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The apartment was far from quiet when Bucky unlocked the front door, stumbling through the threshold. He could hear the music, no doubt an old vinyl record spinning— vintage, probably. He recognized the artist, knew both the album and song, as well as the year… and maybe that was proof of how far gone he was for Sam Wilson. Christ, how Bucky loved that man. How all he wanted was to fall into him, close his eyes, curl up with his head on Sam’s lap as he stroked Bucky’s hair, distracting him from the pain if for just a moment.
He didn’t, though— mainly because he wasn’t sure where Sam was. So, he limped further into the apartment, and now he could make out Sam’s crooning along to the record, and a small, albeit painful, smile twitched at his lips, despite everything. He glanced to the side, pausing, before noticing that the stove was on. Shrimp, it looked like, in one pan, already heartily seasoned by the looks of it. The other pan held a familiar mixture Bucky recognized as the beginning of Sam’s famous Cajun pasta sauce recipe: buttered green and red bell peppers, and green onions, roasting over the flame. Then, sure enough, the pot next to it on the stove held still-boiling penne. His heart squeezed a little bit, that sensitive part of him that had been creeping back ever since Sam aching a little. There was a lot of pasta, and Sam usually ate a lot (“A body like this requires fuel, baby,” Sam had joked once, grinning) but not like this, which could only mean one thing: Sam had made it, purposefully, for Bucky, super soldier serving size and all. God.
He had… gotten a lot better, lately. He’d be lying if he said it was all because of Sam, even if it felt that way; no, he knew, and Sam assured him that this was all Bucky, his hard work, his recovery. That Bucky wouldn’t feel this good if he wasn’t the one responsible for his own improvement.
Sam was a big part of his recovery, though— just not all of it.
Sam had also taught him that recovery wasn’t linear, and he had never been more right than in this moment: a pounding between Bucky’s brows, pain pressing in around his temples, a phantom ache spanning the length of his left arm, stretching up to his shoulder then down his spine, both of which hurt just as badly, if not worse, from the added weight of the vibranium— an incredibly light metal, sure, but still solid metal. He wasn't sure how much it weighed, his only point of reference being that Sam’s vibranium shield was about twelve pounds, but it certainly felt heavier than his flesh arm. The dull, agonizing ache felt bone-deep, and arced down his back and spine from his shoulder.
So, yeah. The pain was definitely there, regardless of Shuri’s best science; she had been the first to admit that, despite all of Wakanda’s vast resources and knowledge, the damage to his shoulder and spine, the nerves around them, was too severe, too long-sustained, after seventy-something years of lugging around a titanium arm (and especially because of the crude neurological connection HYDRA had engineered to connect the arm to his spinal cord and brain, with little regard for his feelings or pain), super soldier healing be damned. There were some things even the best science and smartest brains couldn’t fix. The damage was permanent. Shuri looked more than devastated when she said those words, in a too-soft voice, like she couldn’t believe it: defeated. Bucky had never before heard her sound defeated. So he put on a brave face for her, though the words rattled around his brain: permanent. Forever, or as long as he lived— who knew how long that’d be, with the serum?
He supposed he should be grateful, and he was. At least there wasn’t any sustained brain damage, apart from the migraines, which had lessened in both intensity and frequency thanks to Shuri’s work. She had also been able to cure the seizures he’d once suffered through, and he hadn’t ever sustained the personality-changing type of brain trauma, so. Small mercies.
It was hard, though, to think about. God, he wished the pain would go away. Usually it was fine— most days, in fact. Perhaps every three weeks he’d have a bad flare up like this, but it usually didn’t last longer than a few days. Hopefully this one would fade away after a nap: preferably a nap curled up in Sam’s arms after a delicious, hearty serving of Sam’s pasta.
Sam was still singing, his voice growing steadily more audible as he entered the kitchen. Bucky didn’t turn around, didn't even move, even as Sam trailed off abruptly; he had a feeling that, if he saw Sam’s face, those pretty brown eyes, he might just break down.
He heard Sam’s steps approach him, then felt arms gently slink around his waist from behind, and he smiled a little. Sam hummed, leaning up to brush a kiss to his temple.
“I take it none of this blood is yours?” he said by way of greeting, his voice low.
Bucky bit his lip. “Some of it,” he admitted, and turned around.
Sam sucked in a sharp breath. “Jesus, Buck,” he breathed, his concerned gaze flickering over Bucky’s face. “You alright?”
Shrugging, Bucky averted his eyes. “Bruised and battered ‘s all, sweetheart.”
“Sure you didn’t get stabbed?” Sam asked, his brows shooting up, a hand trailing down to gently touch Bucky’s bloodied abdomen, right where a rip in the kevlar vest left him vulnerable. He hissed and jerked away at the sudden sharp pain, and Sam sighed in disappointment. “Don’t hide injuries from me, Buck. Especially stab wounds. I know you’re smarter than that.”
Bucky stared past him, feeling a familiar surge of guilt. “Sorry,” he sighed. “It’s not bad, and not bleeding anymore, already healin’. I just… Didn’t want you to worry.”
Sam stared at him, incredulous. “You come home covered in blood, with a black eye and cuts all over your face, and you expect me to not worry?” he demanded.
“Well, when you put it like that…”
Sam sighed— again. He did a lot of that around Bucky, especially when he did something stupid. “Go get washed up, baby. Dinner’ll be ready by the time you’re out.”
Bucky actually felt the way his expression dropped, which meant Sam could definitely see it, since his face got all screwed up the way it did when he was fond yet annoyed.
“Bucky,” he said warningly, which was code for Stop with the puppy eyes, goddamn it. Then, after a few long seconds of eye contact, he scrubbed a hand down his face and sighed (for the third time). “Alright. Fine. Give me five minutes,” he huffed, moving away from Bucky, who couldn’t help the way his lips curled with happiness.
He took a seat at the kitchen island, watching Sam as he worked, his cheek resting in his flesh hand, fingertips crusted with dried blood. Sam kept glancing back at him, like he was worried Bucky would keel over any minute, but, frankly, Bucky felt perfectly fine. Well. Save for the throbbing pain behind his eyes. And the sharp nerve pain racing up his spine at certain movements. And the way his left arm tugged at the joints in his shoulder painfully. But, on the bright side, he could hardly feel the stab wound!
Wow, Sam was beautiful. God. He looked so in his element like this, even just straining pasta over the sink, and Bucky finally had the opportunity to stare, so he pounced on it. Sam was dressed for comfort— sweats and a faded USAF t-shirt that wasn’t tight, per se, but still clung enticingly to his biceps and shoulders— and he made the clothes look much more attractive than they deserved to. They also looked incredibly soft, worn, and, frankly, Bucky was jealous in his skinny jeans, tight jacket, and bulky gear (kevlar vest and various holsters), all of which were soaked in blood to varying degrees.
Sam, as usual, caught him staring. He didn’t say anything, though, no smart quip, and instead just raised a brow, smirking, before returning to stirring cream into the pasta sauce. Bucky’s heart skipped a beat, even at such a brief, wordless exchange. God, he was whipped.
A few minutes later, Sam was stirring the sauce and pasta together, sprinkling some cheese, adding the shrimp, and pouring one final round of Cajun seasoning atop the whole thing. It smelled heavenly, all sharp-scented spices and veggies. Bucky’s mouth watered as he stared.
“Smells good,” he said, licking his lips.
Sam shot him a look. “Surprised you can smell it through the stench of blood,” he remarked, and Bucky winced. Yeah, he probably deserved that.
“Got used to it, I guess,” he muttered.
“Ah, hold that thought,” Sam interrupted, adjusting the stove to its lowest setting to keep the food warm and holding up a finger. “Shower, come on.”
And Bucky sighed in faux-annoyance, but he really did want a shower, and he especially wanted a shower with Sam, so of course he went along with it. This was, after all, what he’d been waiting for.
“And before you ask, this is a shower, nothing more,” Sam said, shooting Bucky a look.
“Hey, I didn’t say anything!” he protested.
Sam snorted. “Yeah, sure, baby,” he chuckled, walking around the counter to wrap his hand around the nape of Bucky’s neck and pull him into a kiss. It was a deep, wanting kiss, a little dirty but not lewd, and it entirely contrasted Sam’s words of ‘nothing more’. When Sam pulled away, Bucky stared, breathless, his lips still parted, wanting more.
“Sam…” he started.
“Uh-uh. Nope. You’re injured and you stink. After dinner, if you’re lucky.”
Bucky frowned. “Guess I gotta be good, then,” he remarked, a small smirk twitching at his lips.
“Yup,” Sam said, popping the ‘p’, his expression annoyingly unchanging. Alright. He was definitely trying to get a rise out of Bucky now.
“Come on,” Bucky said, taking his hand and beginning to drag him away. Sam snorted, letting himself be pulled along, and Bucky would grin if his face didn’t hurt so much.
He didn’t turn the bathroom light on, instead opting for lighting a candle (yes, he kept candles in the bathroom; yes, Sam made fun of him for it), and his partner hummed in understanding.
“Headache?” he guessed. Bucky nodded. “Just light, not sound?” Bucky nodded again, and Sam sighed, pressing a kiss to his cheek, his expression sympathetic. “Sorry, baby. Would’ve turned off the kitchen lights if I knew.”
“‘S alright,” Bucky said, moving to unzip his vest, only to hiss at the way the motion sent sharp, shooting pain up his shoulder and spine.
Sam grabbed him by the forearm, said sharply, meaningfully, “Bucky,” and Bucky froze, his eyes wide as he slowly glanced over, unwilling to see the heartbreak in Sam’s eyes, the way he always looked so damn hurt when Bucky was in pain, poorly masking his anger (anger not towards Bucky, but towards the fact he had to suffer through such hurt). “Let me,” Sam murmured, gently guiding Bucky’s arm back to the side. “Then you can take the arm off.”
Bucky nodded, closing his eyes, just letting Sam unzip the vest, carefully and painlessly maneuvering it off, then doing the same with the jacket, which hurt a little more, the stiff leather making Bucky flinch with a soft, pained noise.
“Shh, baby. You’re alright,” Sam murmured, leaning up to press a kiss to his temple. Then he sighed. “Shirt’s too tight, Buck, you’re gonna have to do this on your own.”
Bucky exhaled softly, slowly opening his eyes and just looking at him. “Just… Cut it off?” he suggested in a hopeless mumble, feeling impossibly pathetic, but not really caring anymore. He was in pain, and Sam was so beautiful and gentle, and Bucky wanted him, even if it was a bad idea. “It… it hurts, Sammy.”
Sam’s entire expression changed, somehow softening tenfold, his eyes going dark with sympathy and sadness at the tone of voice. He took a deep breath, then raised a hand to Bucky’s cheek, gently cupping his face. Bucky leaned into the touch with a soft noise, bending down to melt against Sam’s hand, cat-like, just staring at Sam with sad eyes.
“Please?” he whispered.
Sam swallowed. “Yeah, Buck. I wasn’t gonna say no. It’s… Nerve pain’s serious. That shit hurts.”
“How did you…?”
“How’d I know what was hurting? Because you act differently when it’s this sort of thing. If it was the stab wound, or the bruising, you’d be a lot more stubborn about showing it,” Sam says, sure and steady, and just a little smug.
Bucky scowled. “You know me too well,” he complained.
Sam chuckled, glancing at him with a fond smile. “Maybe,” he agreed before turning away, opening the cabinet with the first aid supplies, including a pair of fabric scissors. This sort of thing had happened before, after all. Sam always told him to stop wearing such tight shirts, but Bucky never listened. He preferred tight, form-fitting clothing for fighting, so it wouldn’t get in the way.
He closed his eyes again as Sam cut away the shirt, extra careful around the wound— and Bucky duly noted how he’d become comfortable enough around his partner to allow such sharp objects near his throat and chest, especially with his eyes shut— hearing the fabric hit the floor.
“Christ,” Sam breathed, staring at his chest. Bucky opened his mouth to make some snide, flirty remark before glancing down and understanding.
“Oh,” he deadpanned. “That’s probably why it hurts to breathe.”
Sam groaned. “God, Buck, don’t tell me you broke another rib—”
“I didn’t, I—”
“It looks like you did, look at that bruising, it’s nearly black!” Sam exclaimed. He took a deep breath. “Alright. It’s fine. Hold still for a moment, I’ll take your arm off, then clean up the wound, though it already looks half healed.” He frowned at that last part.
“I told you it wasn’t bad,” Bucky pointed out.
Sam sighed. “See, but sometimes you say that while bleeding out, so I’m not particularly inclined to believe you,” he pointed out, reaching for Bucky’s metal arm, and Bucky let him unlatch it without protest, sucking in a sharp breath at the sensation before sighing in relief at the sudden lack of weight hanging from his shoulder, melting a little, some of the pain beginning to melt away. “Better?” Sam asked as he set the arm on the counter and Bucky leaned forward against him, resting his chin on his shoulder, eyes falling shut.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Sam said, running a hand over Bucky’s head, fingers gently scratching at his scalp. “You alright?”
“Fine,” Bucky mumbled. “Just… Give me a second?”
Sam pressed a kiss to his temple, his other arm gently winding around Bucky’s waist. “Okay, baby. I’ve got you.”
Bucky, for what it’s worth, wrapped his singular arm around Sam as tightly as he could. “How was work?” he mumbled, mostly wanting to hear Sam’s voice.
His partner huffed out a laugh. “Fine, mostly. Joaquin apparently went on a date last night, wouldn’t stop talking about her, which was sweet, I guess. Even if it got tiring after a few hours. Other than that, though, there’s nothing on the radar, currently, especially now that you’ve dealt with your thing, huh?”
“Yeah. They’re all in custody or dead,” Bucky muttered. “Who even were those guys?”
“You know better than me, Buck, it was your mission,” Sam pointed out.
Bucky hummed. “Wasn’t really paying attention during the briefing,” he mumbled.
“Distracted?” Sam asked, sounding concerned. “By what?”
“The pain,” Bucky admitted quietly. “It’s been… there. Not this bad, but I could feel a flare up on its way.”
Sam hummed in sympathy, gently petting Bucky’s hair the way he liked, combing his fingers through it, nails scratching against Bucky’s scalp. “I’m sorry, baby,” he murmured. “I wish I could help more.”
“‘S okay. Not your fault,” Bucky promised, finally standing upright, opening his eyes to peer at Sam closely, feeling more pathetic than he usually did in the face of Sam’s affection, which was saying something. He was sure it showed on his face, too, because Sam raised a hand to cup his cheek. Bucky sighed and leaned into it for a moment, letting his lashes flutter shut, before peering once more at Sam, still curled against his palm.
Sam smirked. “Need help with those, too?” he teased, jutting his chin at Bucky’s jeans.
“Yeah, but… Holster first,” Bucky mumbled. The exhaustion felt like it was catching up, dragging him with it, his brain feeling foggy and his thoughts slow. Also, he was in a shitty mood, which didn’t help. Sam understood, though, because he kept teasing, clearly attempting to keep Bucky’s energy up.
“Holsters, plural. You’ve got like three of these things, Buck.”
“We don’t all have fancy vibranium wings to fight with,” Bucky huffed, looking away. “And… Can you help with my boots?”
“Yeah, baby, sure. I’ll help with everything,” Sam said, leaning up to kiss Bucky’s cheek. “You don’t have to ask.”
Bucky sighed, just barely leaning into the gentle press of lips, until Sam pulled away, hand falling from Bucky’s face. He watched as Sam undid the buckle on his tac belt, then crouched down to do the same with the holster on his thigh. “Calf,” Bucky said next, and Sam hummed acknowledgment before dropping to his knees, untying and slipping off his boots before undoing the final holster on his calf.
He smiled up at Bucky, then, unfairly fucking beautiful as ever, and Bucky flushed pink at the sight of Sam there, on his knees. But, no. Honestly, a blowjob would probably hurt more than it’d help, what with the way breathing was painful. If Sam was down, Bucky was— always would be— but he also wasn’t really in the mood to attempt to convince him.
“No,” Sam said sternly, easily following his train of thought and rising back up to his feet. Still, he took Bucky’s face in his hands, then slid one hand down the side of his neck, over his shoulder, where it gently squeezed. “C’mere for a second, Buck,” he murmured, pulling Bucky in by the cheek, and Bucky went without protest, only a soft whine leaving his throat as Sam kissed him deeply, purposefully. “Shh, baby, relax,” Sam breathed, lips parting, and Bucky slipped his tongue in eagerly at the invitation.
They kissed like that for a while. Bucky’s face and jaw ached, along with everything else, and the motion of aggressively licking into Sam’s mouth didn’t exactly help the pain, but it was worth it anyway, especially with the way Sam groaned, kissing him back just as passionately, if not slightly more carefully, considering Bucky’s injuries. His hand slid from Bucky’s shoulder to the back of his head, fingers gently curling into dark hair, and, God, did Bucky love it, Sam was amazing, beautiful, tasted warm and familiar and slightly sweet, he could do this forever, just kiss him and love him and touch him.
Each place they were touching set Bucky’s nerves aflame, in a way very different from the pain they’d been forcing upon him earlier, and they were touching in a lot of places. He could feel it, the way Sam held control of it all, steady and sure as always, his constant aura of confidence present even now— and, shit, it was sexy as hell. Bucky loved the push and pull, the way Sam didn’t shy away from making it clear what he wanted, but still kept Bucky’s feelings and desires at the forefront of it all, the way he made it great for both of them, even when they were just making out.
And then gently, so, so gently, he felt Sam push him backwards with a hand on his shoulder, and Bucky went easily, letting his back be pressed to the wall and looking at Sam with wide, pleading eyes, unable and unwilling to even attempt to hide what he wanted.
“Fuck, baby,” Sam breathed, his gaze darkening as he ran a hand down Bucky’s bare chest, lightly grazing his ribs and abdomen, then back up again, squeezing his pec, pulling a soft whine from Bucky, which in turn made Sam smile breathlessly, almost like he couldn’t believe his eyes, couldn’t believe the sight in front of him. “God, you pretty thing. Shit’s not fair,” he said, a slight, impossibly attractive rasp to his voice.
“Sam,” Bucky choked, desperate, his heart hummingbird-fast in his chest, fluttering against his ribs, aching for this, for Sam and anything he’d be willing to give up. “I need you.”
Sam stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed thoughtfully, then nodded slowly— he was a strong, strong man, but weak for Bucky (for his eyes, he claimed)— reaching to undo Bucky’s jeans. Bucky let him, of course, all too eagerly melting against the wall as Sam kissed and nipped at his neck, down his chest. He was breathing fast, now, and it made his ribs throb, but he could handle it. As long as the nerve pain stayed at bay, he could deal with a migraine and bruised ribs and aching muscles— especially if it meant he got Sam. Well, so much for a blowjob being more painful than it was worth, because in this moment, panting for breath, shuddering with need at the feeling of Sam’s lips on his bare skin, it was beginning to look like it’d be incredibly worth it.
He kicked off his jeans easily, whimpering as Sam’s hands began to roam lower, gently toying with the waistband of his underwear.
“Shh,” Sam soothed, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Relax, Buck, you’re alright. Just let me know if it’s too much, okay? Pain or otherwise.”
“Okay,” Bucky choked.
“You okay to do this without the arm?” Sam asked softly, a hand sliding over Bucky’s left shoulder, thumb gently pressing into the muscle there, just barely massaging it.
“Yes,” Bucky begged. “Please, Sammy, I’ll be good, I need this, just— just touch me.”
“God, baby,” Sam groaned. “So desperate already. You don’t have to beg, though I know you like to.” His other hand slipped lower, under the waistband of Bucky’s underwear, and Bucky let out a broken noise as Sam’s hand wrapped around him, his hips jumping into the contact unashamedly. “Feel good?” Sam mumbled, not yet moving, just holding him, teasing him, rubbing his thumb over the leaking head, getting his hand wet with the stuff so it’d glide better.
Bucky panted, his ribs aching, but nodded eagerly, his head tilted slightly up, staring down at Sam through the curtain of his lashes. Fuck, he was so beautiful, especially in the dim, flickering light of the candle: the sharp bones of his cheeks, the curl of his unfairly long lashes, his eyes, Christ, so full of emotion— of lust, of fondness, of love.
“Tell me how much you need it, Bucky,” Sam murmured, moving in again to kiss down his neck as his hand finally started moving.
Bucky whimpered, his body arching into the touch, his hand bracing on Sam’s hip, squeezing. “Need it so bad,” he choked. “Christ, Sam, feels so good, you feel so good, I… Fuck, sweetheart, c’mon, faster, please,” he begged.
“Since you asked so nicely,” Sam chuckled, his voice low, and his hand began to pump Bucky faster, more eagerly. That alone was enough to show Bucky that he wanted this just as badly. “Sound so pretty like that, Buck, begging for me. You know what you want, hm? Don’t worry, baby, I’ll give it to you. Give you everything.”
Bucky keened, low and broken, nearly collapsing against the wall as his knees buckled suddenly, then crying out at the sharp pain that shot up his spine at the abrupt movement.
Sam stopped immediately, his expression changing, the fog of lust leaving his eyes, replaced with something like fear. “Bucky?” he whispered, his hand sliding out of Bucky’s underwear to instead hold his hip, the other moving up to caress Bucky’s face, and Bucky whined at the loss of his touch, the pain already having faded by then. It was usually in quick bursts like that, never lasting longer than a minute, and only occurring at certain movements, usually sudden ones.
“Sam,” he whispered, his heart aching. “I…” He swallowed, feeling a wave of despair crash over him. “I don’t think I can… Not like this.”
Sam’s expression softened with sadness and sympathy. “You wanna lay down?” he asked in that low, tender voice of his.
Bucky swallowed. “Maybe, but… I can’t do anything for you, then, and I wanna— Wanna touch you. Want you to feel good, too.”
“Oh, baby,” Sam sighed, thumb gently rubbing at his cheek. “I feel pretty damn great right now. Do you know how good it feels to see the things I do to you? To know that you’re letting down your guard for me, and I’m the only one who gets to see you like this?”
“I…” Bucky exhaled softly, looking away. “I guess.”
“God, Buck, I could get off just on the sounds you make,” Sam confessed, his voice barely a whisper. “Do you know what it does to me, you sounding like that? It’s better than anything, baby, knowing what I do to you, how good I make you feel. Knowing that I’m the one making you sound so pretty.”
Bucky swallowed, glancing back up at him, his brows furrowed in what might be confusion or, more likely, doubt.
Sam raised his hand, thumb gently smoothing out the wrinkle between his brows. He smiled, soft and sweet. “C’mon, baby. Let’s shower, then I’ll take you to bed, hm?”
“Yeah,” Bucky croaked, his voice hoarse. “Okay.” He stared unabashedly as Sam peeled his shirt off, then his sweatpants. God, but he was beautiful: his well-muscled chest, those toned abs, the V of his hips. Fuck.
Once they’d both fully stripped, they stepped into the shower, and Bucky closed his eyes and sighed as the hot water cascaded over his head, plastering his hair to his forehead. Sam chuckled, taking his face in his hands and leaning up to kiss him. It was gentler than before, and Bucky melted into it, his muscles going lax under the warm stream of water and the sweetness of Sam’s mouth.
“Sam,” he whispered as his partner moved away to catch his breath.
“You alright?” Sam asked softly, pressing a soft kiss to Bucky’s cheek.
Bucky swallowed. “Yeah, angel. Perfect.”
Sam smiled warmly, kissing him again, before moving back to grab the bottle of shampoo.
“Is that mine?” Bucky asked, squinting.
Sam snorted. “Yeah, baby. Don’t worry, it’s definitely your fancy ass shampoo.”
“You’re the one with all this other shit!” Bucky protested, jerking his chin in the direction of Sam’s assortment of nice-smelling shower gels and body washes— not to mention the lotions and body oils in their bathroom cabinet. “Ten step shower routine!”
“It’s better than a twenty step hair routine!” Sam snapped, glaring at him, though the effect was ruined by the wide, stupid grin splitting his face. “Just c’mere, Buck. Christ, your dramatic ass has always gotta make everything so complicated.”
Bucky grumbled as Sam guided him closer, away from the water, with a hand at the back of his neck, then lowered his head obediently, his eyes falling shut as Sam squeezed a dollop of shampoo into his hands and began to massage it into Bucky’s hair. He sighed at the feeling, leaning into the touch eagerly, and Sam chuckled, his fingers scratching against Bucky’s scalp.
“Feel good?” Sam asked, his voice low and quiet, intimate, over the sound of the rushing water.
“Yeah,” Bucky whispered. He could fall asleep like this, he thought absently, and braced his arm against the wall so he could lean a little bit against it, standing more comfortably.
“Good, Bucky, just like that. Try to relax for me, yeah?”
Bucky let out a soft, shuddery sigh at the sound of Sam’s voice low in his ear, those words leaving his lips, and forced his muscles to relax, leaning up against the tiled shower wall by his good shoulder now, almost curling up against it. There was a slight arousal coiling in his gut, but moreso, that familiar, floaty feeling had begun to seep through his brain, putting him at ease, that sensation of deep relaxation and comfort he only experienced with Sam, when Sam got like this, took care of him, and Bucky could, for once, just relinquish control of everything without fear.
“Yeah. So good for me, baby,” Sam murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Bucky’s left shoulder. “That’s it. Just let go… I’ve got you.”
After a few minutes of silence, broken only by the sound of the shower, he guided Bucky back into the stream of rushing water, gently rinsing the shampoo out of his hair. Bucky relaxed even further at the sensation, the warm water rushing over him. He whined softly, barely audible, when Sam tugged him into a kiss, his brain too foggy to even think about reacting, his lips and mouth moving on instinct rather than focus, just kissing and licking, craving the taste of Sam’s tongue, the way it felt when his chuckle reverberated deep in his throat, so damn beautiful. Yeah. Yeah, Bucky could relax, could give it all up, just let go, let Sam guide him, let Sam give him everything he wanted, everything he deserved, Christ.
“Good boy, Buck,” Sam murmured, the praise flowing from him all too easily, naturally, and Bucky couldn’t help the way his lashes fluttered, eyes opening to stare at him to take in the impossibly fond look on his face, that barely-there smile curling around his beautiful lips. When Sam saw his eyes, his smile widened, and he raised a hand up to Bucky’s face, caressing his cheek. “This okay?” he whispered, his other hand gently squeezing Bucky’s hip, right near his ass. “It’s not too much?”
Bucky let out an mm-hmm, less of a hum and more of a whimper— something he wouldn’t admit, save for when he was in this soft, floaty state somewhere between consciousness and sleep.
“Alright, baby. I know you’re out of it, but just… Promise to let me know?” Sam asked, his voice achingly gentle.
“Yeah,” Bucky said once he’d found his voice. “Yeah, sweetheart.”
“Good,” Sam agreed, smiling. He reached for a wash cloth, then, and squeezed a dollop of soap onto it. “C’mere. I can still smell the blood,” he said, pulling Bucky in by the waist.
“Okay,” Bucky sighed, lowering his head, his eyes slipping shut once more, just letting Sam move him, wash him, guide him with soft whispers. God, it was nice. He’d never allowed himself this comfort, this peace. He’d never met anyone he’d actually trusted to protect him like this, but Sam… God, Sam was so capable. Not only was he an amazing fighter, both with and without the wings, but he was smart, and trained as a medic, too. He was, perhaps, the most capable, trustworthy person Bucky had ever met, and not just in terms of secrets— even better than Steve had been. He just had this easy confidence to him, whether he was fighting supernatural creatures or stitching up wounds or fucking Bucky’s brains out. Like he knew that, if he put in the work, he’d succeed— and he did, was the most admirable part. And yet he was human, through and through, so damn human, and he was capable of so much.
Sam was still washing the dried blood from Bucky’s skin, rubbing soothing circles with the washcloth, his other hand gently stroking over Bucky’s ribs. He’d fallen quiet again, but for the way he hummed softly to himself, some melody Bucky only halfway recognized. Bucky just sighed, melting further into his touch, impossibly at ease. He didn’t think at all, for once, drowsy, like he’d drift off any minute, his mind comfortably blank but for the all-consuming feeling of Sam.
He wasn’t sure how much time had passed when Sam finally set the washcloth down, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s jaw before moving away to wash himself. Bucky opened his eyes just a little, peering at him closely, watching the way those strong muscles flexed under his dark skin, the way a smug, yet fond smile curled around his lips when he noticed Bucky staring. He gave it another minute, rinsing himself off, before he was back on Bucky, one hand cupping his cheek, the other at his waist.
“Hate to admit it, but I missed your staring,” he said softly, that warm caramel gaze locked with Bucky’s robin’s egg blue, twinkling with warmth.
“Sam…” Bucky whispered, the fog in his brain just barely dissipating as he was forced to find words. “I… I missed you, too.”
Sam smiled, fond, his thumb gently rubbing Bucky’s cheekbone. “Still up in space, baby?” he asked gently.
Bucky nodded after a few seconds, the action slow and a little delayed, everything feeling sort of dream-like. He leaned into Sam’s hand. “Feels good, Sammy. Like this. Don’t gotta worry. Can’t feel the pain as much.”
“Alright. Come on, let’s dry off, then we can go to bed, okay?” Sam asked, smiling, looking forward to it already. God, Bucky was always so damn sweet like this, so loving, the furthest thing from the Winter Soldier. He took it so well, always, whining and begging and gasping, making all the little choked-off sounds that Sam loved so much.
“Okay,” Bucky sighed, leaning heavily into the hand on his cheek.
They dried off individually, and Sam tossed their clothes in the laundry basket before making his way to bed, letting the towel fall from his waist, watching Bucky’s reaction closely, a small smile on his lips.
Bucky stared. He always stared. God, but Sam was beautiful like that.
“You coming, Buck?” Sam teased.
And Bucky blinked, caught off guard, before nodding, dropping his own towel and crawling into bed next to Sam, curling up on his side, head near Sam’s chest. Sam smiled at him, running a hand over his head, fingers scratching at his scalp soothingly, and Bucky let out a small, barely audible whine, curling closer. Chuckling, Sam moved his other hand down, pulling Bucky closer by the hips, then trailing his fingers down the inside of his thighs, not close enough to touch him, but just enough to tease.
He licked his lips at the way Bucky sucked in a shaky, desperate breath. “Come on, baby, let me hear you,” he murmured, his voice low and thick, hand trailing higher, in between his legs, fingers wrapping around—
“Sam,” Bucky whimpered, broken and needy, begging already at the feel of that callused palm. “Sammy, please.”
“Yeah, you got it,” Sam mumbled, pressing a kiss to his temple, curling against him, pressing their bodies closer. “Give it to you. Give you anything you want.”
Bucky made a sound between a moan and sob, shoving his face into Sam’s chest. Were he not so out of it, he might open his mouth, drag his tongue over that dark, enticing skin, bite and suck at his pec like he was fucking starving, because, God, he loved Sam’s pecs. And his biceps. And his thighs, and ass, and— well. There was a lot to love about Sam.
“Anything you want, Buck, anything,” Sam repeated, low and fast, like a mantra.
“I love you,” Bucky gasped, his ribs aching now, chest heaving, but he could barely feel it through the pleasure.
Sam groaned; Bucky could feel him hard against his abs, now, but he knew how Sam got when he was like this, knew he’d be told to leave it, knew Sam preferred being able to give Bucky all his focus, even if it meant delaying his own pleasure, the selfless asshole. “Love you, too, baby. So damn much,” he promised, carding a hand through Bucky’s hair a little roughly, matching the way his hand was pumping him, speeding up from the original slow pace, steadily building.
“Sam,” Bucky moaned, then sank his teeth into Sam’s shoulder.
“Fuck. Yeah, yeah, you got it, you can take it, c’mon, Buck,” Sam said, his voice a little raspy, that initial curse a low moan, and Bucky could tell how turned on he was just from this, just from giving Bucky a handjob, and, wow, he really wasn’t kidding earlier about getting off on just the noises Bucky made, huh?
Bucky sunk his teeth in harder, knowing that Sam liked a little bit of pain with his pleasure, and it paid off, because Sam cursed loudly and started jerking him faster, his previously low, measured praise quickly turning to babbling.
“So good, so good for me, take it so fuckin’ well, baby, you’re so gorgeous… Can’t believe it, Buck, how goddamn pretty you are like this, my good boy… Yeah, you like that, baby, like it how I touch you, like it when I tell you how pretty you are, call you my good boy?” he rambled, his voice hoarse and raspy with need, desperately rocking against Bucky’s thigh like he couldn’t help it, composure totally snapped.
“Yes,” Bucky begged, whatever slight semblance of composure he’d once had long ago crumbled. “Yes, yes, Sammy, please, be so good for you, angel, so good—”
“You’re always fuckin’ amazing for me, baby, you know that—”
“Please, Sam— Sam, please, I wanna—”
“Yeah, baby, I gotchu, c’mon, give it to me, let go for me, Buck, I’m here,” Sam gasped, and Bucky came in his hand with a desperate cry.
Bucky lay there for a moment, panting, comfortable and sated, until he realized Sam was still hard and rocking against his thigh. Bucky groaned, shifting slightly, his entire body aching, brain throbbing, yet devoid of the tension he’d been feeling earlier. “C’mere, Sammy,” he croaked, pulling Sam up. Sam whined in protest, but didn’t stop Bucky from wrangling him onto his lap.
“Fuck,” Sam groaned as he started to move again, grinding down on the thigh between his own.
“There you go, angel. Just like that,” Bucky rasped, watching in rapt awe.
“Fuckin’ love your legs,” Sam panted, which Bucky thought was bullshit, considering what his legs looked like, but Sam had his head thrown back in pleasure, lips parted in a soft moan, that perfect chest heaving with each breath, and was still rocking against Bucky’s thigh, so he probably wasn’t making shit up.
Which, frankly, Bucky really enjoyed the sight of those dark, muscular legs straddling his own, deciding they’d have to do this more often. “Yours are better, Sammy, fuckin’ sexy as hell. Want you to choke me with your thighs.”
“Shit, Buck,” Sam moaned, speeding up a little, those same powerful thighs trembling a little bit. “Talk to me, baby, keep talking, wanna hear your voice.”
“Yeah, Sammy, alright. Look at you, sweetheart, pretty as a dame. Love it when you’re on top of me like this, makin’ yourself feel good. So fuckin’ gorgeous like that. Just keep it up for me, honey, wanna see your pretty face when you’re feelin’ so damn good,” he rambled roughly, keeping his voice low and sensual, letting the old Brooklyn accent shape his words, the way he knew got Sam so hot. He might be fucking exhausted, but he could still talk Sam through it while Sam rode his thigh.
Sam moaned again, impossibly fucking sexy, and Bucky was sure that, any other day, he’d already be rearing to go again, ready for another round, especially when Sam was making those sounds. But not today; not tonight.
It wasn’t long before Sam came hard and fast, trembling, and collapsed on top of Bucky, panting.
“Good, angel?” Bucky mumbled, shifting to wrap his arm around Sam’s waist, ignoring the way Sam’s weight made his bruised body ache further because it felt so damn nice, the feeling of Sam on top of him.
“Yeah,” Sam breathed, pressing his face into Bucky’s shoulder. “Shit, Buck. You alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
Bucky smiled softly. “Nope,” he promised. It might be a lie, but, really, Sam hadn’t hurt him— he’d already been hurt. And it wasn’t like Bucky hadn’t begged for this, wanted it so bad. Sam had given it to him because he knew it was what Bucky wanted, knew that Bucky didn’t really give a shit about the pain. He was a good partner, like that. Sometimes— all the time— it felt like he knew Bucky better than Bucky knew himself.
“Gonna need another shower now,” Sam huffed, sounding vaguely cross.
“Ain’t that messy, sweetheart. ‘S fine,” Bucky protested tiredly.
Sam glanced at him, brows raised, like he was saying, seriously? Bucky just shrugged, smiling softly, perhaps a little shyly. Sam just sighed, but then he was climbing off Bucky and the bed. “Fine. But I’m at least gonna clean up a little,” he relented.
Bucky just grinned, all teeth, watching as he retreated back to the bathroom, still naked. God, he was fucking gorgeous. All thick muscles and smooth, dark skin. That ass, Christ. Bucky was a very, very lucky man; he was well aware of the fact, too. Treated Sam like a king, when he could. Gave Sam everything he was able to. Nobody deserved it more.
“C’mere,” Sam said, soon returning with a damp washcloth, his own hand and body now clean. Bucky sighed at the feeling; the washcloth was pleasantly warm on his skin, and soon the unpleasant stickiness on his thigh and abs was gone.
“Thanks,” he mumbled sleepily.
Sam just rolled his eyes, though he was visibly fond, not seeming to actually care. “No, no. No sleep yet. I didn’t make all that food for myself,” he said.
Bucky groaned, but, really, he wasn’t complaining. Yes, he was exhausted and in pain, but he knew he’d feel better once he’d eaten: Super soldier metabolism was no joke. And Sam’s food was always fucking amazing. He didn’t cook all the time, given how busy he was, but it was also something he enjoyed, so he did whenever he could. Other nights, Bucky might whip up something; he’d gotten a lot better under the careful instruction of both Sam and Sarah. Not that he’d ever been a bad cook, but the meal options they’d had when he was young weren’t exactly good, so he had never learned how to cook things that were actually pleasantly tasting— especially by Wilson standards, apparently.
Now, he was confident enough to call himself a decent chef, but Sam was still, of course, worlds better. That’s all to say, he loved Sam’s food, even if it’d taken a while to get used to the spice content.
He stared as Sam started pulling on clean clothes— boxers, sweats, and a loose t-shirt— then smiled softly when Sam caught his eye. Sam smiled back, just as gentle, and took a few steps closer to pull Bucky into a kiss, deep but not dirty.
“Love you,” he said afterwards, breaking off to press his lips to Bucky’s forehead, looking fond and soft and sweet.
Bucky beamed, unable to help it. “Love you, too, angel,” he promised, finally pushing himself out of bed. He dressed himself quickly, boxers and one of Sam’s t-shirts: it smelled like him, and Bucky was still in that sort of soft, clingy mood where all he wanted was to be wreathed in Sam, in his scent and arms and voice. He’d long ago gotten past the embarrassment of those feelings. Sam loved him, and he loved Sam, so there was nothing to be ashamed of— besides, Sam had already seen him way more pathetic.
“You know you have your own shirts, right?” Sam chuckled, though his voice was fond, not upset.
“‘Course I do, honey,” Bucky shot back, smirking. “I just prefer yours.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “For the record, I’m only allowing this ‘cause we just had sex. Don’t get it twisted.”
“Don’t get it twisted, huh, Sammy?” Bucky teased. “What, you worried I’m gonna realize you’re in love with me?”
“So worried,” Sam deadpanned.
Bucky just laughed. “And here I thought you just wanted me for my body.”
Sam hummed, wearing an expression of thoughtful consideration as he looked Bucky up and down. “Well, it is a pretty great body,” he mused.
“God, just get over here,” Bucky huffed, his hand cupping the back of Sam’s head and pulling him into another kiss, this one long and tender, full of emotion. He tried to put all of his love into it, everything he felt for Sam, to make sure Sam knew that he loved him, knew how much he meant to Bucky. Warmth surged through him, pure adoration, from his lips and chest and spreading outward to the rest of his body, his heart light, his soul lighter. Sam is the most certain place he knows outside of his own body, the best thing he has ever had, and Bucky will make damn sure that he knows it.
From Sam’s expression after they pulled apart, Bucky could tell he’d gotten the message. He looked fond, maybe a little emotional, but also in love— and Bucky was the one who put that look on his face.
“C’mon, baby, dinner,” Sam finally said after a few long moments of gentle, meaningful eye contact, reaching out to intertwine his fingers with Bucky’s.
Bucky squeezed his hand tight, bumping their shoulders together, his heart warm, his body comfortably exhausted, sleepy and sated. He followed Sam out of the room— he usually followed Sam; he’d grown to enjoy it, really— and back into the kitchen, tugged along by the firm grip on his hand and the promise of good food.
Sam switched off the main kitchen lights, considerate as ever of Bucky’s headaches, and turned on a lamp instead. He let go of Bucky’s hand only once he’d made it to the stove, stirring the pasta slowly, taking a deep breath and smiling at the sharp, appetizing scents that greeted him. Bucky took that as his opportunity to wrap his arm around Sam’s waist and press himself against his broad back, hugging him tight and nuzzling into his neck, wishing he had the prosthetic just so he could hold him even tighter.
“Buck,” Sam said fondly, tipping his head back to meet Bucky in a chaste kiss.
Bucky couldn’t help the smile curling around his face, snuggling into Sam’s warmth and the firmness of his muscle, all the pleasant feelings and sensations currently enveloping him: the warmth of Sam’s skin, the steady rise and fall of his back, the smell of the food. He was still slowly stirring it, and Bucky knew it didn’t require that much attention, which meant that Sam was enjoying this all just as much as Bucky was, just looking for an excuse to keep it going. This was made especially evident by the way he melted back into Bucky’s chest, sighing, when he finally set the spoon down.
“So fuckin’ sweet, baby,” he mumbled, pressing his back further against Bucky, raising a hand up to cup Bucky’s cheek. “God, I love you.”
And it was clear, just from those few words, that he was feeling just as soft, almost fragile, as Bucky was. Normally, he’d lightly tease Bucky for being so clingy, not call him sweet like this. Sure, he complimented Bucky pretty often, obviously— loved to see how flustered it got him, apparently— but this was different. This was softer. This was the result of good, passionate, meaningful sex. Of making love. And, well, Bucky must’ve done a damn good job if he’d gotten this reaction out of Sam.
He really was a lucky man. Here he was, in the kitchen of the apartment he shared with his beautiful, kind, angel of a boyfriend, wrapped around him and buried in his skin, nuzzling into the hand holding his face. Because he could have this— this was his. God, and wasn’t that a thought?
Sam had never actually turned off the record player, so Otis Redding was crooning from the living room, echoing through the kitchen. He could hear Sam humming along, murmuring the words under his breath, and Bucky smiled, fond, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw.
“I love you,” Bucky said.
Sam just raised Bucky’s hand to his face, brushing his lips gently against his knuckles. “Oh, I need your warm, loving arms to hold me tight,” he murmured along to the vinyl, his voice low and intimate, but audibly smiling.
Bucky kissed him again on the jaw, gently moving his hand from Sam’s grip to wrap back around his torso, squeezing him. Slowly, he trailed his mouth down, from Sam’s jaw to the side of his throat, pressing chaste kisses to the skin there, swaying a little to the steady music. Sam swayed along with him, his eyes fluttering shut, as he sang, his voice just barely audible, “I need your, I need your tender lips to hold me. Tell me when I’m lyin’, baby, baby.”
As the song faded out, Bucky sighed, pressing himself even closer, if that was possible. He was exhausted and in pain, but he wouldn't trade this moment for the world. Just the two of them, safe and warm, wrapped in each other. A new song began, and Sam reached for the stove again, but Bucky gently squeezed him.
“A few more minutes. Please?” he mumbled, voice muffled by Sam’s shoulder.
Sam relaxed back into him, and Bucky knew he was smiling. “Yeah, baby. Long as you feel okay, we ain’t in a rush,” he whispered. He hummed as a new song started up and then began to sing, “I’m, I’m so in love with you,” and, right then, sleepy and sated and with Sam in his arms, Bucky was at peace.