Chapter Text
They walk back to the plane in a silence so thick Bucky’s sure he could cut it with the knife strapped to the outside of his thigh.
It’s just – he can’t seem to get his breathing under control. He can hear his damn therapist’s voice in his head telling him to breathe in for four, hold for seven, breathe out for eight as if that’s going to do him any damn bit of good when all he wants to do is good back and strangle that smug look off John Walker’s face. I’m not trying to be Steve, he’d said, as if that could make this situation even the slightest bit better. As if he had the fucking right to invoke Steve’s name, Steve’s legacy. And it’s – he’s –
Bucky still can’t fucking understand why Sam, of all people, would give up the shield like that. Wasn’t he supposed to be Steve’s best friend? Shouldn’t he know what it meant to Steve to leave that legacy behind, to trust it to Sam’s hands? And then to see it in the hands of that – that – fuck, Bucky doesn’t even have the words to describe it. Doesn’t have the words necessary to tell Sam exactly how colossal his fuck-up is, or how much he’s shattered Steve and Bucky’s trust.
By the time they make it back to the plane, Bucky feels like he’s going to crawl out of his own skin. Emotions rumble just beneath the surface like a volcano about to erupt. He’s – he can’t tell which one is stronger, which one is winning. It’s all mixed in together – shame and anger and guilt and fear and disappointment all warring for control, and Bucky is so far from being in control right now. It’s – shit, he can still feel the adrenaline coursing through him even though the fight is long since over, can still feel the way it makes him want to move, to fight, to – his hands are shaking even when he clenches them into fists and he can’t breathe, he –
Sam mutters a curse – the first words he’s spoken in more than half an hour – and kicks a crate as he walks onto the plane. The fraying edges of Bucky’s nerves snap.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Bucky demands.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam replies coolly.
“Like hell you don’t.” The look on Sam’s face is a warning that Bucky ignores in favor of marching across the plane and getting in his face. “Why’d you give up the shield, Sam?”
“We’re not going this right now.” Sam turns away from Bucky and addresses Torres instead. “How long ‘til we’re in the air?”
“Half an hour at least,” Torres says with a grimace. “Walker apparently gets priority clearance for departure. I was just going to duck into town and get some food.” He looks between the two of them with this little wrinkle between his eyes, as if he’s suddenly unsure about leaving them unsupervised. “You two gonna be okay here?”
“‘Course,” Sam lies easily. “We’ll wait right here for you.”
Nice of him to make the decision for me, Bucky thinks as he takes his seat. He doesn’t bother to strap in, since they’re not leaving yet. Instead, he watches as Torres and Sam converse on the other side of the plane before Torres takes off. If he really wanted to, he could stretch his hearing to listen in, but he’s – he doesn’t know what he wants right now. Still feels like he can’t breathe, like the adrenaline is choking him from the inside, body thrumming with barely-suppressed energy and tension. Fuck, it’s like he can hear his own blood pumping under his skin with how hard his heart is beating right now, and it’s – he clenches his fists on his knees but even that’s not enough to hide the way they’re shaking.
Once Torres is gone, Sam takes the seat across from Bucky. He doesn’t even last a minute, though, before he’s up and pacing the length of the plane. The sound of his footsteps grates against Bucky’s nerves, and he opens his mouth before he can think twice.
“Sit down,” he snaps.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” comes Sam’s automatic reply, in a tone just as bitchy as Bucky’s.
“Sam,” Bucky says in what he thinks is a sufficiently warning tone.
Sam pauses his pacing. Throws his hands in the air. “Why do you even care?” he demands. “This isn’t your mission! I didn’t even want you to come in the first place.”
Bucky knows that. Knows that he and Sam aren’t friends, despite everything they’ve been through together. But it still stings, hearing Sam’s words. And it’s – honestly, he doesn’t even know why he bullied his way onto this flight, except that Sam was Steve’s best friend and Bucky is loyal to a fault. What would Steve say if he knew how little Bucky has had Sam’s back lately?
Maybe if you were around, Sam wouldn’t have given up the shield, an insidious voice whispers in Bucky’s mind.
“Why’d you give up the shield?” Bucky asks again instead of answering Sam’s question.
“Stop asking that,” Sam growls. “It’s none of your damn business.”
“Of course it’s my business!” Bucky yells, leaping to his feet. “I nearly died fighting for that shield. I went through hell and back to make sure that shield meant something. And you threw it all away.”
“I know what you went through,” Sam says through gritted teeth. He advances forward, prowling toward Bucky with fury writ across his face. “Does that give you the right to dictate what I do with my life?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, I –” But Bucky doesn’t know what, exactly, he’s saying. Of course he knows that he doesn’t have the right to dictate Sam’s life. That’s not what he’s trying to do. Right? He’s just –
“I did what I thought was right.” Sam’s right there, suddenly, right in front of Bucky. Crowding him back against the wall of the plane, barely a few inches of space between their chests. “I made the decision. It was mine to make, not yours.”
“It was Steve’s decision!” Bucky exclaims, trying to regain some semblance of control. But it’s – fuck, Sam is so close to him, close enough for Bucky to feel the heat emanating from his body, and it’s – he can’t remember the last time someone stood this close to him outside of a fight. Can’t remember the last time someone touched him the way Sam has done all day – casually, as if Bucky is a person, not a killing machine, and he –
“Bullshit! No one gets to make decisions for me except me. Steve might’ve been my best friend, but that doesn’t give him – or you – the right to tell me what to do with my life.”
“You never should’ve given it up!” Bucky says, a bit desperate now. He’s – he knows it’s not a response to what Sam just said, knows it’s not quite right, but he’s – Sam is so close to him, and he’s – he can’t think, he wants –
“How many times are we going to go in circles on this?” Sam throws his hands in the air. He’s still so close. Bucky can see his nostrils flare on each ragged inhale. Can see the fury in his dark brown eyes. Fuck, the heat emanating from him is intense, and Bucky wants – he’s always cold, can still feel the chill of cryostasis in his bones, and he wants –
“As many times as it takes for you to admit that you were wrong.” He tries to sound firm. Tries to sound like he’s still following the threads of this argument. Tries to sound angry instead of desperate. Fuck, he is angry, he’s goddamn furious about this entire situation, but it’s – Sam is so close, and it feels like it’s frying some of Bucky’s higher brain function. Because the only thing he can think about is that little sliver of distance between them and what it might feel like if Sam leaned in. His eyes flick, unbidden, down to Sam’s lips, and he –
“You don’t get to decide that!” Sam yells. And then he – he slams one of his hands down on the wall next to Bucky’s head. The motion forces him to lean forward, brings him squarely into Bucky’s personal space, and it’s – Bucky’s closed in, crowded against the wall, and he –
His heart is beating so fast and it has nothing to do with the argument. Nothing at all to do with the way he’s fucking furious, because right now he can’t even remember why. The world narrows until it’s just this, just the press of Sam’s chest against his, just the closeness of their faces and the way they’re breathing to same air and it’s – he looks down at Sam’s lips again, mere inches from his own, and he –
When he looks back on this moment, later, he won’t be able to remember for certain which one of them moved first. Which one of them closed that final bit of distance between their lips. It’s just – one moment they’re arguing and the next moment Bucky can taste him, and he –
Sam kisses like he fights – hard and unyielding, a bruising force against Bucky’s mouth, as if all the fury of their argument is being translated into this one touch. It should be uncomfortable, Bucky thinks – would be uncomfortable with anyone else, because there’s no finesse to it, just a mashing of lips. But it feels so goddamn right that Bucky forgets, just for a moment, that he was even angry in the first place.
Sam is the first to break the kiss. He pulls his head back and gasps for breath, lips glistening in the low light of the plane. And it’s – it takes all of Bucky’s considerable self-control to stop himself from chasing Sam’s lips. But he can’t, this isn’t – Bucky is all too aware of the line they’ve just crossed. Of the potential repercussions. But, oh, he can’t make himself care. Not when he can still taste Sam’s lips, feel that phantom press against his skin. Not when he can still feel the heat of Sam’s body. It’s – Bucky can’t remember the last time he wanted something – someone – this badly.
“This is a terrible idea,” Sam murmurs, eyes dark with some unknown emotion.
“Horrible idea,” Bucky agrees, breathless.
And then they’re kissing again, and Bucky can’t breathe for an entirely different reason.
Maybe it’s because Bucky hasn’t kissed someone since the 1940s, but he’s fairly certain he could spend the rest of his life like this and not even notice the passage of time. Sam softens the kiss this time, lips gliding smoothly against Bucky’s, tongue teasing him as it explores Bucky’s mouth. Bucky doesn’t exactly have a lot of experience to judge by, but Sam’s a damn good kisser.
“We should stop,” Sam pants the next time he draws back. But his hands somehow end up on Bucky’s waist, a rough grip that makes his knees weak and makes an unfamiliar warmth burn in his stomach.
“Probably,” Bucky agrees, because it’s the logical thing to say. He knows it and Sam knows it and all they need to do is just – stop. It might be awkward for a bit, but they can just pretend it never happened and go on bickering with each other until this mission is done. That’s what should happen.
But if Bucky’s being honest with himself, it’s not what he wants to happen.
The last few years – minus his time spent not existing – have not exactly been conducive to an active sex life. Being on the run from the government, undergoing complex treatments for literal brainwashing and PTSD, and trying to acclimate to civilian life without the only person left from his childhood have sapped what energy he might’ve, theoretically, invested into pursuing relationships. And it’s – he knows what Raynor would say. Hell, he knows what the goddamn internet says about PTSD and libido. But it hasn’t really mattered to him all that much, even as he’s tried to scrape together the pieces of his life over these last few months.
Now, though –
For the first time in literal decades, Bucky’s cock is hard.
He thinks that, if the circumstances were different, he might have some opinions about that. About regaining control of his body and other various psychological things he’s sure Raynor would love to discuss at length, if Bucky would ever consider divulging to her. Right now, though, Bucky’s just a little fucking distracted by the way Sam’s tongue flicks against his lips and the familiar-yet-unfamiliar feeling of arousal coursing through his veins.
“Oh, fuck,” Bucky gasps. He’s – he can’t – he lets his head fall back against the wall as he pants, eyes closed, taking a moment to just breathe. There’s no way Sam doesn’t know, not when Bucky’s erection is a steel bar poking into Sam’s thigh.
“Yeah,” Sam agrees, voice a bit hoarse.
There’s a brief pause, a moment of weighted silence, but then Sam’s mouth is on him again. This time he’s trailing open-mouthed kisses along Bucky’s jaw, just the barest nip of teeth making Bucky squirm. He leans his head to the side to give Sam more room, heart thundering at the sensations.
“This isn’t a thing,” Sam murmurs against Bucky’s skin, just before he presses a kiss to Bucky’s neck.
“Definitely not.” Bucky has to bite down on his lip, then, to stop himself from making an embarrassing nose when Sam nips the edge of his jaw. That brief flash of teeth makes his cock twitch in his pants, makes him arch against Sam, and he –
Sam goes still against him.
Fuck, Bucky thinks, panic pulling him out of the moment. He’s – he’s fucking grinding against Sam, what the fuck is he doing, this isn’t – they’re not – Sam’s going to pull away now and Bucky’s never going to be able to live with himself, and he –
In one smooth motion, Sam kicks Bucky’s feet apart and presses his thigh into the gap he creates, exactly where Bucky needs him the most. And it’s – Bucky swears his eyes nearly roll back into his head because that was fucking hot. Shit, and now Sam’s thigh is in the perfect position for Bucky to rut against, urgency building once more.
“This is just casual,” Sam says, though he sounds a bit strangled.
Bucky can’t be bothered to agree, because he’s a bit fucking busy, thank you very much. Fuck, it’s been so long since his body has felt like this, felt this good, and he – he can’t make himself stop. Doesn’t want to stop. The pressure is goddamn perfect and each thrust of his hips drives a breathless moan from his lips.
“Fuck,” Sam swears.
And then they’re kissing again. Bucky can feel Sam’s matching hardness against his thigh as they find a rhythm, somehow in sync with this unlike everything else they’ve tried to do today. The kissing devolves into open-mouthed panting as the two of them rock against each other, more frantic with every passing moment. Bucky can already feel the wetness in his boxers – he’s fucking leaking so much already and they’ve barely even touched each other, barely done anything more than kiss.
There’s a tiny, rational part of his mind that tries to warn him that there’s no coming back from this, whether or not they call it casual, but the rest of his mind – the part of his mind drunk on pleasure – can’t summon up enough energy to care.
Fuck, he’s almost there, he’s so close, he’s – Sam bites down on his bottom lip and Bucky rockets over the edge. Hips jerking, knees weak, mouth open on a silent yell, Bucky comes in his goddamn jeans like a teenager.
It feels like it takes ages for Bucky’s brain to restart. He’s dimly aware of Sam grinding against him for a few moments longer before he, too, grows still. Dimly aware of the hands on his hips tightening, just for a moment, and then sliding away as Sam pulls back and puts some distance between the two of them. Dimly aware of how weak his knees feel, as if he’s going to sink right down to the floor and never move again.
And it’s – Bucky knows this isn’t a thing. They’re just – worked up, is all. It just happened in the heat of the moment and now it’s over and they’re never going to talk about it or acknowledge it ever again. Except – Bucky maybe misses the heat of Sam’s body the moment he pulls away.
That’s a thought he’s not going to examine too closely, though.
“Fuck,” Sam mutters again, with a much different inflection this time. There’s a heart-stopping moment where Bucky thinks this is it, I’ve ruined everything, but then Sam continues, “I don’t have clean boxers in my go bag.”
For a moment there’s nothing but silence. And then –
Bucky starts to laugh. It’s the kind of laughter he hasn’t experienced in a horribly long time – the kind that shakes him from head to toe, makes him gasp for air, makes him clutch at his stomach and double over. It’s – there’s something so ridiculous about the way Sam is standing there, scowling, and he can’t help it. Christ, the entire situation is ridiculous – two grown men who just came in their pants like goddamn teenagers, neither one of them with clean boxers to change into because they’re on an entirely different continent, and it’s –
“Fuck,” Bucky gasps in between breathless laughter. “I don’t even have a go bag.” How could he, when he hadn’t even known that he’d be getting on a plane today?
And then Sam’s laughing, too, and for one bright, shining moment everything feels like it’s going to be alright.
“Alright, Walker’s on the move,” Torres says as he walks back onto the plane. He pauses in the doorway for a moment – tilts his head as he takes in the two of them, both doubled over with laughter. Then he shakes his head, as if he’s already decided it isn’t worth asking about. “Taking off in five.”
That brief reminder of their mission sobers them both. Bucky makes eye contact with Sam for a long moment – you did this, he thinks, anger once more simmering beneath the surface – but then he looks away. Sits down in the middle of the plane and puts his head in his hands as Torres prepares for takeoff.
It was a one-time thing. Just the two of them blowing off steam, caught up in the moment and the storm of their emotions. It has to be. Because Bucky is still keeping secrets, and he damn well knows that Sam is going to be pissed when he finds out about Isaiah.