ruining it with wayward emotions. Heartbreak was just something he had to overcome. And fast.

Sam kept his body turned into the counter, eyes fixed on the water as it began to heat up. And Bucky was just right there . Right behind him, crowding him in, close enough that Sam could feel his heat, could sense the way his fists curled as if he wanted to reach out but didn’t know if he could.

Sam didn’t know silence could be so loud. Well, he did. It was what had plagued him those first few months after he’d been discharged, but he’d been alone, then. Just him, his thoughts, and a too-quiet apartment as memories of Riley sunk him into a place he wasn’t sure he ever really crawled out of, not completely.

But this silence, with Bucky right behind him, breathing right against his neck, with the weight of so much gone unspoken, this silence held a different form, a different weight. Sam wouldn't be the one to break it; for once, he was speechless, because he wasn’t sure his words would be enough.

Good thing Bucky didn't have the same compunctions. He scoffed and in one quick move had spun Sam around so that his back now pressed into the counter. He was even closer now. Sam’s body was trapped between the counter, where the water had begun to boil and the kettle keened before automatically shutting off, and Bucky, who was—pressed there right against him. Every bit of his body went into holding Sam’s up, his hands on his waist, his hips jutting right against his. His eyes pleaded.

Let me in .

Jesus, Sam wanted to deny it, he did, but he just completely, totally, melted at the look in his eyes. He could be strong tomorrow.

“ Fuck .” His voice was rough but low, torn out of him almost without his say. “Bucky. I just… god dammit.”

“Sam, I really need you to tell me what’s going on.” His eyes, those god damn blue eyes that could pierce every bit of Sam’s soul, were beseeching, begging for even a hint into what he was hiding. Bucky's hands tightened against his hips, begging. “As much as I’d like to, sweetheart, I can’t read your mind, and I’m worried. You have to let me in.”

“The tea…just let me…”

“Fuck the tea, Sam, I need you to talk to me. What the hell is going on in that head of yours?”

“Fine.” Fuck. After years gone unspoken, was Sam really about to….? “It’s what you said, at the hospital. Do you remember?”

Sam didn’t know what was better. To say this with Bucky pressed so intimately against him, looking into his eyes, or to do it with his back turned. He didn’t have a choice anyway. Bucky was a solid wall against him, and the only way he’d be allowed to move was when the Super Soldier let him.

This way granted him access to Bucky’s face as he took his words in. Sam watched the bashful shadow that fell across his face, the way his cheeks reddened at the memory.

“Which part? About the shield?”

“Don’t play that with me, Buck.” Sam rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean. You said…”

Bucky clearly wouldn’t let Sam get away with saying anything less than the whole truth.

“You said I love you…buddy.”

“Is that a surprise? We’ve said I love you a thousand times.”

“Not like that. Not while you held me.”

“Is that what’s going on, Sam? I shouldn’t have…hugged you?”

“No, Bucky. I mean…” Sam scoffed, shaking his head. His thoughts were all jumbled up. How should he say it? How could he, when it felt like saying anything at all would push them over the edge and he didn’t know where the fall would take him? This moment felt like some of his worst nightmares, where he wasn’t flying but falling without anything to save him, not his wings, not a parachute, not even someone to catch him on the way down.

Sam took a deep breath. “I thought that we were…I don’t know, Bucky. I know we never said it, or at least, maybe I never did. But I thought, and I’m sorry if I’m barking up the wrong tree here, man, but I thought that I was more than just your… buddy.”

Silence.

“Shit. Ignore me. I don’t know why I said that.”

Sam tried to push away, to extricate himself from the corner he’d found himself trapped in, but Bucky was an unmoving wall against him. He had no other choice than to watch the way Bucky responded to his inadvertent confession, the widening of his eyes, the slackening of his jaw. That too-honest look on his face. But no fear. No shame. Just shock. Sam let himself struggle against Bucky, though he knew he was held, right in the spot where he stood. If it weren’t for Bucky and the rigidity of the counter behind him, Sam was sure his knees would have given out.

His face burned in shame. 

“Sam, wait. Please. I just need a second to process.” Bucky’s hands curled even tighter. They burned where they touched him, and Sam felt, even if Bucky needed a minute to gather his thoughts, that his hands were saying enough. His blue eyes, flitting across his face, landing more than once on his lips, were saying enough. 

And then, finally, Bucky said, in a softer voice than anything Sam had ever heard from him, “No. No, sweetheart, you were right all along.”

He looked at Sam sidelong. “I mean, I know this is a different time and all, but not that different, and I don't know many men living in each other’s pockets the way we do.” His face was shy, and his words even shyer in their reticence.

Sam braced himself. He knew what was coming. Maybe he’d always known.

“Sam, sweetheart, don’t you know I’ve been in love with you for years?”

For a moment Sam had no words or at least not words strong enough to encompass the feeling of euphoria and relief bursting hot and sharp in his chest, the elation running across and down his body.

“Oh, thank God.” Finally, Sam let all the tension in his body go, the tension that had been running through him since I love you buddy first reached his ears.

“That’s all?”

Against all odds Sam laughed at the look on Bucky’s face. He was amused but not even the amusement could knock off the sheer vulnerability on his face.

“Jesus, Buck.” He covered Bucky’s hands with his own. He looked down at them, their fingers slotted together on his hips, and couldn’t help himself. “I’m in love with you too, buddy.”

“Asshole.”

Enough words—though not all, he was sure—had been said, and Sam just couldn’t wait another moment. He leaned forward, right against the body holding his own steady, and let their lips finally, gloriously, meet. It was a sweet, chaste thing—at first. It was years of tension, years gone unspoken, poured out into a simple meeting of lips.

Finally. Bucky. Finally was the only thing running through his mind.

They broke apart when Sam felt his chest tighten from the lack of air, but even a second to breathe was too long to spend not relishing in this moment he’d wanted for so damn long . As quickly as they separated Sam went back in for another kiss, deeper this time. Bucky, whose hands hadn’t strayed once, gave himself over completely until he was the one in control, his tongue shyly asking for entrance, before plundering Sam’s mouth, moaning when he got what he wanted.

Oh. Oh Jesus . Sam thought he knew what this would be like…had spent years fantasizing about this very moment. He’d imagined it slow and comforting in their shared home. Had imagined it quick, dirty and adrenaline-fueled after a mission. Had thought about the moment they finally confessed and what would come after—-but that was James Buchanan Barnes for you: always, always, delightfully unpredictable.

Sam couldn’t stop himself as he moaned. One of Bucky’s hands finally left his hip, creeping up around his neck as he pulled him closer. Bucky was demanding but tender, dominating but so given to Sam’s pleasure that Sam knew, lord did he know, that he was and would be wrecked for absolutely anyone else after this. No one else stood a chance. This was it. This was it .

“Fucking finally, darlin’,” Bucky said, after taking a moment to just watch him. “Shit. I thought we’d die again before I ever got this. You’re so stubborn.”

“Me?”

“I mean, move in with a guy, take care of him and his family, live as close to him as he lets you, you think he’d catch on by now.” Bucky sighed, but it was wistful. “I thought I was being so obvious , Sam. Actually, no, I know I was. Everyone, and I do mean everyone from Joaquin to Sharon to, hell, even Rhodey knows I’m in love with you. Sarah mentions it every time we call. AJ & Cass tease me about my heart-eyes. In front of you . What the hell did you think was going on?”

“I…may have been an idiot.”

“No argument here.”

“Hey! I…” Sam paused, not sure how to admit to his own fear. “I think I knew. No, I did know. But I thought if I just…never acknowledged it…maybe I’d spare myself the hurt. Like with Riley.”

“And did you?”

It wasn't a mean question, just earnest and unflinching the way Bucky often was.

“You know I didn’t.” Sam sighed. “Tonight, I thought, wow. He called me buddy. I’m in love with this man, and he thinks of me as his… friend. It hurt more than I care to admit, Buck, but I didn’t mean for you to see me just fall apart like that. I was going to get over it.”

“But why should you have to, Sam? I’m right here. I’ve always been right here, even when I’m not right next to you.” Bucky tilted his head up, so their eyes met. “Sam, baby, I’m the world’s greatest sidekick. I live to give you everything you want. Don’t you know that? Don’t you know all you ever have to do is ask?”

“That's it, huh?” Sam huffed.

“That’s it, sweetheart.” Bucky’s metal fingers brushed against his chin, his lips. Sam’s tongue darted out to catch those fingers against his tongue. The mood darkened around them. “Just ask.”

Sam wanted to be stubborn. Asking felt like pleading felt like begging felt like weakness—but hadn’t he waited long enough? He was tired of holding out on something he wanted so damn bad . He melted all over again.

“I want you to fuck me. Make love to me, whatever, I don’t care,” Sam breathed out against Bucky’s fingers still ghosting across his face. “Right the fuck now, Buck. I’m done waiting.”

“Your ribs up for it?”

“They’re almost fully healed, I really don't give a fuck. We’re here and I want you, and you told me all I ever have to do is ask for what I want.” Sam nodded at his own words, feeling his resolve settle into determination. “So I'm asking, James. I want you, and I mean all of you. Every fucking piece. Will you let me have it?”

“I’ve been yours for the taking, Sam. Didn’t you know?”

 

• • •

 

What a difference a night could make. Sam, who just a few hours before had watched the moon’s light skate across his ceiling, now watched the sun begin to peek through as Bucky settled him on his bed. Awestruck, he stared into the light with disbelief hammering in his chest, before his gaze settled on Bucky again. Their eyes met, the knowledge of this shared moment and love settling between them like sediment.

Bucky stood in front of the bed he’d laid Sam out on. His blue eyes were dark, and his cheeks blazoned pink.

“Aren’t you a little over-dressed?”

Sam stifled a laugh as Bucky’s eyes widened before he looked down at himself. Sam took the moment to survey him, too. The tight black jeans he wore accentuated his strong, muscled legs, and his blue Henley, always-present leather jacket, made a desirable sight. But Sam had no use for clothes for what they planned to do.

“Off, Sergeant. All of it. That’s an order from your Captain,” Sam said, but the laugh weaved throughout his words dulled the impact of his command.

“I live to serve,” Bucky said, his voice dry and at odds with the frenzied way he tore off his jacket, then his shirt. Before Sam could get carried away taking in the sight of that glorious chest exposed to him, the dog tags hanging from his neck, the ruggedness of his form, the scarred crevice where vibranium met flesh, Bucky turned and ducked down to unlace his boots.

The muscles in his back shifted as he moved, and Sam bit his lip to think that all that coiled power, the strength of that powerful body, would soon be put to work for him . His boots taken care of, Sam heard the rustle of a zipper and watched Bucky yank his pants and briefs off in a stuttered, flailing motion, lacking all his usual stoic grace. Good to know Sam wasn’t the only one affected here.

Desire beat a drum against his chest, his body heating up in anticipation. Sam drew a breath as Bucky straightened up. All he had left to do was turn around and—

Sam whistled at the sight. “All that for me, Barnes?”

Bucky turned bright red at the attention, his eyes widening as he blushed. Sam didn’t miss the way his cock stiffened at the words, though, so he could pretend bashfulness at a later date. Right now Sam was staring at…the most impressive cock he’d ever seen, long but thick in all the right ways, uncut, and he had no qualms letting Bucky know it with a hungry stare. There was no shame in his game.

“What happened to being overdressed, huh, sweetheart?”  Bucky approached the bed as he spoke, his gait carefree, steady. Certain. His gaze was sly as he took in Sam, “Though I gotta say, I do like the look of you in my clothes.”

Now it was Sam’s turn to flush, though he thanked his blessings that it wasn’t wholly visible on his dark skin. “All the better for you to take it off.”

Bucky bent at the waist until his face was parallel to Sam’s. Two hands crept around his hips again, before pulling his own sweatshirt over Sam’s head. He huffed a breath at the sight of Sam’s well-muscled chest; Sam moaned at the open devotion shining in his eyes.

That didn’t stop him from saying, “My eyes are up here, baby.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at the teasing, but he did meet Sam’s gaze. The love, the unfettered admiration felt like a balm on Sam’s soul.

“So are you gonna do the shorts too or…”

Bucky leaned over Sam, smiling slyly as he said, “Of course you’d be a bratty bottom. Why am I not surprised?”

Soon, they were both naked, Bucky perched on the edge of the bed with his knees folded beneath him. His dick, now fully hard and jutting out from the hollow of his hips, looked so appealing, that Sam licked his lips before falling back onto his pillows with a feathery sigh, something wistful and pleased warming his skin. No matter how sure he’d been that they would get here, Sam almost couldn’t believe it was happening.

Finally. Finally. Finally.

From his position propped up by his pillows, Sam watched Bucky's face as he spread his legs. He crept a hand down to lay it flat against his thigh. The pleading desperation writ across Bucky’s strong, handsome features was enough to make Sam keen.

Jesus, what a man. Giddily, he thought, my man .

"God, Sam. You don't know how long I've wanted to...."

"To what, baby? Hm?" Bucky looked almost overwhelmed at the wanton sight of Sam laid out before him. He was ready for whatever Bucky would give him. Ready for whatever he wanted to take. "What do you want, Buck?"

Bucky gulped with visible effort. His voice was raw when he said, “To worship you. Take you apart." His eyes darkened. Sam bit his lip, prepared himself. "I'd fucking ruin you if you let me, Sammy."

Sam spread his legs further, the hand on his thigh creeping inward, lower, to gently graze the warm skin of his ass. He heard and watched Bucky’s breath hitch in his chest. A stray finger crept even further, close enough to scandalize the puckered skin around his hole. He peered at Bucky, who looked on, rapt with hunger and something almost ferally devoted in his darkening eyes.

"What about this, Bucky? Want this?"

Something in Bucky seemed to switch, and Sam watched it happen. Where the Super Soldier was awestruck before, now he seemed so single-minded, so focused and determined, that Sam almost shivered with the certainty of the pounding he was about to receive. Bucky nodded again, but there was no shyness about it.

"It's yours to take. All of me." Sam paused, wondering how much of himself to show. But he was already naked, stripped bare in all the ways that counted, and Bucky's eyes hadn’t strayed, not even once, so he took the leap. "Always have been."

Before he could blink, Bucky had both his hands clasped in his left, pulling them over his head. Bucky hovered above him, his legs planted on the bed between Sam’s spread thighs. Just a little closer, just a little tighter, and their dicks would press against each other, but Sam got the sense that Bucky was now in firm, unwavering control of the situation. Whatever happened now would be at his pace, his discretion. Sam was fine with it. More than fine, really, if the fire beginning to build in his gut had anything to say about it.

Bucky stared down at him, something inscrutable in those stormy blue eyes. “I love you, Sam Wilson.”

Sam tried to respond, to say I love you, too , but Bucky swallowed his words in a searing kiss, his tongue pushing through Sam’s lips as he explored every crevice of his mouth. It was wet, and a little sloppy, but in all his years, Sam had never been kissed like this, like he was a thing to be devoured. He moaned into it, feeling Bucky give  himself totally to just being with him, like this, in the way Sam always wanted.

But still…Bucky’s core strength was no joke. Even as he lavished Sam’s mouth, their bodies still weren't flush.

With Sam’s hands predisposed, he couldn’t clutch at Bucky’s sculpted back like he wanted, couldn’t run his hands through his hair and pull the man in closer, couldn’t get him right the fuck where Sam wanted him. Sam was beginning to think it was deliberate. He tried bucking his hips up, tried to wrap his legs around Bucky’s waist to draw them together, but Bucky had other plans, and it seemed to involve driving Sam fucking crazy.

Did Bucky want him to beg? Would that get him to finally lay all of his weight on Sam? He hadn’t been lying when he said his ribs were healing already, so if this was a cautionary measure for his sake, Sam wanted nothing to do with it. What he wanted was to have every bit of his man pressed against him, wanted to feel his strength, to feel the bulk Bucky had started putting on again to rest heavy and solid against him.

Don’t you know all you ever have to do is ask?

“Buck…” Sam whispered into Bucky’s mouth, still at his mercy, his voice gone low and hoarse with pleasure. “Bucky. Please .”

Bucky moaned at the plea, and Sam, with whatever brain cells he still had that hadn’t fled south into his dick, took a brief mental note: bratty bottom meets a fucking rock of a man. If Bucky wasn’t surprised, then neither was Sam. He’d seen the way Bucky looked at him during the sharpest moments of their banter, had seen the way his eyes would glint wickedly whenever Sam pushed him, like all he wanted sometimes was to—

Put Sam in his goddamn place. 

“Please, baby, I need you to fuck me. Please. Please.” Whatever else Sam babbled was beyond him. All he knew was that he could feel Bucky’s dick poking against his thigh, inadvertently, almost like an afterthought, and Sam had lost his patience. He needed to be fucking ruined like Bucky said. “Or are you all talk?”

A growl rumbled out of Bucky’s chest. He scoffed, as if offended at the words. “I’ll show you talk.”

With some maneuvering, Bucky flipped Sam over until his head rested among the pillows, his ass and hips hiked up in the air. Sam gasped at the sudden motion, then groaned when Bucky, now behind him and outside of his line of sight, grasped Sam’s ass, and with one cheek clutched tightly in each hand, surged forward until his tongue met the spot Sam had teased him with just moments ago.

Electricity shot up his body at the moment of contact. “ Fuck .”

There was no warm up to the way Bucky went at it with gusto, burying his face in Sam’s ass as his tongue laved against his hole over and over. A finger, then two, joined his tongue as Bucky worked him open. Sam could do nothing more than gasp, feeling the heat in his stomach building. 

“Wait, Bucky, if you keep doing that, I’m gonna come, and I don’t want this to be over yet.”

With some effort, Sam turned onto this back. He needed to see Bucky when this happened. It’s the least he deserved, Sam thought, to look at his man in that moment he’s yearned for for so long, to be able to catalog this shared first between them, to watch Bucky’s face as he slid inside him, fucked him. Fell apart as he took Sam apart in kind.

Sam’s head spun in a dizzying haze of lust, desire, and the deepest feeling of sheer and utter devotion and love. He looked at Bucky, sitting right where Sam left him, his dick flushed red and straining upwards towards his stomach. Sam took in his fill, then met Bucky’s eyes.

“Please, baby, I need it.”

Sam’s voice was soft, almost like he'd been hollowed out and replaced by someone who could, for once in his damn life, allow himself to be vulnerable. To be taken care of. Bucky was right, which, Sam was noticing, he often seemed to be. Not in a smug, self-righteous way but in a way that was honest, so true , so completely devoted to bettering himself and the world around him.

All Sam ever had to do was ask, and Bucky would take care of it. Just ask, and Sam would receive—had been receiving, for years, really—the love, care, the devotion of a man completely and irrevocably committed to him. Sam’s breath left him in a shutter. 

Bucky was ruining him, taking him apart for anyone else so that no one, for as long as they lived, would or could ever compare. Sam’s heart swelled, even as his skin thrummed with pleasure and that itchy, desperate feeling of needing to be closer to Bucky. If Sam was honest, he felt it pretty often. They really did, in fact, live in each other’s pockets , like Bucky had said earlier.

But this was a different closeness. This time, Sam would be close enough to taste, to allow himself to melt into this thing, this torturous, beautiful thing they’ve built between them. Really, they were just two men who’d been through hell and back, men who’d stared the end of the world down together, lost, and then won , two men who loved each so needily, so searingly, because they’d seen the end and come back to save each other (and the rest of the world, not necessarily in that order). 

“ Fuck , sweetheart. You have anything? Lube and-”

Sam gestured towards his nightstand. And though he knew he shouldn’t say it, not yet, that it might have edged just this side of too much, too fast, Sam was in this. For as long as he and Bucky lived, Sam knew he’d found his last and only. The last man, the only, only man he’d love for the rest of his life.

“I’m clean, Buck. It’s been…years. And with the serum I know you’re clean. So…” 

Sam allowed himself to trail off. He almost couldn’t look Bucky in the face as he said it, the words felt so wanting, so greedy. But he meant what he said: he wanted every piece of Bucky, for the rest of his god damn life. All of him.

Bucky stared at him in a noticeably suspended moment. The look in his eyes was so beseeching, so honest, so in love , that Sam knew he needn't have worried in the first place.

“It’s yours.” The words felt even filthier because as Bucky said it, he had located Sam’s lube and was busy slicking his dick. He worked his hand up, down, up, down his length as his eyes caught on Sam’s—everything.  “Sweetheart, I’m yours. For as long as you'll have me, Sam.”

Sam could barely suppress a whine. He needed Bucky in him now . Who gave a fuck that he’d probably need more than vigorous rimming and a couple fingers to prepare him for the size of Bucky’s dick? Seriously, who gave a fuck, because surely Sam didn’t. He needed Bucky and he needed him now, comfort be damned.

“Then give it to me, baby.” He reached for Bucky as he settled between Sam’s legs, letting Sam’s thighs rest in the crook of his elbows as he damn near bent him in half. “I want to feel it when you’re done. I want to be wet and dripping with you after, please .”

Sam had never been one for talking dirty during sex, but of course Bucky had lowered all his inhibitions. 

“Fuck.” 

Sam felt the effect of his words on Bucky, the heat destabilizing him, the shakiness of his fingers as he guided his cock to Sam’s winking hole. Sam sucked in a breath, before completely releasing all tension in his body, the way he knew how.

Bucky grunted with the effort needed to keep himself from going as he began to push in. Sam’s breath caught in his throat, and his eyes rolled back as he was filled fuller than he thought he’d ever been. When Sam thought, okay, it’s over, he’s in , Bucky just kept going .

“ Ho-oly fuck , baby. I don’t know if I can take it. You’re fucking big.”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s face tightened with the effort to keep himself still as he bottomed out, but Sam still clocked the smug pride and amusement coloring his face pink, the tongue peeking out the corner of his bitten, kiss-worn lips. “And you’re really fucking tight, doll, but I think you can take it. You’re made for it, sweetheart. Made for me.”

Sam nodded vigorously, before taking a moment to breathe, to adjust to the man making a home inside him. Any other day, he'd shy away from the neediness of his own thoughts and actions, but this was what he always wanted. Wasn’t he owed a little desperation? Couldn’t he allow himself to fall apart in front of the man who’d never, ever make him feel bad for it?

Above him, Bucky panted, his eyes wild with frenzy. Sam cooed and brought a hand up to cart through his hair, pushing it back from where it fell into his face, framing his beautifully flushed cheeks. He let both his hands rest on the nape of Bucky’s neck. 

Almost unbidden, Sam whispered, “My man. My beautiful, beautiful man.”

“Sam, please, I need to-”

“You can move, baby. I’m ready.”

That was all the encouragement Bucky needed. Hitching Sam’s legs up higher, Bucky pulled out then pushed right back in, over and over. The drag of his dick, slow, precise, was heating Sam up from the inside, but he could tell Bucky was modulating his strength, and that just wouldn't do. Sam needed more. He needed to feel Bucky lose all control, to give himself over completely.

“Harder, Buck, please.”

The pace increased, and with every thrust, Sam felt himself fall apart. Soon, Bucky’s hips were slamming against his ass in a relentless staccato. From their position on his neck, Sam slid his fingers up into Bucky’s hair, pulling him in for a sloppy, messy kiss.

“Fuck me, baby, please.”

Bucky never met a challenge he couldn’t rise to, and he poured himself with gusto into Sam’s ass. Though Sam could barely hear it over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, he recognized Bucky’s voice almost like he was underwater, taunting, generous, and maybe just a little mean. Things like this how you want it, sweetheart and I knew you could take it, knew your ass was made for me and, when Sam felt himself tipping over into the relentless heat of an orgasm, go ahead, sweetheart, I'll fill you up like you want, don’t worry, doll, I'll give it to you, it’s yours to take anyway .

Even as his face burned at the wanton words, Sam couldn’t deny that it was the last one, the way Bucky shamelessly gave Sam what he wanted, even when he could barely ask for it, that sent him over the edge. He lost himself in a babble of incomprehensible words, give it to me, please, Buck, all of it, please .

Held in place by Bucky’s thrusts and the weight of his body, Sam felt himself lose it. His cock, trapped between them, spurted lines and lines of cum onto his stomach, onto Bucky, as a long, sobbing noise left his mouth. Were those tears in his eyes? How long had it been since someone fucked him so good he cried? Maybe never, because if anyone had, it still had never been like this .

Bucky’s hips moved erratically now as he chased his own release. Sam felt himself beginning to tip over into the space of overstimulation, but, well—he was no quitter. And what he wanted was to feel Bucky come inside him, to be closer than they’d ever been, fuck whatever else.

Bucky’s head tipped forward as a growl ripped through his chest. Sam cataloged the look on his face, the way his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened as if his orgasm took him completely by surprise. The pleasure Sam felt when Bucky’s load flooded his insides was only intensified when the Super Soldier whispered, “There, sweetheart. Take it, it’s all yours.”

It was enough to make Sam cry even harder, for more tears to stream down his face as he hit the absolute peak of pleasure, and then some. He was overwhelmed and, really, just like Bucky said, feeling a little ruined by it all.

The come-down was slow. Gingerly, Bucky pulled out, but not before he slid two fingers down, two glorious vibranium fingers slotted right into the place he’d just left. “You can keep it, baby. Didn’t I say I’d give you everything you want if-”

“If I only asked for it,” Sam chuffed, though any humor was wiped clear out by sex-fueled exhaustion and the emotional whiplash of completely falling to pieces before finally, finally getting what he wanted. 

Bucky collapsed on the bed next to him, breathing the way he did when they were training and he’d worked enough to finally feel some exertion. Pride swelled in Sam's chest, to know it was him , he’d done that. He finally met his fucking match.

The sun had come out fully now, bathing the room in light. Sam turned his head to look at Bucky’s heaving chest, the way his limbs had gone relaxed and soft with pleasure. Bucky met his gaze, before reaching out for Sam, adjusting him until Sam’s head lay on his chest.

“I just knew you'd be a cuddler, Barnes.”

“Yeah? What tipped you off? Was it all the touching? Because I haven’t exactly been trying to hide it, Wilson.” Bucky smiled at him, something soft and filled to bursting with love. “Just waiting for you to catch up, sweetheart, that’s all.”

“That’s all, huh?”

Sam couldn’t deny himself another kiss, this one sweet and lingering. Something so soft, so giving, that he knew there really was no turning back now.

Sam knew they’d have to get up eventually to wipe down and clean themselves up, but how could he willingly remove himself from the place he’d always want to be? His eyes began to drift shut, and a smile pulled at the corner of his lips. Yeah, they had to clean up, and they had so much more to say to each other, to work out, but Sam knew with every ounce of belief in his heart, that Bucky had it handled—and this time, Sam wouldn't even have to ask.

Notes:

i hope you enjoyed reading this as much i enjoyed writing it! my first sambucky fic, i can hardly believe it! please, please let me know what you thought! honestly, the writing happened very quickly and almost too smoothly, so i'm thinking the only thing left for me to do at this point is write more and fulfill all my very favorite tropes. gotta use that creative writing degree for something LOL, we'll see. #sambucky4lyfe