Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It all starts off as an accident.

Well. Sam’s mostly sure that Bucky doesn’t get himself injured on purpose, but he probably can’t completely write off the possibility.

“Robots are my least favorite of the Big Three,” Bucky informs him in a voice that’s far too steady for the alarming amount of blood dripping down his right arm.

“Ah, see,” Sam says, “I told you you’d come around to my way of thinking.” He says this because their banter is easier, familiar, and he doesn’t think Bucky would appreciate him voicing the oh shit what the hell oh shit that’s playing on a loop in his head. But he tries to hover over Bucky to get a better look at the wound. Grimaces at the amount of blood, because a normal person probably would’ve passed out by now. “Let me take a look at it.”

“It’s fine.” Bucky closes his eyes, exhales a shaky breath. Tips his head back against the wall of the plane like he’s not going to be moving for a while.”

“Twenty minutes ‘til take off,” Torres informs them, passing through with a clipboard in his hands. “Oh, damn, that looks bad. You got any blood left in there, Bucky?”

“Enough.” Bucky doesn’t open his eyes. “I’ll be fine, it’ll be healed by the end of the day.”

“Looks painful, though,” Sam says. He shifts, sits down in the seat next to Bucky’s. “Will you let me look at it?” he tries again. “Clean it up a bit?”

“Not worth the bother,” Bucky mutters. His eyes open, little slits of blue as he frowns at Sam like Sam is the one being annoying right now. “Can’t get infected.”

“So?” Sam sure is tired of these damn super soldiers and their masochism. Is it like some kind of genetic inheritance? Some trait embedded in the serum? “Just because it’s going to heal anyways doesn’t mean you shouldn’t at least take care of it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes at Sam’s observation. Shrugs his metal shoulder like he couldn’t care less, and Sam briefly contemplates adding strangulation to Bucky’s running list of injuries.

“It’s fine,” Bucky insists. But it’s a half-hearted insistence, because the longer they sit here the paler he gets. He’s got his eyes closed again, head tipped back like the room is spinning, and his metal hand is clenching his seat strap so tightly that Sam can actually hear the metal plates in his arm whirring. In protest, most likely.

“Torres,” Sam calls over the noise of the plane, “we’re holding off departure until the White Wolf over here lets me look at his shoulder.”

“Copy, Captain!” Torres calls back.

Bucky glares at him. It’s a good glare, full of all kinds of loathing and promises of murderous retribution. It’s the kind of glare that, once upon a time, might’ve actually frightened Sam – but that was years ago, before he really knew Bucky Barnes. Except now it’s the kind of glare that doesn’t really work on Sam anymore, not after the actual attempts at murder and all the reconciliation they’ve done since then. And also because he’s fully aware that Bucky is, in fact, a giant softie at heart, and not super keen on violence these days – robots with claws notwithstanding.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” Bucky tells him flatly.

“Yep.” Sam just grins at him, because he already knows he’s won this one. Torres won’t take orders from Bucky if they’re not in the field, and Bucky has no real authority over the actual Air Force pilots flying them in and out on their missions. “That’s me,” he continues, just to push Bucky’s buttons, “a professional pain in the ass. But you can call me Captain America.”

“I’ll call you something else,” Bucky mutters. But then he sighs in defeat. “Fine, asshole. Patch me up. I want to go home.”

Sam ignores the asshole comment, because he’s nice like that, and also because Bucky looks like he really wants to be unconscious right now. So instead he leans in closer, finally gets to lift away the tattered remains of Bucky’s sleeve. The gash actually looks worse up close, and Sam’s not really sure how Bucky’s even still functioning. It’s a deep, jagged line cut through the flesh, and – Christ, Sam really hates fighting robots.

Why the fuck do robots get to have claws, Sam thinks. It’s not fair, damn it.

“How does it feel?” he asks as he roots around for his med kit.

“Fine,” is Bucky’s reply, and it’s steady enough to be almost convincing. Except there’s a pinched look on his face that Sam’s learned to read as hurts more than I’ll ever admit to you, a look he recognizes from a thousand other vets and soldiers he’s met. A look he recognizes from Steve, from Nat, hell, even from Tony and Rhodes.

He chooses not to dignify it with a response. Hey, he’s got enough tact to know when not to poke the bear that is actually a 200-something-pound former assassin with a staring problem. Instead, he retrieves his med kit from under his seat and sets to the task of cutting away the offending bits of Bucky’s sleeve. The shirt might be a bit beyond saving, in Sam’s professional opinion.

With the wound out in the open, Sam can start cleaning it. There’s a lot of blood that’s dripped down Bucky’s arm, painting his skin in streaks of red that dull as they dry. Sam soaks some clean rags in antiseptic and tries to wipe it off as best he can. It’d be better if they were anywhere else but on a plane – it’s not like there’s a sink he can stick Bucky’s arm under to wash the blood away – so he’s making do with what he has.

Bucky is silent while he works, tense and unmoving under Sam’s careful ministrations. He flinches the first time Sam gets too close to the gash itself – makes a low, pained sound in the back of his throat. Sam bites back the urge to tell him I told you so, because he doesn’t actually have a death wish.

It takes a few minutes to get most of the blood off, but it already looks better by the time Sam’s satisfied. Not as angry and red, not as deep. And damn, he knows the serum makes Bucky heal fast – hell, he’s seen it firsthand with Steve more times than he can count – but it’ll never stop being impressive to him, the way someone’s body can knit itself back together so smoothly, so quickly.

“Looks deep,” Sam tells him as he’s switching gears, disposing of the blood-soaked cloths. “But I think you’ll live.”

Bucky snorts, but it’s weak.

“It’ll probably hurt when I dress it.” Sam leans back, giving him space for a second. “I’m not going to bother stitching it when you’re healing already, but I’m at least going to dress it so you’re not bleeding out in the open.”

“Whatever you say, doc,” Bucky mumbles.

Sam takes a second to just look at Bucky, now that the dried blood is gone. To look at the way he’s still got his head tipped back against the plane, breathing shallow. The way he looks like he’s trying very hard not to move his head. Sam knows a super soldier can take more than this and not go down. Hell, he’s seen Steve recover from shattered ribs in a matter of days and come out no worse for wear. But blood loss can get to anyone, and it seems like it’s getting to Bucky.

“Buck,” he says, softer. “You doin’ okay?”

“Yeah.” Bucky swallows. “M’fine, just a little…” He waves his left hand in a vague gesture. “Lightheaded.”

“Want me to get you a juice box?” Sam teases to cover his worry. It’s not – well, it’s probably not a legitimate worry. Bucky’s recovered from worse, after all. But Sam’s still a medic at heart, and he takes care of the people on his team, damn it. Even if it’s a silly concern – made unnecessary by the super soldier serum in Bucky’s veins – Sam’s still going to feel it.

Bucky’s lips tilt up at the corners. “You waitin’ on me, now?” he drawls in a soft Brooklyn accent.

“Nah,” Sam replies. Tries to clear his throat, because his mouth is suddenly very dry. “You’d be even more insufferable if I did that.”

“You tellin’ me I ain’t already?” Bucky flashes a lazy smile at him, head lolling to the side. “Damn, and I was trying so hard.”

“Very funny.” Sam takes a breath, tries to cover the way his heart rate’s suddenly picked up. “Alright, I’m going to start the dressing now. I’m gonna be as gentle as I can be, okay?”

“’Kay.” Bucky breathes. He closes his eyes again.

Sam is as gentle as he can possibly be. He puts one hand on the back of Bucky’s shoulder to steady him, keep him in one place, as he dabs at the wound with a cotton ball soaked in antiseptic. Bucky flinches at the first press of it, but then holds himself as still as he can. But it’s – it takes Sam a minute to realize, because he’s focused on the first-aid he’s giving, but Bucky is leaning toward him. Leaning into the hand on his shoulder, to the brush of Sam’s fingertips on his arm.

Abruptly, Sam wonders how many people have put a friendly hand on Bucky in the last ninety-odd years. How many times did touch like this mean pain and suffering, instead of someone trying to take care of him? And it makes his heart fucking ache, the thought of how much devastation and roughness Bucky’s been through, denied this kind of casual, compassionate touch that Sam doesn’t even think twice about offering.

Experimentally, he pulls his hand back. Bucky makes this low whining noise that makes Sam put his hand back immediately. And then he watches the way Bucky leans into it, eyelids fluttering like he’s almost falling asleep like this. Doesn’t even seem conscious of it, like he’s gone somewhere else in his head while Sam’s patching him up. And it’s – Sam doesn’t know what to think, doesn’t know what to feel. Because this is Bucky, and he’s showing such terrifying vulnerability, and Sam –

Sam can’t help but wonder if Bucky still expects pain every time someone touches him.

With that thought, of course, comes the question: is that why Bucky didn’t want Sam to clean up the wound?

It’s difficult to focus after these painful realizations. He dresses the cut as quickly and efficiently as he can. Smooths down the edges of the bandage to make it stick. Bucky looks like he’s seconds away from sleep, swaying toward Sam with his eyes closed and his face gone slack. And Sam – he should move, but he doesn’t want to. There’s a part of him – a part that’s very much winning right now – that wants to sit here with his hands so gentle on Bucky’s arm until the guy manages to get a couple hours of rest.

“Sam,” Bucky mumbles, though he’s clearly having trouble rousing himself. Picks his head up a little, like he’s going to wake up, but he doesn’t even manage to open his eyes. “Am I good? All patched up?” His voice sounds a little vague, floaty, like he’s having trouble stringing his words together.

“Yeah, Buck.” Sam’s smile is a soft, secret thing – Bucky’s not nearly conscious enough to see it, let alone even open his eyes. “You’re all good. Just try not to move it too much for a few hours.”

“Sure thing, doc.” Bucky yawns, and his head lolls to the side again, toward Sam.

Sam becomes acutely aware that he still, in fact, has his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, and that Bucky’s leaning toward it like he can’t get enough of the contact. He wants to stay – wants to be helpful, wants to – fuck, he doesn’t even know what he wants. Indecisiveness is tearing through him, because this feels like crossing a line when he doesn’t know what’s on the other side.

“How’s it healing?” he whispers. Tries to cover the way it feels like his heart is slamming in his chest. Doesn’t know why he feels like this, all of a sudden, but it’s – well, disconcerting is probably an understatement.

And Bucky does manage to open his eyes for a brief second, just long enough for Sam to see how hazy those startlingly blue eyes look. “S’okay,” he mumbles, words slurring together. “Just need… sleep.”

“Sleep, Buck,” Sam murmurs. “I’m right here.” Because he’s not leaving, he’s decided. Can’t possibly pull himself away from this, this vulnerability and softness he’s never gotten to see before in Bucky. He’ll deal with the aftermath later, whatever it might be, but this –

Bucky sighs, like all the tension has just melted out of him at Sam’s words. He slumps to the side, head coming to rest on Sam’s shoulder, and just like that he’s out like a light.

Oh, fuck. Sam doesn’t move. Hardly dares to breathe. Sam knows an awful lot about the trauma in Bucky’s head, even without Bucky opening up to him, thanks to the two years he spent with Steve, hunting and tracking Hydra bases. Has seen countless videos of the mind wiping procedure, read user manuals, combed through fucking research papers detailing methods used to break him down into the perfectly moldable weapon.

So he knows it was an incredibly slow unveiling, the reveal of this person that Bucky is now. He knows that getting here was a very long road, one that hasn’t been easy to travel. And he knows, more than anything else, that it goddamn means something for Bucky to fall asleep on his shoulder, so relaxed that he’s not even waking up at the press of another body against his, or the slight jostling of the plane taking off.

There’s trust between them now, slowly crowding out their previous animosity. Sam trusts Bucky with his life – trusts him to watch his back in the field and follow orders and back him up on the world stage with everyone’s eyes on the new Captain America and his sidekick. This, more than anything else, is a confirmation that Bucky trusts him, too. That after everything they’ve been through together, whatever dislike they’d had for each other no longer matters.

Sam shushes Torres when the man sticks his head back there to see how it’s going. Just gives him a thumbs up and goes back to hoping that Bucky stays asleep long enough to get some of his strength back. They’ve got a bit of a ride ahead of them – not terrible, just a couple hours, but Sam’s pretty sure that Bucky doesn’t sleep well under the best of circumstances, and he’s determined to let him sleep as long as he can.

Bucky mumbles a little bit when the plane hits a patch of turbulence, and his head starts to come up. Sam reaches up with his free hand, the one not currently trapped between them, and – Christ, he doesn’t know why he’s doing this, why he’s taking this liberty, but he can’t make himself stop – cups the side of Bucky’s face, guides his head back down onto Sam’s shoulder. Bucky lets out a little contented sigh, sinks down deeper against Sam’s shoulder, until he’s held up almost entirely by Sam’s side and the straps of his seat.

It’s… not a bad way to spend the ride. It’s just a couple hours back to U.S. territory, and Bucky’s weight is a comforting presence against his side. Sam is unwillingly forced to wonder when the last time was that he had someone close like this, sharing space and trust and something akin to intimacy? It’s an uncomfortable thought, and one he doesn’t particularly want to dwell on. Instead, he settles back against the wall of the plane, closes his eyes, and focuses on keeping his breathing steady. On the gentle pressure of a partner at his side, on the foundation of trust they’re building.

He thinks he drifts a little bit, because he’s startled by the bump of the plane landing. Bucky groans, softly, eyes fluttering as he picks his head up.

“Ugh, my neck.” He sounds annoyed – but his voice is also steadier than it was before, and he doesn’t look as pale, and Sam’s going to count it as a win even if it might be about to blow up in his face. And then Bucky looks to his right, at Sam, and says, “Oh, shit, did I sleep on you?”

“Yeah.” Sam shrugs. “No big deal. Looked like you needed it.”

Bucky looks at him for a long moment, like he’s not sure if Sam is serious or not. But then he yawns, and stretches like a cat, and he looks – Christ, he actually looks pleased, little spots of pink on his cheek. Looks like he feels better than he did before, too.

“That, uh. Thanks?” His inflection makes it a question, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“Uh, you’re welcome?” he mimics Bucky’s tone, but it’s a gentle teasing. Sam decides to take the risk of nudging Bucky with his elbow, grins at him like they’re the best of friends instead of just former-enemies-turned-maybe-friends. “Come on, let’s get started unpacking.”

Sam stands up and stretches, and then heads off toward where Torres is emerging from the front of the plane, clipboard in hand. He tries to pretend like he can’t feel Bucky’s eyes on him all the way across the plane, or that it makes his heartrate pick up again.

It’s fine. Totally normal. There’s definitely no unusual warmth in Sam’s chest, or spots of pink on his cheeks. Resolutely, he puts it out of his mind and tries to focus on unpacking and debriefing. But the warmth carries him through the rest of the day, long after Bucky’s no longer staring at him.

Chapter Text

Sam doesn’t mean to intrude. He doesn’t, okay, it really is an accident. More of an accident than Bucky getting injured, that’s for damn sure. It’s just, he’s only half awake and not paying attention to the fact that the light is on in the bathroom, and the door is open for shit’s sake. He can’t possibly take the blame for this one, when Bucky isn’t even trying to hide.

It takes approximately four seconds of Sam rubbing his eyes and yawning hard enough to crack his jaw and bleary-eyed confusion for him to realize that Bucky’s standing at the sink, scissors in hand, scowling at the mirror.

“Shit, my bad,” Sam mumbles. Instinctively turns to retreat back down the hall and let Bucky finish whatever he’s up to. But then he registers the distinctly haunted look in Bucky’s eyes, and he adds, “Hey, you okay?”

“I –” Bucky takes a deep breath and falls silent.

Sam takes a moment to take stock of what’s in front of him. The scissors in Bucky’s hand are meant for cutting hair, and he’s – oh, Sam gets it now. Bucky’s been complaining for days that he needs a haircut. That it’s gotten too long in the back, hanging on his neck and bothering him. Sam had just told him yesterday to go get a damn haircut already and stop bitching about it, man, but now he’s thinking he maybe stepped in it a bit.

“Need some help?” he asks.

“I don’t –” Bucky clenches his fist, metal plates whirring softly. “I should be able to do this.”

Sam leans against the doorway, makes his words as casual as he can. “I don’t like that word. Should. I think it puts some awfully high expectations on our shoulders.” Because he knows, oh, he knows how that word can eat you up inside. Knows all the things he should have been able to do when he got home after Riley, all the ways he tormented himself with that word.

“Don’t throw your therapist shit in my face,” Bucky snaps.

It’s a measure of his self-control that Sam doesn’t immediately snap back. That he takes a deep breath, first, and reminds himself that Bucky is still dealing with his trauma, and lashing out is common.

“It’s not my therapist shit,” he says. Takes a step into the room, waits until Bucky looks up to meet his eyes, before he continues. “It’s just me, telling you I get it. I’ve been there.”

The bristling anger dissipates as quickly as it’d come. Bucky lets his shoulders drop. Lets the scissors clatter back onto the sink, discarded between an old-fashioned razor and Sam’s own electric razor. “I couldn’t – I can’t – I don’t like sharp things near my neck. Or my head.”

“Who cut your hair the first time?” Sam still remembers the curtain of hair of the Winter Soldier, the way it’d obscured his face almost as much as the mask.

“I did, I think.” Bucky shrugs. “Don’t remember much of – Bucharest. All a bit of a blur.” He sighs. “And then it was Ayo. You don’t fuck with the Dora. If she wants to cut my hair, I’m going to sit down and shut up and try not to move my head.”

Sam nods, because he definitely got that impression from his brief encounter with Ayo. Also, with literally every other member of the Dora he’s ever met.

“I can cut your hair,” he offers before he can second-guess himself. “I don’t – I’m not sure if you’d be okay with that, but I used to cut some of the guys’ hair back in the service. Steve let me, too, once or twice, when we were too busy for him to bother with it himself. I’m no barber, but I promise not to stab you with the pointy ends.” He goes for teasing, but it comes out more earnest than he means it to.

Bucky hesitates. Turns back to the mirror and puts his hands on the sink. Sam just meets his gaze in the mirror, over Bucky’s shoulder. Can see the conflict in his eyes, the internal battle taking place. And he wonders, briefly, if this will be the true test of whether or not they’ve built sufficient trust between them in the last year of working together.

“I – okay.” Bucky exhales and deliberately unclenches his fist. Picks up the scissors and hands them over, handle first. “Okay, yeah. Let’s just – we’ll make it quick, yeah?”

“You got it,” Sam promises. “C’mon, let’s go down to the kitchen. There’s more light, and you can sit down while I do it.”

He lets Bucky go first, and doesn’t comment on the way Bucky hesitates over the razors before leaving them behind and ducking out of the bathroom.

The kitchen is thankfully empty. It’s still early; Sam doesn’t expect Sarah to be up for at least another hour, the boys another two or three if they’re lucky. They’ve got a two-day sabbatical between missions, and Sam figured it was better to spend their down time with good company and good food. Bucky hadn’t seemed that keen on going back to New York City, either, so it just seemed to make sense at the time. Sam’s glad, though, because he’s not sure how Bucky would’ve dealt with this on his own. Not when he knows the kind of destructive spiral it can lead to. It’s better this way – and Sam really doesn’t mind feeling useful.

Sam pulls out a chair from the dining room table and sets it in the middle of the kitchen, right under the big overhead light. Bucky sits down with the air of someone going to their death. He clutches the sides of the chair, knuckles turning white on his right hand. Closes his eyes, almost like he’s determined not to look at Sam.

“Hey,” Sam says, voice as soft and gentle as he can make it. “I’m going to touch your hair now, okay? No scissors yet, they’re on the counter.”

He waits for Bucky to nod before he starts. Because Sam’s maybe got a theory, after that day on the plane. After the way Bucky relaxed into his touch like it was a thing he was missing. And Bucky wouldn’t be the first vet he’s seen who just wants someone to touch them and be gentle with them. Most of them don’t know how to ask for it, let alone how to handle it when it’s given to them. Bucky’s so on edge at the thought of what Sam’s about to do, though, and Sam thinks it’ll help him handle the haircut better. And, really, he’s not going to lie – to himself, at least – he really wants to test his theory in a way that won’t result in Bucky trying to stab him.

Sam lifts one hand to start with and combs it through the longer strands on the top of Bucky’s head. Feels the way Bucky shudders below his hand, sees the way his shoulders drop a little. So he does it again, running his fingers through the silky strands. Tucks a few strands behind Bucky’s ear, lets his thumb trace over the curve of his ear.

Bucky whimpers. Sam’s not even sure he’s conscious of the noise, or the way he’s sinking lower and lower into the chair under Sam’s gentle ministrations. But it’s definitely having the desired effect. He runs his fingers through the shorter strands at the nape of his neck, disentangling them. Moves his hand down a little, to Bucky’s neck. Bucky tenses – just the slightest bit – but then Sam starts massaging, so lightly and carefully, and Bucky lets out a groan as his head slumps forward.

It’s – Sam’s feeling a little emotional about it, if he’s being honest with himself. He thought it was just going to be about testing a theory – but Bucky’s basically giving him free access to one of the most sensitive and vulnerable parts of his body with very little hesitation. Sam can’t help remembering that afternoon on the plane, patching up Bucky’s wound, with Bucky relaxing so deeply he actually fell asleep on Sam. This is – something. Something filled with intimacy and trust and the kind of companionship that Sam hasn’t had in more years than he’s willing to count right now.

And it’s also more than they’ve touched in the last year combined. Sam’s not sure how he got into this situation – how Bucky let his guard down enough to let this even happen, or how Sam didn’t get chewed out for even offering in the first place. But it’s – it’s nice. It’s good, even, working his fingers through the slightly scruffy strands of Bucky’s silky smooth hair. It’s nice in a way he hasn’t had since –

He doesn’t want to think about that. So instead he turns his attention back to the slowly-melting super soldier in the chair in front of him.

“Better?” he murmurs, thumb absently caressing the back of Bucky’s neck. He gets a soft, dreamy mhmm as an answer and can’t help smiling at it. “I’m gonna cut your hair now, Buck. Gonna be just as gentle as this, okay?”

The first sound of the scissors makes Bucky flinch. But Sam just pauses – and then combs a hand through his hair again – and Bucky melts under the touch. Sam laughs. Has to tug Bucky’s head back up a little just so he can cut his hair straight. Takes the opportunity to run his hands through Bucky’s hair again, just for himself this time, because it’s so soft and he likes the length of it and it’ll be a shame to cut it all off. Briefly considers what it might be like to tug on it – what kind of noises Bucky might make then, what kind of reaction Sam might get – but he bites his lip until the warmth in his stomach disappears. Sam hasn’t had a partner in ages, is all, it’s perfectly normal for him to have these intrusive thoughts.

Right?

Besides, this is a vulnerable moment, and Sam’s a bit ashamed of himself, even if Bucky can’t hear his thoughts. Even if he wanted to turn this into something else – which he doesn’t, he’s never even thought about Bucky like that before – this isn’t the time. Not right now, in the middle of one of the single most vulnerable things Sam’s seen Bucky do since he came back from dead a second time. Not when he doesn’t even know what Bucky wants.

It doesn’t take long after that for him to finish Bucky’s hair. It was getting longer, sure, but there still wasn’t much length to cut, just a bit of trimming to do. Still, he can’t help but brush his hands through it one last time before he pulls back.

“Alright, Buck,” he whispers. And he’s not sure why he’s whispering, really, but he kind of doesn’t want to disturb whatever peace Bucky’s managed to glean from this. “All done here.”

Bucky doesn’t move right away. His head nods forward, chin down to his chest. Sam wishes he could see what Bucky’s face is doing right now. Wonders how slack it’s gone, if his eyes are closed, how peaceful he might look. Wants to – he wants to touch more, to brush out Bucky’s newly shortened hair and put a hand on his shoulder and tilt his chin up and –

Not kiss him. Definitely not. Sam is just – it’s been a long time since he’s had a partner, in any sense of the word, and he’s maybe just feeling the effects of a lack of intimacy in his life. That’s all. That’s really, definitely, all it is. He takes a step back before he can do something stupid, like card his fingers through the newly-shortened strands again. Christ, he wants to, though. Wants to cup Bucky’s cheek in his palm and kiss him as softly and tenderly as he’s making Sam feel right now.

“Thanks,” Bucky mumbles, bringing Sam out of his extraordinarily inappropriate daydream. His voice is soft, a bit fuzzy, almost like he’s just waking up from sleep. “’Preciate it.”

“No problem,” Sam says, mouth gone dry. He just – Christ, he wants it so badly, all of a sudden. Misses the kind of casual intimacy he last had with Riley. And it’s – he doesn’t feel lonely, most days, not with Sarah and the boys around, and Bucky and Torres on missions with him. But he misses the feeling of someone physically close to him, misses the light touches and the hugs and the lying side-by-side. Misses it more than he’d realized, and it’s all hitting him like a sack of bricks right now.

“Mmm.” Buck tips his head back until he’s looking up at Sam with lidded eyes. Looks a bit dazed, like he’s still not fully back in his head, and Sam can’t breathe with how beautiful he looks like this, relaxed and trusting, a tiny smile tilting up the corners of his lips. “How do I look?”

“As annoying as usual,” Sam replies on autopilot. He needs to get out of the kitchen, needs to go somewhere else. Somewhere he can think – or not think – about Bucky’s stupid hair and his own loneliness in peace. “I’m gonna go back to sleep, man. Enjoy your new hair.”

He doesn’t even wait for Bucky to respond. Just turns on his heel and flees the kitchen – though he can’t flee from the newfound gaping loneliness in his chest.

Chapter Text

“Well, shit.”

Sam’s just finished bashing in the faces of the last of the robots – why, why is it always robots? – when he hears Bucky’s voice across the room, remarkably calm despite the implications of his words. He looks up, and – Bucky doesn’t look injured, but he’s staring down at his vibranium arm like it’s going to explode or something.

“You’re not about to explode, are you?” Sam asks warily. The fact that he can ask that question and not be joking is something that should make him reevaluate every single life decision that led him to this moment. Except, it’s kind of just normal. So, instead, he takes a few cautious steps closer. The room is secure enough, now that they’ve bashed all these robots to pieces.

“No.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “Why do you always think that? It’s an arm, not a goddamn grenade launcher.”

“Listen, I’m just saying that weirder shit has definitely happened to us.” He’s at Bucky’s side now, peering down at the arm. It doesn’t look like anything is wrong, but it’s not like Sam knows anything about the kind of crazy high tech arms they make in Wakanda. As he’s watching it, though, Bucky’s whole arm twitches in a way that’s decidedly unnatural. “Whoa, what’d they do to you?”

“It’s something internal.” Bucky grimaces. Tries to clench and unclench his fingers. The arm’s not responding to him, clearly, because the fingers only close halfway before the arm twitches again. He exhales heavily. “I’m gonna have to do diagnostic on it when we get back. Great.”

“Could be worse.” Sam shrugs. “Could’ve been claws again.”

Bucky shudders. Yeah, claws are definitely the worse option. Because now every two-bit supervillain wants to be the new Tony Stark, inventing robots left and right and piecing things together with stolen technology that makes Sam’s job both very easy and very difficult. Easy, because he doesn’t have to worry about anyone else’s death when he’s smashing robots to pieces – but harder, because then they end up spending weeks tracking down the stolen technology, and usually get shot at once or twice in the process.

More so than usual, Bucky’s silent during extraction and debrief. He sits on the opposite side of the plane from Sam and spends most of the trip back to the base staring at his left hand. Sam can’t tell what he’s thinking, or if he’s trying to get it to work right, or what. Spends far too much time staring at Bucky’s face while he tries to figure it out. Stares at the soft angles and day-old stubble and bright blue eyes that are currently clouded with frustration. Can’t seem to take his eyes off Bucky, not after what happened last week.

They haven’t talked about it. And Sam’s pretty sure they’re never going to talk about it. About the way Bucky just melted under his touch, the way he went all soft and hazy and content with the feeling of Sam’s fingers combing through his hair. And Sam certainly isn’t going to be the one to bring it up, not when he’s the one who spent most of that time thinking about what it would be like to kiss Bucky. It’s just – it’s nothing, he’s just lonely and Bucky is there, it doesn’t mean anything. Or so he keeps trying to tell himself.

Once they’re released from debrief – in which Sam had glossed over Bucky’s injury, because he knows Bucky doesn’t like to report those, especially not when they involve his arm – his feet turn automatically toward the apartment he keeps in D.C. for nights like this.

He likes having an apartment here, especially now that he’s involved in more government tasks outside of his military gig. Likes the routine of it, likes the familiarity of it. Likes waking up in the morning and going for a run and imagining a blond asshole running laps around him and laughing. It’s a bit of a luxury, sure, but apparently the Captain America gig comes with a big-boy salary – the kind of money he never thought he’d be able to earn. And while he isn’t doing it for the money, he has to admit it’s nice to be adequately compensated for putting his life on the line.

On nights like this, Bucky usually follows him back to the apartment. It had started off slowly, as does everything with Bucky – Sam knows he doesn’t like to feel like a burden, but he can’t imagine denying Bucky the comfort of a lived-in apartment over the utilitarianism of guest housing on base. Not on nights like this, where it’s too late for either of them to fly back to Delacroix or New York City and still get a reasonable amount of sleep.

They make it through the door before Bucky makes another sound. Once inside, he strips off his layers of Kevlar, makes a neat pile by the door, and sighs like he’s finally letting go of a burden. Heads for the couch and the repair kit he’d stashed under it a few weeks ago, already poking at the seams of his arm.

Sam takes the opportunity to shower. Takes his time scrubbing off the grime of the mission. Robots are definitely his least favorite of the Big Three, he decides, as he finds oil in another place it should never be. Even blood isn’t this hard to get out, even if that’s a macabre thought.

By the time he’s done, Bucky’s got his tools laid out on the coffee table, feet tucked under himself. He’s got the arm laid out on the armrest, though it’s still attached to his body for some reason.

“Wouldn’t it be easier to take it off?” Sam asks as he emerges from his bedroom, now dry and cleaned and dressed down in sweats and an old, thin t-shirt.

“Nah.” Bucky grunts as he lifts up one of the outer plates to reveal the wiring inside. “Better diagnostics like this. I can feel what’s wrong.”

“Feel what’s wrong,” Sam repeats, looking at him with one raised eyebrow. “What kinda sensors you got in there?”

“Haptic feedback, and some other stuff with complicated names I don’t know how to repeat.” Bucky’s frowning down at his arm now, and it doesn’t look like it’s going to be an easy fix, not with the way his frown deepens into an offended scowl.

“You need a tech or something?” Sam looks down at the arm, dubious. He’s got a knack for that kind of stuff, always has – not Tony Stark-level, of course, but it’s how he fixes up Redwing each time, how he even got Redwing in the first place – but Bucky’s arm looks like a complicated mess. He peeks at it anyways, and – huh, actually, he does kind of recognize the way some of the wiring is connected. It’s way more complicated than Redwing, of course, but Sam’s a least got enough grasp of engineering basics to get an idea of what he’s looking at.

“No techs outside of Wakanda,” Bucky grunts again. Lifts another plate, pokes a screwdriver into the wiring, and makes a pained noise. And because he’s stubborn, he sticks the screwdriver in again, just to make another pained noise. Closes his eyes and lets out a breath like he already wants to throw his arm across the room.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself, you keep going on like that,” Sam observes.

“Not much else I can do.” Bucky shrugs the other shoulder. Looks up at Sam and frowns like he’s considering it. “I could take it off and do it, yeah, but I really do need to be able to feel what I’m doing.”

“I could help,” Sam offers, before he can think twice about it.

The way Bucky goes still makes him want to travel back in time and erase that sentence from existence. He’s immediately anxious, stomach fluttering, as he watches Bucky’s face for his reaction. Because it’s one thing to cut his hair – to help him get over the anxiety of it – but it’s a completely different thing to offer to poke around in Bucky’s prosthetic.

Bucky – actually seems to consider it, though. Tilts his head a little, bites his lip. Looks up at Sam from under a curtain of lashes, gazes unsure.

“Could you?” Bucky asks. It’s a question, but Sam isn’t sure which question he’s meant to be answering. Can he do it? Is he willing to do it? Is he capable of doing it?

“Yes,” Sam replies. Tries to project some confidence into the word.

It takes another long moment of staring before Bucky nods once. Sam doesn’t hesitate – because he’s in it, now that Bucky’s trusting him with this, and he’s not going to fuck it up. Not going to make Bucky think he regrets the offer, or doesn’t know what he’s getting into. So he gets up, gets a stool from the kitchen, and settles down next to Bucky’s arm on the couch. Takes the screwdriver when it’s offered.

“So. What seems to be the problem?”

Sam picks it up quickly, if he says so himself. Bucky gives him a rundown of some of the things in his arm, brief explanations of how things connect and what kind of maintenance he does on a regular basis. And the repairs really aren’t bad – he’s gotta reconnect a few things, replace a few wires the robots had shorted. Nothing Sam hasn’t done a thousand times over for Redwing.

But the whole time, his thoughts are only half on the repairs. The other half is firmly occupied by the way that, after the first few minutes of coaching, Bucky’s slumped down against the couch, eyes lidded, letting Sam work without watching over him every step of the way. The amount of trust in this is obscene – and Sam’s not sure he deserves it, not sure that he’s worth it, but he’s sure as hell determined to prove that trust correct. So he keeps his hands gentle. Doesn’t move without telling Bucky what he’s going to do, first. Handles it with the care he’d handle living flesh, the way he patched Bucky up that very first time, all those weeks ago.

By the time he’s done, Bucky’s gone boneless under his ministrations. And it’s – something in Sam’s heart aches, like it did that first time, seeing the way it’s relaxed him. Because he hasn’t even done anything, not really. Just a gentle hand on Bucky’s wrist to steady himself as he leans over the arm, or a bit of squeezing as he rotates the arm for a better angle. Just casual touches, nowhere near as intimate as they’d been when Sam cut Bucky’s hair, but it’s –

Sam wonders how much Bucky must associate someone touching his prosthetic with pain. Especially when the first one was given to him by Hydra, back when no one cared if he lived or died or sobbed with pain. How deeply ingrained must that be, after all these years – and how deep must the relief feel, to have someone touch it without hurting him?

“All good, Buck?” Sam murmurs. Feels like if he speaks any louder, he’ll break whatever fragile peace is growing between them.

“Mmm,” Bucky hums. His eyes are all the way closed, now. Seems like he’s floating on whatever he’s feeling right now. But then he yawns, and stretches his back, and opens his eyes. Moves his arm to rub them – and then makes a little hissing noise when his vibranium arm bends. Looks at it like he’s a disgruntled cat who’s just been woken up, and Sam has to hold back a smile.

“Still hurting?” he asks.

“Not the repair.” Bucky shakes his head. “You did the repair fine, it’s…” There’s a hesitation. And then Bucky waves at his prosthetic with his other hand, a vague gesture. “Stress on the neural connection, when something’s wrong. Dunno how to describe it. Like a sore muscle, almost.”

“Would it help to take it off?”

Bucky frowns. “I – yeah, but it’s – it’ll be fine, it’s a little weird walking around without it on.”

“You’re safe here,” Sam says softly. “It’s okay.” Because he can guess at what a little weird might mean for someone who always feels like he has to be on guard. For someone who’s still learning the meaning of safety.

He can tell he’s guessed correctly by the way Bucky’s cheeks turn pink. He looks away, like he can’t meet Sam’s gaze right now.

“If you don’t mind,” he whispers. There’s so much hesitation in his voice. And Sam knows that this is probably difficult for him. Can’t imagine the kind of thoughts he’s having right now, the kind of questions he must be asking himself. Is there enough trust between them? Will he be safe with Sam? Can he let himself be vulnerable in front of someone else?

But the arm does come off. Bucky makes a face – like he’s concentrating on some internal gesture – and it gets left behind on the arm of the couch. It’s immediately worth it, clearly, for the way he lets out a big gust of air and settles back against the couch. “Ohhhhh, that feels good.”

“Good.” Sam laughs, because it’s a little funny, the way he’s so relieved. “You wanna crash for a bit? I’m gonna order food but it’ll probably be a while.”

“Nah.” Bucky’s eyes are already closed, though. “Maybe watch some TV,” he mumbles. “Don’t wanna sleep yet.” But there’s a yawn breaking up his words, and he looks like he’s barely a few minutes from passing out on the couch. His head nods – just a tiny fraction of an inch, but it’s enough to make Sam wonder why Bucky’s so resistant to sleep right now, when he so clearly needs it. He wonders how well Bucky sleeps at home. Knows the kind of nightmares that can shake a person apart in the middle of the night – and how much worse they must be for Bucky, who still has to contend with the memories of everything he did under Hydra’s control.

It’s that last thought that makes Sam’s decision for him. Tries to rationalize it by telling himself that the stool’s beginning to make his back ache, and he’s obviously not going too far when he’s ordering food, and – well. He can justify it all he wants, but the result is still the same. Sam settles down on the couch on Bucky’s other side. Sits just a little bit closer than he normally does. Lets his thigh just barely press against Bucky’s, a touch so casual it would’ve gone entirely unnoticed between him and anyone else – hell, he’d sat closer than this with Steve and Nat on many occasions, downtime between missions and planning sessions and late night conversations – except for the way Bucky sucks in a breath.

Sam pretends like he doesn’t notice. Instead, he pulls out his phone and starts ordering food.

“What d’you want on your pizza?” he asks.

Bucky’s silent for a long moment. Not for the first time, Sam’s concerned he’s overstepped some boundary, crossed some invisible line in his attempt to provide comfort to his friend. But then Bucky makes a thoughtful noise in the back of his throat and turns his head to the side, eyes opening to slits as he peers at Sam.

“Mushrooms,” he mumbles, clearly only half awake.

“Fuck off,” Sam says without heat, because he knows Bucky’s just doing it to piss him off. Sam likes mushrooms as much as the next person – but it’s an absolutely travesty to put them on pizza, in his opinion, and Bucky is well aware of this. “I fix your arm up and this is the thanks I get? You’re the goddamn bane of my existence, Barnes.”

“You love it.” Bucky’s voice is barely there, sleepy-soft and muzzy, but he’s got that damnable smirk on his face like he knows he’s charming. It really should piss Sam off more than it does these days.

Yeah, I do. But Sam at least has the sense not to say it out loud – and not just because it’d make Bucky even more insufferable, but because he thinks it might be getting truer and truer with every passing day they spend together. And Sam remembers this feeling, remembers what it was like when he first started noticing Riley and all the little ways they fit together, but he’s not ready to admit it yet. They’re just – this friendship is so much more important to him than any other in his life right now. With Steve and Nat both gone, he’s learning not to take things like this for granted, and he’s damn sure not going to make the mistake of trying to push for something more when he’s not even sure it’s what he wants, let alone what Bucky wants.

For now, at least, it’s enough – this quiet companionship, legs pressed together on the couch for a peaceful moment, Sam ordering food and flipping aimlessly through the channels with the volume muted, while Bucky’s head tips back and he finally falls into unconsciousness. This moment is enough to soothe some of the loneliness he buries deep inside of his heart.

It’s enough, right now, to be safe and warm and comfortable and alive.

Chapter Text

Thing are softer between them, and Sam is desperately pretending not to notice, because the alternative might drive him to do something crazy and friendship-altering.

They still snark at each other, back and forth like they used to – but now it seems fonder, almost. It’s not as sharp as it once was, both of them eager to hurt each other with dagger-tipped words, back when Sam had given up the shield and Bucky had given up any attempts at being friends with him. Before Madripoor, and Walker, and Karli.

And Bucky smiles more, now that things are softer, and it’s – it’s goddamn distracting, is what it is, because when Bucky smiles it lights his whole face up and makes him look years younger, closer to the old photos of him in the museum before life caught up to him in the most horrifying ways. Sam feels like he can’t breathe every time Bucky smiles at him like that. And it’s only him – Bucky doesn’t smile at anyone else like that, and Sam feels like he’s receiving something precious each time he sees one of those smiles.

So it’s – nice. Definitely nice. That gaping loneliness Sam discovered all those weeks ago, in the kitchen in Delacroix with his hands in Bucky’s hair, it’s eased somewhat. Well, only as long as Bucky’s around. But it’s been so long since he was close with anyone like this – and they’re all dead now, Riley and Steve and Nat – that he can’t bring himself to pull away. Can’t put any distance between the two of them, even if he knows he should.

Bucky’s even opened up a bit about his sleep. Not his nightmares – those he keeps close, tight-lipped about the nights he wakes up screaming – but his sleepless night, those he’s started to share. Sam finds himself on the phone a couple nights that month, telling Bucky in a too-soft voice about the boys’ latest school projects and Sarah’s town gossip.

It’s not that much of a surprise to him, then, that Bucky shows up unannounced in Delacroix one night, bags under his eyes like twin bruises. Sam just opens the door and ushers him inside and starts internally plotting all the ways he’s going to get Bucky to sleep tonight.

It’s a good weekend for hatching plans like this, though. Sarah’s at her best friend’s house for a much-needed girl’s night, and the boys are off at a school-run science camp for the weekend, which means that he and Bucky have the house to themselves. And, sure, maybe Sam’s relief at seeing Bucky is just what he keeps telling himself – justifiable concern for the man who’s become his best friend. Except if he’s being honest with himself, he’s just – just happy to see Bucky, to spend time with him, to know that Bucky feels welcome enough to just pack up a bag and show up on Sam’s doorstep for the night.

“Missed me that much, huh?” Sam teases to cover the thundering of his heart.

“Shut up,” Bucky says, but he – he doesn’t actually deny it, and Sam doesn’t know what to do with that information. “Brooklyn’s boring and Sarah’s a better cook than me.”

Sam laughs, because at least half of that is true. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but you’ll have to settle for leftovers tonight. Sarah’s at a friend’s house.”

“Where are the boys?”

“Science camp at school. They won’t be back until Sunday night.”

“Shame.” Bucky flexes his arms like he’s all that and not the biggest pain in the ass Sam’s ever met. “Guess I don’t have anyone to show off for.”

“Alright, alright, put your guns away.” Sam’s grinning, though. “You wanna just watch a movie? Relax?”

Bucky glances at him. There’s a small smile on his face, and his expression is as open and gentle as Sam’s ever seen it, except for when he’s playing with Cass and AJ. “Yeah. Relaxing sounds good.”

They end up on opposite ends of the couch, scarfing down leftovers of Sarah’s ridiculously good deep-dish mac and cheese, while they watch The Emperor’s New Groove. It’s a compromise – Sam had wanted something with action, and Bucky had wanted something with mystery – but they’d settled on a Disney movie fairly easily. Sam’s glad, because he’s pretty sure it’s the best way to keep either of them from ending up triggered at the end of the night.

Sam is acutely aware of the space between them, though. It’s not a big couch, only room for two people, but it seems like Bucky’s going out of his way not to accidentally brush against Sam or get too close. He’s sitting upright, back ramrod straight except for the way his shoulders are hunched just the slightest bit, watching the movie like he’s trying not to glance at Sam.

“Bucky,” Sam says, and pauses the movie. “Is there a reason you’re sitting like you’re getting ready to bolt out the front door?”

Bucky scowls. “Play the damn movie.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

“And if I don’t want to?” he challenges.

Sam sighs. “You know I won’t make you,” he says, softer this time. “But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on in your head. Is this about your insomnia?”

If possible, Bucky’s scowl deepens. He looks away, cheeks reddening. “Something like that.”

“When it happens,” Sam starts, and leans forward, more into Bucky’s space, “how do you try to get to sleep? Do you just lie in bed and wait for sleep, or do you actually do something about it?”

“What else is there to do about it?” Bucky snaps.

Sam just looks at him for a long moment. Looks at the bags under his eyes, the way he’s scowling without really looking at Sam, the way tension lines his body. He looks more exhausted than Sam’s seen in ages. It’s not good.

“Man, you gotta try something else.” Sam stands up. “Hang on, I’ll be back in a few.”

Bucky’s eyes widen when, several minutes later, Sam walks back into the living room holding a steaming mug of tea.

“Smells good,” he mumbles as he clasps the mug with both hands. He inhales, cup close to his face, and it’s like Sam can see some of the tension easing, some of the frustration melting from his shoulders. “What’s this?”

“Chamomile tea,” Sam tells him. “Great for relaxing and helping you sleep. It was a lifesaver when I came back from my tour, so Sarah always keeps some in the house for me, just in case.” Because the nightmares don’t ever stop, not really, just get less frequent for him. Some nights he can sleep through the night and wake feeling refreshed and well-rested. But other nights – well, he doesn’t want to think about those other nights.

Bucky inhales again, and there’s a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips when he looks back up at Sam. “It smells good,” he repeats. “I… I don’t think I’ve had it before.”

“Did they even have tea back in your day, old man?” Sam teases, just to make Bucky roll his eyes. “It’s good stuff, though. I bet it’ll knock you right out.”

“Right now?” Bucky’s eyes flicker back toward the movie. The screen’s still paused, right in the middle of Kuzco and Yzma fighting over the one human potion bottle. And, fuck it, it’s still early, but Sam doesn’t mind a chill evening. Doesn’t mind channel surfing while Bucky sleeps, if that’s what it takes for the man to get a few hours of actually restful sleep. “Shouldn’t I wait until the movie is over?” Bucky continues, oblivious to Sam’s thoughts.

“If you want to.” Sam shrugs. “But, Buck, when’s the last time you got a good night’s sleep? I don’t care if you pass out in the middle of the movie. Or in the middle of the next one. You gotta take care of yourself, man.”

Bucky still looks hesitant, so Sam reaches out before he can think twice about it. Puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder and squeezes, watches the way Bucky leans into the touch, the way his eyes flutter just a little bit. He wants to offer more – because he knows it’ll help Bucky sleep, clearly not for any other reason – but it’s only been an accident up until now, or something Bucky specifically asked for, and he’s worried about crossing some invisible boundary.

“Seriously, man,” he continues. “C’mon, you know you’re safe here. Just let yourself relax, okay? Everything will be fine. I promise.”

“I – okay.” Bucky sighs. He takes a sip of the tea. His eyes flutter closed almost immediately, and he makes a little mmm of pleasure. “Oh, that’s warm. That’s – it’s so warm.”

“That a good thing?”

Bucky just nods, eyes still closed.

They go back to the movie after that. It’s not a long one, and it was almost over anyways, so they make it through the end and Sam puts on Moana because his nephews have been obsessed with it and he doesn’t want to ruin the mood with anything too serious. Bucky takes a while to drink his tea, alternating between small sips and big inhalations as he sits there, both hands still clasped around the warmth of the cup.

Thirty minutes into Moana, though, it’s clear the tea is having the desired effect. When Bucky tilts to the side, exhaustion seeping through every line of his body, Sam doesn’t even think about his actions. He reaches out, takes the tea from Bucky’s hands – the cup’s basically empty now – and tugs on his sleeve until the man slumps sideways, head on Sam’s thigh.

“Sam,” Bucky mumbles.

“You sleep, Buck,” Sam murmurs. “I’ll finish the movie.”

Bucky goes to push himself up, though, and Sam frowns. Stupid masochistic super soldiers. So he puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder, pushes him back down, and Bucky really doesn’t put up much of a fight. Sam knows he could – even sleep-deprived Bucky’s a hell of a lot stronger than Sam – and he takes that as an implicit I don’t want to move but I feel like I should.

“It’s alright, Bucky.” Sam just – shit, he wants this, he can’t keep denying it even to himself. Wants the casual intimacy of it, the closeness of another person taking comfort in his presence. Wants to be the safe place where Bucky can rest. “Just rest.”

His fingers find their way into Bucky’s hair like they did a couple weeks ago, standing in the kitchen, and he starts carefully combing through the short strands. Presses his fingertips against the scalp and massages in small circles. Feels the way it makes Bucky shudder, the wounded noise he makes.

Bucky makes one last effort at getting up. But he can’t even lift his head – just bats at Sam’s fingers with kitten-weak strength. It’s not even remotely effective, because Sam can feel the way Bucky’s relaxing against him, can feel the way he’s melting into the couch like he never wants to move again.

“Is this alright?” Sam whispers. He – actually, he probably should’ve asked in the first place. Got a little caught up in his urgency to help Bucky relax.

“Mhmm.” Bucky’s answer is clear, even if it’s muffled by the way he’s turned to press his face into Sam’s thigh, leaving the back of his head free for Sam’s gentle caresses.

Sam’s glad, because he thinks that it might kill him if he had to stop. It’s like he can’t help himself from touching, here in this darkened room where things feel different – more important – than they do in the bright light of the day. Bucky’s hair is silky smooth, just like it was the first time he got to touch it. Really, this was kind of the plan all along. Cure Bucky’s insomnia – at least temporarily – with a little bit of light touching, enough to get him to sleep.

Sure enough, it only takes a few minutes for his breathing to even out, for him to go slack all the way against Sam, all the tension draining out of him. But Sam doesn’t stop. Doesn’t feel like he can, now that he’s started. It’s just – he wants, so badly. Wants this closeness, companionship. Wants, if he’s being honest with himself, Bucky. And he thinks Bucky wants it, too, but doesn’t know how to ask for it. But there have been a few moments – during celebrations after successful missions, or dinner with Sarah and the boys – where Sam’s watched Bucky’s eyes flit down to his lips and stay there, like he’s contemplating what it might be like to kiss Sam. Moments that fill Sam’s chest with a warmth so profound he can’t ignore it. And it’s – he’s starting to want it. To want to not ignore it. But he’s scared, he’s so scared, of pushing Bucky faster than the man’s ready for.

So aside from this – comfort freely given in a moment of need – he keeps his hands and his thoughts to himself. But at least he’s comfortable now, Bucky’s weight so warm against him. Comfortable and safe, with the loneliness eased for the moment. And he’s so tired, all of a sudden, Moana no longer able to hold his attention.

He stirs awake to a light shake of his leg, to the hiss of his name in the darkened room.

“Wha’ time ‘s’it,” Sam mumbles. Tries to rub the sleep from his eyes, but he still can’t make them open more than halfway, and anyway, it’s dark, he can’t see a damn thing.

“One in the morning,” comes Bucky’s whispered reply for somewhere to Sam’s right.

Sam groans. “Thought you were sleeping,” he says around a yawn.

“Slept a bit. But I figured you might be more comfortable in your own bed.” Bucky pushes at his leg again, trying to get him to sit up. Sam groans again, longer and more dramatic this time, because he just wants to go back to sleep. Flings his arm across his eyes, even though there’s no light to block out.

“Lemme go back to sleep,” he whines. “Don’t wanna get up.”

“Your back will regret it in the morning.”

Damn him for being right. Sam’s no super soldier, and he’s not exactly as young as he used to be. Spending the night on the couch is a surefire way to give him aches and pains for the next week.

“Worth it,” he mumbles, just to be contrary. Sinks deeper into the couch like he’s going to go right back to sleep.

“Idiot,” Bucky sighs, but there’s no bite in it, only an achingly soft fondness that makes Sam’s heart beat just a little bit faster. “C’mon, Sam, don’t make me carry you.”

That is a surprisingly tempting thought. Sam imagines how easily Bucky’s super strength would be able to lift him, and has to suppress a little shiver of delight. And it’s probably a really terrible idea, if Sam’s going to have any control over the things that come out of his mouth while he’s still half asleep, so he reluctantly pushes himself up. Manages to get himself into a sitting position, and then Bucky’s holding out a hand to help him stand.

Sam’s only vaguely aware of the way he leans towards Bucky the moment he gets his feet under him, as if he’s seeking out the man’s warmth again. Still, he’s conscious enough to know that he probably wouldn’t survive being carried up the stairs with his dignity intact, so he tries to make his feet move.

“C’mon,” Bucky says again. Nudges Sam in the direction of the stairs.

Sam makes it up the stairs, somehow. Doesn’t trip over his own feet or slam Bucky against a wall to sloppily make out with him. Both of those are really great for his dignity right now, honestly, because he’s still picturing the way Bucky might carry him up the stairs, the way those super soldier muscles might flex around him, and damn it he doesn’t need this right now.

Bucky follows him all the way down the hall to his room. Watches as he stumbles through the door to sit on the edge of his bed. Sam doesn’t turn any lights on, but the curtains are open and the moon is full enough to cast silver light across the floor.

The world doesn’t feel real, right now. Like the only thing that exists is this moment, Bucky leaning against the doorway of his childhood bedroom while Sam shucks off his sweats and stretches out in his bed. He feels – cared for. Protected. And he wants – something. Wants to ask – wants Bucky to stay here, sleep next to him, a warm line pressed against his side. Wants it with a desperation he doesn’t understand. Except, maybe he does. Because Bucky and touch – well. Sam maybe hasn’t had anyone that close to him in longer time, either, except for family. He wants, so badly, to feel the comforting weight of someone – of Bucky – next to him while he sleeps.

Bucky sees his hesitation. “You okay?” he asks in that achingly soft voice of his, the one that only seems to exist in these quiet, vulnerable moments. The one that feels like it’s breaking Sam’s heart open in ways he thought no one could anymore.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and his voice is a bit hoarse. Clears his throat. Slides toward the far side of the bed, leaves a gap in the front. “You can – you don’t have to sleep on the couch,” he says in a rush. Words spilling out faster than he can keep them in. It’s not what he’s thinking – he’s thinking please, will you hold me, will you lie here next to me so I don’t feels so lonely anymore, so I can feel your warmth – but he’s trying not to blurt any of that out.

It’s being half asleep that’s the problem. All his defenses are down, all his ways of keeping silent about the things he’s feeling forgotten under the weight of the ache he feels. And it’s – it’s Bucky. It’s the man he’s watched go through some of the most horrifying trauma known to man and somehow come out stronger and more resilient and more – more himself than anyone else could. The man he trusts to watch his back on missions, and trusts to spend time with his family, and trusts to – to stick around and not run off like he did before.

“Sam,” Bucky breathes. Sam can’t see what his face is doing, the room is too dark, and his heart is absolutely aching at the thought that he might’ve misread the situation. Might’ve guessed wrong. Maybe Bucky doesn’t feel anything for him like that –

But then Bucky sits down on the edge of the bed, so gingerly that his weight barely makes it dip.

“I don’t,” Bucky starts. Takes a deep breath. “I might – have a nightmare.”

“S’okay.” Sam closes his eyes against the onslaught of want he’s feeling. Against the bone-deep need to reach out and pull Bucky into his arms. “I might have one, too.”

That must be the right thing to say, because Bucky shifts. Lies down next to him. There’s still a careful distance between them, a gulf of space that Sam doesn’t know how to cross. He wants to, though. He wants to lie in Bucky’s arms, feel them around him, feel the comforting and warmth and peace they’d bring him.

“It’s okay, Buck.” Sam’s really not sure what he’s saying that about – about getting closer, about being in the same bed, about the millions of little unspoken things between them – but it makes Bucky exhale, makes him relax a little. Makes him shift just the tiniest bit closer, arms just barely brushing together under the blanket.

“G’night, Buck,” Sam mumbles. He’s not going to push, no matter how much he wants this. Because he knows better than to push against whatever fragile boundaries Bucky’s been trying to establish for himself, after spending so long unable to.

“Good night, Sam,” Bucky murmurs.

There’s a long moment of silence. Sam’s mostly asleep again, consciousness fading at the edges, when he feels the soft brush of fingers along his cheek.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

Chapter Text

Bucky’s quiet on the ride back from their latest mission.

Sam knows what it means that he notices things like this now – how Bucky’s silences are different from each other, different meanings and reasons – but he can’t help it. Can’t help the way his eyes are always drawn toward Bucky, always seeking him out in every room or every stupid cargo plane they’re stuck on.

So he notices when Bucky’s too silent, okay, it’s just – Bucky’s gotten softer these days, more open to talking and laughing and celebrating after missions that end well. No casualties on either side, today – just a bunch of bad guys arrested and brought to justice. It’s the kind of mission that would usually have him lively and energized.

“Buck?” he asks.

The man in question is sitting across the cargo plane, distance between them. It’s unusual – Sam’s sat in his normal spot, and Bucky usually chooses to sit much closer to him these days than he did before. Sam likes it, likes the way Bucky’s willing to initiate that closeness, the way he does it on his own terms. So now he’s trying not to read anything into the fact that Bucky chose to sit as far away from him as possible as soon as they boarded the plane. Because it’s – Bucky’s still a guy who likes his personal space, still a guy with a host of consent issues that he’s working through at his own pace, and Sam respects the hell out of that. He tries to remember that, instead of giving into the aching loneliness that’s creeping in at their distance.

Bucky doesn’t respond. He’s got his arms wrapped around himself, head tucked down against them, body scrunched into as small of a position as he can be in, bulky superhero that he is. Sam’s never seen him curl in on himself this much.

“Bucky?” he tries again.

“’m fine,” Bucky mumbles against his arms.

“Right,” Sam drawls.

It’s – he doesn’t know, is the thing. Doesn’t know how much he’s supposed to push, how much he’s allowed to push. They’re not – Sam knows what he wants, and he thinks he knows what Bucky wants, but that’s – he thinks, he’s not sure, and so he’s not going to do anything to risk their newfound closeness, the way Bucky’s turning to him more and more for quiet moments of comfort and companionship.

He stares at Bucky. Tries to figure it out. Tries to make sense of the way the man’s curled up, the way his hands are rubbing up and down on his arms, the way he’s positioned as far as possible from the jump door and the cold air that seeps in around it. The way he’s –

“Are you cold?”

Bucky lifts his head. Glares at Sam for a sharp, sudden moment, and then –

Nods.

Sam thinks back to the three days they just spent in Alaska, in the fucking winter, Christ, when are bad guys going to be conveniently located? And sure, he’s cold, too – Sam’s a hot weather guy, through and through, between Louisiana and his time in the desert – but his suit is better insulated than Bucky’s tac gear and he hardly notices the chill except on his face and hands.

“Can I help?” Sam’s not really sure how, but if there’s something he can do, he’ll do it.

Bucky shakes his head. It’s, unfortunately, probably the truth and not just Bucky acting like he can suck it up and deal with it because he’s a stubborn idiot. They’re still in the air, somewhere over the continental U.S., on their way back to D.C. Sam knows they’ve got at least another hour in the trip, and no blankets or anything to warm Bucky with.

So he taps his com. “Hey, Torres?”

“Yeah, Cap?”

“Take us to NAS,” he instructs. “We’re going home for a bit.”

“Copy.”

They can debrief over video link – tomorrow. It might be winter but it’s sixty degrees in Delacroix – a whopping difference from Alaska.

They’d left from NAS in the first place, and Sam’s never been so glad for that, because his truck’s still there waiting for them. He’s got a blanket in the back, something he keeps back there in case of emergencies, mostly for the boys, but it’ll do for now. Bucky’s still got his arms around himself and he looks visibly miserable as he climbs into the truck.

“There’s a blanket in the backseat,” Sam tells him as he cranks the heat.

“You don’t gotta take care of me,” Bucky mumbles. He looks – almost embarrassed, like this is something that shouldn’t be happening. But Sam can see the way he relaxes, incrementally, when a blast of warm air hits him. The way his shoulders loosen when he drapes the blanket over himself.

How could Sam not want to take care of this man? This man who watches his six, helps pick up his nephews after school, believes in Sam – in his missions and goals as Captain America – more than anyone else in the world, before anyone else in the world. How could he not want to give Bucky back even a sliver of the comfort he gives Sam every day just by showing up and working through his shit so he can be Captain America’s partner?

Sam doesn’t dignify that with a response. Just shakes his head a little, turns the fan up in the car. He’ll sweat to death during the hour drive back to Sarah’s house, but it’s worth it for the way Bucky lets out a soft little sigh and settles against the seat like he’s finally starting to thaw out. For the undisguised relief on his face as he closes his eyes.

The hour drive back down to Delacroix passes in silence.

Sam doesn’t mind the silence, though. He’s always got things going around and around in his head – ways to be a better Captain America, service projects he can champion, ways to make the media cooperate with his vision. And Bucky, for all his mellowing out the last few months, is still a pretty silent guy a lot of the time.

About ten minutes into the drive, though, Sam glances over at him in the passenger seat. What he sees nearly takes his breath away.

Bucky’s got his head tipped back against the sleep, face slack with sleep, looking for all the world like he’s perfectly content just like that – wrapped up in Sam’s blanket with the heat blasting at him. And it’s – Sam’s heart lurches at the sight. He knows – God, does he know – that Bucky doesn’t like to sleep in moving vehicles, not when there are too many uncontrollable variables for him to feel safe. The only exception he’s ever witnessed was that time on the plane – when the blood loss made sleep too unavoidable.

It feels like trust and warmth and care and – Sam’s maybe a goner about this whole thing. About this man. He can’t imagine not falling in love with Bucky, with his hard-won smiles that light up his face and his easy jokes and the way he loves Sam’s family so wholeheartedly. With the way he takes care of Sam in the field without even being asked – and pretends like he doesn’t know what Sam’s talking about, if it’s brought up. With the way Sam’s been watching him heal and put back together pieces of himself that no one – least of all Bucky – ever thought he’d get back. And now, with Bucky asleep in his passenger seat, Sam thinks for the first time that Bucky might love him, too. Because this is just – there’s so much proof in this, this tiny little gesture, that Bucky trusts him all the way down to his soul.

So, if he maybe takes it easy on the gas, maybe glides around the worst of the potholes and keeps the speed as steady as he can, well. No one else has to know, do they?

Bucky stirs awake as Sam’s pulling into the driveway. Blinks sleep out of his eyes, shifts his head like he’s groggy and not sure where he is.

“Hey,” Sam says, voice low and soft. “Sleep okay?”

“I – yeah.” Bucky yawns. “Sorry, didn’t mean to leave you alone for the whole drive.”

“No big deal,” Sam replies. “Sarah said she’d have something ready for us, if you’re hungry.”

Bucky’s stomach growls in answer, and Sam can’t help but laugh at the way it makes him immediately flush pink.

“Yeah, yeah, I know that’s the real reason you come visit us,” Sam teases.

“Not my fault if your sister is my favorite Wilson sibling,” Bucky shoots back.

“As if,” Sam scoffs. “I’m sure that’s why you spend all your time with me.”

Bucky looks like he’s going to respond – opens his mouth, takes a breath – but then a light flush scatters across his cheeks and he closes his mouth, looks out the window of the truck. Like he’s trying not to look at Sam. And that just makes something in Sam’s stomach somersault, seeing the pink on his cheeks. He’s got butterflies, all of a sudden. It’s ridiculous, he’s a grown man, far too old to be crushing on someone like this, but it’s –

It’s Bucky. It’s peace and trust and friendship and companionship. Sam can’t help falling a little more in love with him every time Bucky gives him pieces of himself.

Bucky’s flush disappears as he stares out the window. “It’s cold out there.”

“Better than Alaska,” Sam observes.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Bucky snorts. Opens the door and slides out of the truck. They’re not parked that far from the house, but Bucky’s already shivering by the time they get their bags out of the back and lug them across the yard. But the house is warm inside, smells like jambalaya and home, and Sam’s shoulders relax with a tension he didn’t even notice he was carrying. Bucky, too, looks like he relaxes the moment he walks through the door. There’s a smile on his face before the door even closes behind them, and Sam’s heart skips a beat at how happy he looks to be here.

“Smells good,” Bucky says, eyes wide like he’s never had jambalaya before. And maybe he hasn’t, who knows what kind of weird-ass food they ate during the Great Depression, or the war rations, or whatever strange Brooklyn-bland food Bucky lived off back in the day. Sam’s sure he hasn’t experimented much with food since he came back, either, since he seems delightedly surprised every time Sarah presents him with a home-cooked meal.

They eat dinner with Sarah – the boys are both at friends’ houses for the night, but that doesn’t mean it’s quiet in the Wilson household. Sarah’s as exuberant as ever, asking about missions and Torres and Sam’s different PR stunts he’s working on right now. And she’s so quick, too – Sam can see the moment she figures out he brought Bucky home with him for a reason, not just a social visit. Watches the way she fills his bowl with thirds and insists it’s all going to go to waste if he doesn’t eat more. And when she meets Sam’s eyes across the table, and he flicks his gaze toward the thermostat, she just nods. Turns it up a bit when Bucky excuses himself to use the bathroom.

“He injured?” Sarah asks, once she comes back to the table.

“Nah.” Sam scrubs a hand over his face. The food and warmth and company are all making him sleepy, now that the adrenaline from his mission is fading away. “I think he’s just cold. We were in Alaska.”

“Brr.” Sarah shivers just hearing it. “But you’re fine?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” And then Sam remembers – “Oh, he was – they kept him on ice, Hydra and the Russians and whoever else handled him over the years. Cryostasis between missions. That’s how he survived all those years.”

Sarah frowns. “That poor boy,” she says softly. “No one deserves to be that cold.”

“No,” Sam agrees.

Bucky comes back from the bathroom and declares himself absolutely stuffed and unable to eat another bite.

“But it was fantastic, Sarah, thank you,” he says so earnestly. “I hope you don’t mind if I crash on your couch, it’s a bit far to go back to D.C. tonight.”

“You know it’s an open invitation, Bucky.” Sarah reaches out, squeezes his shoulder. “You don’t even need to ask, hun, it’s always a yes. Now, you sit tight and I’ll go get some blankets.”

“No, no, I know where they are.” Bucky starts to rise, but a single look from Sarah pins him back in his seat. Sam just laughs. He’s never seen anyone cow Bucky as effectively as Sarah can.

“You’re never gonna win that fight,” he tells Bucky. Because the man has been trying, since day one, to out-polite Sarah, who would never dream of letting a guest lift a finger in her house.

“I know.” Bucky groans, covers his face with his hands. “You said something to her,” he adds from behind the cover of his hands. It’s a bit accusatory, but more of a complaint than anything. “You don’t need to make a fuss about it, I’m fine.”

“I didn’t need to say anything to her,” Sam counters. “She took one look at you and knew something was wrong. Just let her fuss, you’ll never hear the end of it if you don’t.”

Bucky sighs. But he follows Sarah out to the living room. Lets her pile blankets on top of him and turn the heat up. Lets her put more pillows on the couch than he really needs, and then thanks her for it with such an earnest, sweet smile that Sam’s heart skips a beat just looking at it. And then he settles down in his nest of blankets, a soft little smile still on his face, and closes his eyes like he’s going to fall asleep just like that. So Sam leaves him to it, and hopes that he manages to warm up with all those blankets piled on top of him.

Sam stirs awake at some ungodly hour of the night to a soft knock on his door.

“Whazzat?” he mumbles, eyes bleary as tries to peer at the door across the dark room. “Sarah?”

“It’s me,” comes Bucky’s voice from the other side of the door. Soft and unsure and so, so hesitant.

“Buck.” Sam scrubs a hand over his face, tries to rub the sleep from his eyes. “Come in, what’s up?”

There’s a little sliver of light coming in through the open curtains, just a tiny bit of moonlight that his eyes slowly adjust to. He can make out the shadow of Bucky as he opens the door and steps into the room. Sits up, rubs his eyes a little harder, tries to swallow past the immediate fear – is he okay? Did something happen?

“I can’t –” The words cut off, but Sam can hear the way Bucky’s teeth are chattering. Realization dawns, and he can’t help but wonder if Bucky’s been dreaming about it – about cryostasis and ice under his fingertips, on his eyelashes, on his –

“Get over here,” Sam says. He slides back, makes room, presses his back up against the wall so Bucky can climb into bed with him. Wonders how long Bucky sat downstairs trying to make this decision to ask Sam for what he needed.

Bucky hesitates. “I don’t – I want –”

And Sam waits, because Hydra tried their damnedest to burn those words out of him, and he can patient for as long as it takes for Bucky to get those words out.

“I want to be warm,” he says, finally. “But I don’t – I don’t want to be selfish.”

“Not being selfish,” Sam says, as gently as he can. “C’mere, Buck. Come get warm.”

Bucky stumbles forward, falls into bed with all the grace of an exhausted super soldier. He’s freezing, skin cold and clammy as he shoves his way under the blankets. Makes a noise in the back of his throat as Sam wraps his arms around Bucky’s middle, draws him closer.

“Oh,” Bucky whispers. “Oh, you’re so warm.” He drapes himself across Sam’s chest, tucks himself in against him, curls as close as he possibly can under the blankets. It’s like all his hesitation and fear disappears in the face of his need for warmth. He’s still shivering, still trembling as he situates himself, so Sam tugs the blanket up around his shoulders, tucks him in, lets him curl as close as he possibly can.

“Better?” he murmurs. Runs a hand up and down Bucky’s arm, trying to give him some warmth with the friction, because his skin is so cold to the touch.

“Better,” Bucky agrees.

They lie there in silence for a while, as Bucky slowly relaxes. As his skin heats up to a normal temperature, his trembling slows and then stops, and his teeth stop chattering. Until he’s gone boneless against Sam’s side, eyes barely open, face slack with oncoming sleep.

“Should go… back to the couch,” he mumbles. But his words are slurred, like he can’t quite get them out past the haze of relaxation and sleep he’s caught in.

“Stay,” Sam whispers. He can’t imagine saying anything else right now, not when it feels so damn good to have Bucky in his arms like this. Can’t imagine sleeping alone after being this close to him, not without loneliness ripping a hole in his dreams. “You’re warm now. Stay.”

“Warm,” Bucky agrees. It comes out more like a sigh. He nuzzles his head against Sam’s shoulder, like he’s not even aware of what he’s doing. It’s – he’s so close, they’re pressed together as tightly as they can be, and Sam’s heart is so full that he can scarcely breathe. Wants to – oh, there’s so much he wants to do. Wants to fall asleep like this, with Bucky in his arms, feeling so content that he never wants to move again. Wants to wake up like this, curled together, and see Bucky’s face first thing in the morning. Wants to press soft kisses to his forehead. He just – wants.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart.” Can’t help the little term of endearment, it just slips out. But Bucky’s too far gone to notice, body slack against Sam’s, breathing deep and even and peaceful. And then it’s so easy for Sam to do the same, lulled back to sleep by the warmth of his best friend pressed against him and the peaceful cadence of his breathing.

In the morning, he wakes to see Bucky’s sleeping face. There’s no tension or stress on it, just peaceful relaxation. He looks so much younger like this, almost untouched by his long, long life or years of war. And it’s – Sam can’t help but wonder at the implications of it all. At the way he’s awake, shifting minutely in the bed, and Bucky is still asleep, as relaxed as Sam’s ever seen him.

There’s a sliver of sunlight across his cheeks and Sam’s heart feels so full of love that it might just burst. For Bucky, for what they’ve built together – a little oasis of just the two of them, sheltering each other from the outside world when it becomes too much. Because that’s what they do now. Bucky opens up, comes to Sam with problems he wouldn’t have even six months ago. And Sam – he’s relearning how to reach out, how to accept softness and care and worry from someone again.

It works, the two of them. Both of them still learning, still grappling with wounds from the past. But moving forward together, as best they know how.

“Now who’s staring,” Bucky mumbles without opening his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, point your x-ray robot eyes somewhere else.” But Sam’s smiling too wide for there to be any heat in his words, just affection.

Bucky shifts a little, stretches his limbs. They’re still wrapped up together – Bucky’s head is on Sam’s chest, and he’s got one arm wrapped around Sam’s middle. Up until a moment ago, he’d had his head tipped back, angled so Sam could see his face. But now he’s absently rubbing his cheek against the soft cotton of Sam’s old t-shirt in a way that’s making Sam’s heart beat just a little faster at the casualness of his action. But, it’s not just him. Sam’s got both arms around Bucky, one hand idly rubbing up and down along his spine. They’re touching all over, legs still tangled together, as flush as they can be. No space between them.

Sam never wants to move again.

He thinks they might drift off again, just for a little while. When he opens his bleary eyes, he can just make out the alarm clock on his nightstand that tells him it’s going on ten.

“Buck,” he murmurs. Nudges him a little. “C’mon, we gotta get up.”

“No.” Bucky’s voice is muffled, still pressed against Sam’s chest. “Warm.”

“Don’t tell me you’re still cold.” Sam laughs, softly, because he’s definitely sweating under the blankets and Bucky’s warmth. “C’mon, it’s time to get up. We gotta debrief.”

Bucky groans. Lifts his head, just enough for Sam to make out his dreamy, unfocused gaze. And it’s – he can feel how relaxed Bucky still is. The way he’s still boneless against Sam’s side, even despite the way they’re still tangled together – maybe because of it, and isn’t that a thought? Maybe it’s because Bucky is still half-asleep, but even that’s a miracle. Bucky, who never lets himself be vulnerable around anyone, is sleep-mussed and tranquil in Sam’s house, in Sam’s bed, in Sam’s arms. Enough to want to go back to sleep. Enough to not pull away at the first moment of consciousness.

“Do we gotta?” Bucky whines. There’s just a hint of his old Brooklyn accent in the shape of his words. It’s something Sam’s heard a few times, over the last few months, but only when Bucky’s completely at ease – a rare feat for someone with so much trauma. And it’s that, more than anything, that makes him let his head fall back against his pillow.

“It could probably wait,” he admits. He’s absolutely incapable of denying Bucky even the slightest bit of comfort, not when he’s spent so much of his life denied it. Not when he clearly craves it so much, craves the closeness and the gentle touch of someone else’s hands on him.

“Oh. Good.” Bucky yawns. Lets his head drop down to Sam’s chest. Within moments, he drifts back off to sleep.

Sam can’t remember the last time he felt this at peace. Felt this much love and care for someone. Riley, his mind reminds him unhelpfully, and Sam knows – God, he knows – that he’ll probably never be fully over the way Riley’s memory sits like a rock in his chest some days, the way he still dreams about him falling, the way he remembers the first brush of lips against his in a darkened supply room, the way don’t ask don’t tell made his life hell.

But this is good. This is – Bucky’s in his arms, and Sam never thought he’d love like this again, but this is good. It’s crept up on him, but he thinks it’s better like this. Better to build the trust and certainty between them, until there’s no room for doubts.

Because he knows now, with absolute certainty, that this is how he wants to wake up every morning for the rest of his life. With Bucky sleeping peacefully in his arms, the weight of the world a distant concern, their scars unimportant and nearly forgotten.

Sam presses the softest kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. And Bucky doesn’t even stir with the movement, doesn’t rocket to awareness in the space of a heartbeat like he normally does when he falls asleep around someone. The trust is almost palpable, and Sam’s heart is so full of it, almost bursting with the need to express it. But it’s – he knows that Bucky isn’t quite ready yet. Still dealing with his traumas, still putting one foot in front of the other. Still doing the best he can under the worst of circumstances.

But Sam also knows the progress Bucky’s made. Has been watching with pride and admiration for months now, watching the slow reveal of the person Bucky is today – someone not quite the same as he was in 1941, but someone wholly unique and imperfect and incredible. Someone strong and loyal and disciplined. Someone filled to the brim with compassion and the drive to do better and the commitment to make the world a better place.

There’s no room for doubt anymore. Sam knows they’ll get there some day. He can feel it all the way down to his bones. So, he can be patient. Can let Bucky come to him in his own time, once he’s comfortable with the idea of it and the reality of it and the way it’ll change their relationship – for the better, really, but Sam knows it’s still a terrifying step to take. But he can be patient.

For Bucky, he can do anything.

Chapter Text

Sam doesn’t imagine that it’ll all draw to a head with a nightmare, but. Well. They’re traumatized soldiers, aren’t they? It makes a kind of macabre poetic sense.

They’re on a stakeout mission, of all things, both dressed down to blend in with locals. They’ve set up shop in an empty building across the street from their target – a corporation working for the GRC, but supposedly giving major kickbacks to their shareholders on the GRC’s dime. Bucky had snuck in two days ago and set up an ungodly amount of spy equipment, enough that Sam’s pretty sure they could just leave their damn safehouse and still successfully complete their mission. But Bucky, former spy that he is, has them working in shifts like a goddamn spy movie.

Right now it’s Bucky’s turn to sleep, even though it’s early morning, and he’s curled up on the big cot they’d brought in under a thick blanket, fast asleep. Sam’s at the window, cross-legged on an old office chair they’d found and dragged over to their equipment, keeping one eye on three goddamn screens receiving input from the building across the street and one eye on the TV show he’s watching on his phone. He wants to be moving, wants to fly, and damn it, he’s not made for all this spy shit. He’s never been good at sitting idle, and –

Bucky makes a noise, and Sam’s heart nearly stops. Was that – did he whimper? And then Bucky’s moving, tossing and turning and arms flailing in a way Sam’s never seen before, not with any nightmare of Bucky’s he’s ever witnessed.

He’s halfway to the cot when Bucky bolts up, back ramrod straight, breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Sam,” he whimpers, and oh, it hurts, hearing the fear and confusion in his voice. Sam aches with it. Sits down on the edge of the cot and puts his hand on Bucky’s knee, unsure if he should reach out more.

“Right here, Buck,” he murmurs.

“I – you –” Bucky’s still gasping for air. His eyes have this faraway look in them, like he’s still in the middle of whatever nightmare he had. “Oh, God, you fell, I kicked you and you fell.”

Sam’s heart feels like it’s breaking. He remembers that day, of course he does. Remembers the terror, the way he thought he wasn’t going to get the chute open in time. Nothing in the desert had ever prepared him for that kind of fight. For the feeling of falling when he should be flying. But it’s – those aren’t the demons Sam wrestles with. And he doesn’t hold it against Bucky, hasn’t for the longest time, not since it became clear to him that Bucky wasn’t operating under his own instructions.

“Buck,” he says. Moves his hand to Bucky’s flesh-and-blood shoulder, squeezes gently. “Buck, I’m right here. You’re not there anymore, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

Bucky’s hands are in his lap. They clench and unclench irregularly. Sam slips his free hand into Bucky’s left hand and squeezes that, too, even though the metal makes it an ineffective gesture.

That touch, more than anything else, makes some of the fog clear from Bucky’s eyes. He blinks at Sam, and Sam watches the slow unfolding in his eyes, the way he comes back to himself, the way the horror of the realization hits.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps. “I – I hurt you, I –”

“A long time ago,” Sam interrupts. He’s not going to deny it. Knows Bucky would hear it for its falseness and hate the lie. “I’m not hurt anymore, I promise.” Because it’s true, and he’s hoping that’s what Bucky will focus on.

Slowly, as if in a dream, Bucky untangles his vibranium hand from Sam’s grasp and lifts it. He flinches when he sees it, but then he reaches forward and –

Sam doesn’t flinch. He just waits. Because it’s easy, like this, to trust Bucky. He’s been doing it for months now, trusting him to watch Sam’s back in a fight and believe in his Captain America message. Trusting him to get close to his family, his friends, his town – the people he cares about most in the world. Trusting him to be there for Sam in regular life, not just in battles, because they’re friends now, unquestionably so. No more dodging phone calls or texts that go unanswered for weeks at a time. Bucky’s been there every time he’s been needed, every time Sam’s invited him down to Delacroix just to be social or called him in the middle of the night after a nightmare.

So it’s easy for him to trust Bucky now. There’s no hesitation. Sam knows, all the way down in his bones, that Bucky will never hurt him again.

Bucky’s vibranium fingers are so gentle on his throat that Sam barely feels it at first. Bucky fits his hand where he did the day Zemo broke him out of containment and he threw Sam across the room until his back hit the containment cell and he fell to the ground, dazed and bruised and aching all over. There had been finger-shaped bruises blooming across his throat and jaw after that, from the force of the Winter Soldier’s metal arm.

But this is Bucky’s arm now, and he doesn’t close his fingers. Doesn’t crush Sam’s throat the way he knows that Bucky is still very capable of. Instead, he fits his hand in the space where the bruises used to be, all those years ago, and just – just cradles Sam’s face like that.

It’s one of the single most intimate moments of Sam’s life. His breath catches in his throat, and he’s struck by the fact that this is the first time Bucky’s ever reached out to touch him first, in the daylight, with both of them conscious. With neither of them able to deny it or rationalize it away as being the product of their half-asleep minds. In all their months of tiptoeing around each other, growing closer and closer, this is the first time Bucky’s ever spoken about the things he did to Sam while under Hydra’s – or Zemo’s – control.

Sam doesn’t have to force himself to relax into the touch. It feels good, to have Bucky’s hand on him, even if it’s during a tense situation. Even if it’s the product of a nightmare. Some days he thinks he craves this kind of touch as much as Bucky does.

“No bruises,” Bucky whispers. “No damage.”

“No damage,” Sam confirms. “I’m all good.” He can feel the metal against his throat when he talks, but it’s still so light, a barely-there pressure against his skin.

“I –” Bucky’s eyes flicker down to Sam’s chest. His hand slips – and he catches it, trails it down Sam’s neck to the middle of his chest. “I kicked you here. Did I – did anything – break?”

“No.” Sam puts his hand over Bucky’s, presses it harder to his chest so that Bucky can feel his heartbeat under there, feel him alive and whole and healthy. “Just some bruising. Hurt for a few weeks, but I was fine. I am fine.”

“But I hurt you.” Bucky lowers his head, but his hand is still on Sam’s chest.

“You did,” Sam agrees. And then he softens his voice, squeezes the hand he still has on Bucky’s shoulder. “But you had no choice. They took all your choices away from you, emptied you out until you didn’t know how to do anything but obey. It wasn’t you.”

“My hands,” Bucky starts to say.

“Yes.” Sam gets it. Because Karli – not his gun, but his fight, his responsibility. “But now your hands protect. You protect me, Bucky. Me and Sarah and the boys. Torres. Those people in New York City that you rescued.” He laughs as a memory bubbles to the surface. “Hell, you jumped in front of the kid in the spider onesie so he couldn’t kick me off the balcony. Even though your heavy ass ended up landing on me anyway.”

Bucky snorts. Seems to come back to himself a little more. But he keeps his hand there, flat on Sam’s chest. And Sam just… sits there. He’s perfectly content to let Bucky take all the time he needs coming down from the fear of his nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky whispers. He still won’t meet Sam’s eyes, though, and that’s going to have to change.

“Bucky, hey.” Sam takes his hand off Bucky’s shoulder. Caresses his jaw, tilts his chin up to make him look Sam in the eyes. Bucky lets it happen, so trusting that it makes Sam’s heart ache for him. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

Bucky’s eyes are so very blue, and so very wide. Sam can’t stop himself from staring, can’t stop himself from leaning in, even as Bucky does the same thing. And it’s – one of them is going to move first, either closer or away, and Sam doesn’t know what scares him more, the thought of pulling away or the thought of what comes next if they don’t. But then Bucky surges forward, closes those last few inches between them, and –

All of his fears scatter in the wake of how right it feels to kiss Bucky. To slot their lips together in a fumbling dance of hesitation and desire. To feel the ghost of Bucky’s breath against his skin and hear the way Bucky’s breath goes ragged at their first press.

“Sam,” Bucky gasps as he pulls back sharply. His hands come up in between them, almost like he needs to defend himself. “Sam, I – I’m sorry, I –”

“Why are you sorry?” Sam asks. And then, boldly, he adds, “You didn’t do anything I didn’t want you to do.”

He can see the conflict in Bucky’s wide, beautiful eyes. Can see the desire and the fear warring with each other. And it’s – Christ, it’s not like he doesn’t get it. He’s spent so long being terrified of wanting someone the way he wanted Riley. Of getting that close just to have his heart broken again. And he’s tried, so hard, to keep the distance between them. But it’s – he’s so lonely without Bucky, and he doesn’t have to be. Neither of them have to be, not when they feel like this about each other.

Bucky touches his lips with his fingertips, clearly still reeling from the kiss. Sam wants to lean forward and kiss him until he forgets what fear feels like. But he waits – it needs to be Bucky’s decision.

So few things in Bucky’s life have been his own decision, and Sam has no intention of ever taking that choice away from him.

Bucky’s gaze flickers from Sam’s eyes down to his lips, and that’s all it takes. He presses forward, hands going to Sam’s shoulders. Nearly topples them over with how insistently he kisses Sam. There’s a desperation in it that Sam wants so badly to ease, so he slides his hands along Bucky’s sides, digs his fingers into Bucky’s hips, and pulls him closer. Lets his legs fall open so Bucky can sit between them, clutched as closely to Sam’s chest as either one of them can manage.

“Sam,” Bucky gasps again. This time when he pulls back to breathe there are tears in his eyes. “I – Christ, sweetheart, I –”

Sam’s heart gets all fluttery at the nickname. “Do you want this?” he breathes. “Because I do. But only if you want it, too, Buck.”

Bucky’s answer is another surge forward, another desperate crush of lips against lips. Sam feels like he could live in this moment for the rest of his life. Doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the way Bucky kisses, like he’s a drowning man and Sam is the air he needs.

This time when they break apart to gasps for breath, Sam leans his forehead against Bucky’s. Closes his eyes and just lets himself revel in the closeness, the feeling of being surrounded by love and care and affection. He can’t say he’d ever imagined it ending up here, way back when he was following dead-end clues and Steve Rogers’ masochistic ass around the world, hunting for a fugitive that clearly didn’t want to be found. But it’s so much better than anything he could’ve imagined for himself back then.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs. His hands come up to cup Sam’s cheeks, to tilt his head up and kiss him again. Their lips part, tongues touching, and Sam can’t help the soft moan that escapes him at the feeling of Bucky’s tongue sliding against his.

He slides his hands back up Bucky’s side. Wants to get them in his hair, wants to feel those silky strands between his fingertips now that he’s allowed to touch, to want. Bucky makes a noise as soon as Sam’s hands touch his hair, and Sam swallows it in another kiss. He tugs, experimentally – and oh, he needs to do that again, because Bucky whines, deep in his throat.

So he does it again, because he can’t help himself. Any semblance of control he once possessed vanished the moment Bucky pressed his lips to Sam’s. He does it a little harder this time, though still not enough to really hurt. Bucky arches so beautifully, the long line of his throat exposed as he moans and lets himself be tugged back. And that, of course, just gives Sam room to get his mouth on Bucky’s neck, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the sensitive skin. Nips at the juncture of throat and collarbone, revels in the way it makes Bucky moan. He’s still got his hands in Bucky’s hair, and Bucky’s still arching his neck, eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks as he gasps and trembles and licks his lips and –

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Oh, fuck, you’re so beautiful.”

Bucky whines again, high and needy, and Sam’s suddenly aware of the ache between his thighs. Of how hard he is, how badly he wants to be touched.

“I want to –” Bucky gasps for air. And then, “Oh, please, can I –”

“Anything,” Sam murmurs when he falls silent. “Anything you want, sweetheart.” He punctuates his words with another nip of his teeth against Bucky’s neck. Feels the way Bucky’s pulse jumps under his lips, the way he’s squirming against Sam’s grip, and it makes him feel almost drunk on it, on the way the simplest of touches are wringing out these noises.

“Fuck,” Bucky moans. “Kiss me, damn it.”

Sam obliges. Releases his grip on Bucky’s hair to pull him back in. He ends up laying back, letting Bucky’s weight rest on top of him, because he doesn’t think he could stay sitting much longer. Not when this position lets him feel Bucky’s weight against his, feel the warmth they create everywhere they’re pressed together.

Bucky gets a hand down between them, fingers fumbling over the zipper of Sam’s jeans, until they’re pushed down enough for his hand to slide in. And then there’s a warm palm pressed against his cock and Sam gasps, hips pushing into the touch, and he can feel Bucky’s sharp grin against his mouth.

“Not fair,” Sam gasps, before words are truly beyond him. “Wanna – wanna touch you, too.”

The words alone make Bucky shiver, makes his grip on Sam a little erratic. He pushes into the press of Sam’s hand on his shoulder like that alone is enough touch for him.

“Want you to,” he manages. “But I want –”

“What?” Sam whispers, when Bucky doesn’t finish his sentence. “What d’you want, sweetheart?”

Bucky lets out another whine. And then he – Sam can’t catch his breath, now, because Bucky’s sliding down the length of him, hands so careful as he tugs Sam’s pants down until his cock is free, bobbing in the cool air. Sam barely has even a moment to suck in a breath before Bucky’s lips are around him and he loses the ability to think.

It’s been – Sam can’t even remember how many years it’s been since he’s been with someone, let alone someone willing to do this for him.

“Oh, fuck, oh my God, what the fuck,” he babbles, because his world has entirely narrowed down to the feeling of Bucky’s warm, wet lips around him, sucking and teasing and licking him. To the way his arousal is like a fire in his veins, igniting every part of his body, until he feels like his skin won’t be able to contain him anymore. To the way Bucky moans around him when Sam gets his hands back in Bucky’s hair and tugs.

It’s all too much, all of a sudden – the heat of Bucky’s mouth, the vibration of his moans, the way Sam feels drunk on love and affection and desire.

“Bucky,” he gasps, “I’m gonna –”

He doesn’t even get to finish his words, because Bucky swallows him down as far as he can go, and the feeling of Bucky’s throat working around his aching cock hurtles him over the edge, faster and harder than anything he’s felt in a very long time, vision nearly fuzzing out with the force of it. And Bucky just – swallows him down, and sucks him through the aftershocks, and then wraps an arm around him and holds him until Sam feels like he finally has some control over his body again.

“Holy shit,” he says, and a laugh bubbles up. “Christ, that was over embarrassingly fast.”

“I don’t know if embarrassing is the right word for it.” Bucky sounds so damn smug about it, too, Sam’s never going to hear the end of it. “Maybe flatteringly fast.”

“Shut up,” Sam groans. “C’mere, I wanna – wanna touch you, Buck.”

Bucky sucks in a breath at his words. “You don’t – have to,” he says, suddenly shy like he didn’t just suck Sam’s brains out through his dick. “I don’t – I’m not expecting anything, I just –”

“You’re an idiot,” Sam tells him. Firmly. “I’m not doing anything I don’t want to do.”

Bucky looks into his eyes for a long moment. Sam wonders what he sees in them – if he can see how much Sam wants this, wants him. He must see something good, because he nods. Carefully, as if one wrong move could be a mistake, he shifts until his hips – and his very clear hardness – are pressed against Sam’s hip.

Sam rolls over onto his side. Pushes Bucky back, just a little bit, until he’s on his back and Sam can lean over him, press his weight down into him. Bucky seems to like that – arches up into the touch a little bit – so Sam starts slow. Lets his right hand focus on unbuttoning and unzipping Bucky’s jeans, while he leans in to press feather-soft kisses to Bucky’s cheek, down his jaw, along his neck.

“Bucky,” Sam murmurs. Delights in the way the ghost of his voice against Bucky’s neck makes him shiver. Pauses with one hand on his zipper. “You wanna take your shirt off for me, sweetheart?”

“Do I have to?” Bucky bites his lip.

“Of course not.” Sam presses another kiss to his cheek. “I just want to kiss you. But I only want what you’re comfortable with.”

“It’s –” Bucky swallows. “I have – scars.”

“I do, too.” Sam leans back, just enough to get his own shirt off. He doesn’t – he’s not sure how to make Bucky feel comfortable. Doesn’t want to push, either, because he’d be just as happy to curl up and hold each other, now that he knows Bucky wants this – wants him. Leans close again, once his shirt is off, so he can press another soft kiss to Bucky’s forehead. “Buck. Only if you’re comfortable. Always.”

“I – I know.” It takes another minute – a minute in which Sam presses chaste kisses to Bucky’s cheek, his jaw, his chin, his forehead, anywhere he can reach, unhurrying and trying his best to make sure that Bucky feels loved and wanted – before Bucky shifts enough to tug his shirt off.

He really is beautiful, scars and all, but Sam doesn’t let himself look too long at Bucky’s chest, not when he knows it’ll make the man feel self-conscious. Instead, he opens his mouth during the next kiss, right over the pulse in Bucky’s neck, and lets his tongue drag along the skin. The resulting whimper is incredibly gratifying, especially when he feels Bucky’s cock twitch under his hand.

“I wanna touch you,” Sam murmurs as he works his hand into the tightness of Bucky’s jeans. “I wanna make you feel good.”

And it doesn’t seem like that’s going to be hard to accomplish. With his jeans open, it becomes clear to Sam that Bucky isn’t wearing any underwear, a fact which makes him swear and try to get his hand in there a little faster. He needs this – needs to touch Bucky, to make him feel good, to hear the way he’ll cry out when he spills into Sam’s hand.

It feels incredible, the skin-to-skin contact. Having their chests pressed together as Sam leans in to kiss Bucky’s lips again, to eagerly swallow the noises he’s making as Sam’s hand works over his cock. Bucky’s mouth is alive with them, a litany of gasps and pleas and wordless noises of pleasure as Sam slides his lips along the scruff of his jaw, down his neck, onto his collarbone. He mouths and sucks at the skin of his chest, blazing a path down his flushed skin.

“Fuck, Sam, don’t stop,” Bucky whines. He’s pressing up into Sam’s mouth, his own mouth hanging open as he pants for breath.

Sam has no intention of stopping, not as long as Bucky wants him. It feels too good, finally getting to touch him like this. If Sam thought he was drunk on pleasure before, it’s nothing compared to the delight of finally getting to touch Bucky, to taste his skin and hear the way his voice breaks on a moan as Sam scrapes his teeth so lightly against one pebbled nipple. To feeling the way he writhes, hips pushing insistently into Sam’s hand as it slides along his length, made slick by Bucky’s own arousal. To tasting the sweat on his skin as Sam drags his mouth along it, biting and licking and sucking wherever he gets a reaction, until Bucky’s chest is flushed with pleasure and teeth marks.

He could stay like this forever, he thinks – with Bucky falling to pieces under him, gone somewhere else in his head where there’s only pleasure and the need to be touched. He could stay just like this, with this beautiful man in his arms, and be happy for the rest of his life. But all too soon, Bucky’s gasping out a warning, head tipped back as far as it’ll go, hands clenched so tight in the blankets that the knuckles on his right hand have turned a pale white, eyes unfocused as he thrusts into Sam’s hand once, twice, before going still.

Sam rolls to the side, hand now sticky, to fumble his way toward the bathroom. Bucky makes a wordless sound of displeasure – which is only alleviated by Sam pressing a quick kiss to his forehead and murmuring a soft, “I’ll be right back.” He hunts around until he finds a clean towel. Rinses himself off in the sink – the water is freezing, but it’s the best they could do on such short notice – and then dampens the towel.

Bucky grumbles when the cool towel touches him. Sam just laughs and runs his free hand through Bucky’s hair. Once they’re both cleaned up, he lies back down. Curls into the warm embrace of Bucky’s arms and lets his eyes close.

“Sam,” Bucky whispers.

“Hmm?” Sam’s already drifting a little, thoughts fuzzy with pleasure and bone-deep contentment. Can’t make his eyes open more than halfway as he tries to peek at Bucky, who just huffs out a laugh at the expression on his face.

“Christ, I love you,” Bucky says, like it’s a reflex. Like he’s just feeling, letting himself speak without thinking about his words.

Sam’s heart might actually stop beating for a second. And he can feel the way Bucky stills under him – the sudden tension where there was none previously. It’s – Sam thinks he should be scared. Because he’s only ever said that to Riley, and Riley died, and Sam thought his heart had died with him. But he’s not. He’s not afraid of this, afraid of Bucky. He just wants.

“I love you, too,” he murmurs. There’s barely any pause, barely any hesitation. And then he lays his head back down on Bucky’s chest. Tries to give the man a minute to finish his freaking out and process Sam’s words. Can feel the moment he does – Bucky lets out a gusting breath, wraps his arms more firmly around Sam.

“Are we really doing this?” Bucky whispers. Presses his face against the top of Sam’s head and takes a deep breath. “Is this – Sam, tell me we’re doing this.”

“Yeah, baby.” Sam can’t help but laugh. He’s giddy with it, with the happiness and relief of it. “We’re doing this. Have been for a while, I think.”

Bucky laughs, too. “Yeah, you might be right about that.”

They lapse into silence once more, but it’s – comfortable. Sam is comfortable. He’s got the arms of the person he loves most in the world around him, and they’re finally together, and everything is –

Perfect.

It doesn’t matter that they’re technically on a stakeout. Sam’s positive the computers will let them know if anything happens across the way. It might not technically be his turn to sleep, but he’s – he doesn’t think he can fight it much longer, the dreamy lassitude creeping over him, the way everything in the world feels right now that he’s in Bucky’s arms. Now that he knows what it’s like to kiss him and touch him and hold him.

Bucky seems to understand.

“You sleep now, sweetheart,” he murmurs. Presses a soft kiss to Sam’s forehead, and Sam’s eyes slip closed once more. “I’ll keep watch. I’ve got you.”

You’ve got me, Sam thinks, too tired to form the words.

He’s never agreed with anything more.