Work Text:
Sam exhales, letting the hot water drum against his shoulders, seep into his skin. The steam coils around him, heavy, suffocating. He braces his free hand against the slick tiles, head dipping forward as he watches the rivulets stream down his arms, washing away the blood, the sweat, the weight of it all. But not the memories.
Joaquín falling from the sky. A flash of wings, then nothing. It drags Sam back — back to the same useless, gut-wrenching feeling of powerlessness. Back to the weight of his own failures, to Riley’s final moments, to Rhodey’s shattered form. Nausea rises up like a wave, swallowing him whole before he can brace for it. It doesn’t matter how many times he’s fought to save someone, to be the one to carry the weight — it never feels like enough. His body aches, remembering the helplessness that gnawed at him when he couldn’t get to them in time. The taste of failure still lingers, like a metallic bitterness in the back of his throat.
The nightmares are already waiting, he knows. He can already tell they will welcome it, fold it neatly into the reel they play every night. As if they weren’t already relentless enough. The same faces, the same desperate calls for help. They’ll weave Joaquín’s drop into the fabric of those haunting hours, pull him into that same suffocating cycle of trauma. And no matter how many times he wakes up, gasping for air, the reel just spins again. It never stops. It never lets him go.
The weight of the shield is the only thing that feels real in these moments. But it’s not enough to carry the burden of this pain. Not this time.
And just when he thinks he can’t take another moment of this, his mind drifts to something else — someone else.
The last time he sat beside a hospital bed, waiting for Steve to wake up, it was because of the Winter Soldier. This time, those same hands had steadied him, pulled him into an embrace meant to anchor, not harm. It’s disorienting. Because, of course, he’d missed Bucky. Of course. But seeing him there, unexpected, concerned, had almost undone him more than the fall itself. Had made him feel something raw and unguarded — something dangerous. Threw him off his game, and made the ground shift under his feet.
He closes his eyes and tries to hold onto something good, something solid. Something like their so-called vacation, that brief, fleeting illusion of peace. Bucky in Sam’s jacket, the two of them acting like the world wasn’t burning around them. It had felt real. For a moment, they’d let themselves pretend. And look where that got them now.
The water is too hot, but Sam doesn’t turn it down. He braces his good hand against the slick tile, his cast useless at his side, useless like he’d been in that moment, too tired and too stricken by pain to do anything but watch him leave.
“You don’t get to do that,” he mutters, voice swallowed by steam.
Bucky had no right. No right to drop something that heavy and then disappear before Sam could make sense of it. No right to leave him alone with the words ringing in his ears, no right to say I love you like a death sentence.
No right to mean it.
And now, standing here with his ribs aching and his damn hand broken and him still thick in his thoughts, Sam wonders what would’ve happened if Bucky had stayed. If he’d had the nerve to say it again.
If Sam would’ve had the nerve to say it back.
The thought makes his stomach twist, and he shoves it down, grits his teeth, turns the water hotter like it might burn the idea out of him.
But the words don’t scald off his skin.
They stay.
Just like Bucky always does — leaving just enough behind for Sam to miss him.
When he finally steps out of the shower, sensitive and numb all at once, he rakes a towel through his hair and pads into the living room — and nearly jumps out of his skin.
“Man, you gotta stop breaking into places,” he says, gripping the towel at his waist. “You’re lucky I’m even wearing this.”
Bucky doesn’t flinch, just leans against the wall, arms crossed like he’s been waiting for this moment. For Sam.
They never became roommates, contrary to what all their friends had assumed. Bucky lived everywhere and nowhere, but these days, New York had a hold on him. The only time they saw each other consistently was Delacroix — because, as it turned out, Sam was expected to bring his Bucky with him. His Bucky. God, if only.
“I didn’t lie about missing you,” Bucky says, voice gruff. “And after seeing him Hulk out, I—I had to come see you.”
“I’m fine.”
They both look at the damp cast on his arm. Bucky’s gaze stays on his chest, like he’s making a concentrated effort not to let it drop lower, but Sam can’t decide if having his pecs ogled is any better.
“Lemme put on some clothes—”
“Yeah, you go do that.”
Sam disappears into his bedroom, tugging on a shirt and sweatpants with movements that feel slower than they should, even with one hand. The weight of the day settles into his bones, but when he steps back out, Bucky is still there, waiting.
Bucky starts to speak, but Sam beats him to it. “Why are you here, Buck? Don’t you have some fake-ass speech to give?”
It makes no sense, Bucky tangled up with the government. It’s stupid of him, going undercover as a senator for some CIA mission he won’t talk about. Not that Sam hasn’t tried to pry it out of him; he just stopped when he realized he’d rather lose the argument than lose Bucky. Because every time, they go in circles: The government? Really, man? and I don’t trust them, Sam. That’s exactly why I’m infiltrating it.
“I saw the footage,” Bucky repeats. “The aftermath. I had to make sure you—”
“Like I said, I’m fine.” Sam sighs. “Joaquín too. Or, well, he will be.”
Bucky nods slowly, exhaling. “Your wing. It was torn off.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna work on fixing it. Government’s not exactly rushing to help. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss SHIELD, I miss Stark. I miss having something backing us. I don’t wanna reform the Avengers just for us to end up under the state’s thumb. We fought for more than that, goddamn it.”
Bucky steps closer. “Hey. It’ll be okay.”
Sam doesn’t know when he closed his eyes or when his breaths started coming too sharp, but he doesn’t expect the arms that wrap around him.
“Bucky?”
“I’m just glad you’re alive, pal,” Bucky murmurs. His voice is too raw, too close to breaking. Sam’s seen him broken before, but this — this feels different. He hesitates for a moment, caught in the weight of it, before his arms find their way around Bucky, returning the embrace as if his body already knew what his mind hadn’t decided yet.
“It’s like everything’s falling apart, and I’m supposed to hold it up, I’m expected to,” he admits into his shoulder. “But it’s caves collapsing, and I’m just one man. One regular, simple, ordinary man.”
“There’s nothing ordinary about you, Wilson. Not one damn thing.” Bucky swallows hard. “I wish Steve were here. Bet he’d know the right thing to say.”
Sam lets out a tired chuckle as he steps away from the embrace. “Man, Steve was awkward. You think he’d have some grand speech, but really, he’d just mumble something and pat my back. Though I heard Natasha cracked open some things in him during the… you know. ’Cause before that, when we were on the run, he mostly complained about Stark the whole time, which was code for missing him.”
Bucky huffs a small laugh. It’s a quiet moment, but it holds.
“D’you wanna come home with me?” Sam dares to ask, quieter than he means to. “Just for a few days? Sarah’s been worried sick, and I know whatever happens next with the presidency, I’ll be dragged into it. I just—I don’t wanna be Cap for a few days. Just wanna eat fish and see my nephews. So what do you say? Got time to put on your Uncle Winter Soldier pants?”
Bucky’s jaw tenses. A flicker of something — want, regret, the start of a thousand things he’ll never say — crosses his face before he looks away. “Fuck, Sam, you know I’d love nothing more—”
“No, yeah, I get it.” Sam cuts him off before he can finish. He should’ve known better than to ask. The exhaustion numbs the sting, but to be honest, he’s too tired to really feel any sort of embarrassment about it.
I love you echoes in his ears, and suddenly he needs to get away, now, as far as possible. He tells himself to move, to turn away before something slips. Before he slips. But Bucky is still looking at him, gaze dark and searching, like he wants to say more, do more, but something — duty, guilt, maybe even fear — keeps him still.
“You know, I think I’m gonna call it a night soon,” Sam says, voice tight. “You can take the couch, or the floor, if you want, but I’m gonna—”
“Sam, please—”
“No, it’s nothing like that, I’m just so tired, man, you know—”
“—I would come if I didn’t have campaigning to do, I already had to sneak out to come here—”
“I get it, buddy.” The word tastes like ashes in his mouth, and he didn’t mean to add so much venom to it, but he can’t pretend he hasn’t been imagining it, rolling it around in his head like a rough stone that’s now a perfectly smooth marble, sharp edges smoothed down from being turned over too many times.
Bucky shifts, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It’s grown long again, and Sam has a hard time keeping bad memories at bay.
“Please, just lemme explain. I’m wrapped up in something—something big,” he exhales, measured. “Look, Wakanda asked me to do this. It’s them I’m doing this for, not CIA, not Carter, not Fontaine. Shuri’s scared, Sam. The US doesn’t like not being the most powerful nation in the world, and they’re close to getting their hands on adamantium, as you know. She thinks that once they have it, they’ll want war for vibranium, too. She asked me to gather intel. In return, she’s got our backs. She’s already working on getting you a new suit, we just gotta find a cover story for how it happened. And we’re working on releasing Everett Ross from prison, he’s a friend of Wakanda, and also…” he stops, like he’s unsure if he should admit the rest of it. “She gave me some tips in return. Told me who not to trust. And turns out, I have some personal avenging to do, myself.”
Sam sinks onto the couch, rubbing a hand down his face. “What are you even talking about?”
“There’s many rats in the CIA, it seems,” Bucky responds bitterly. “Even so-called friends of ours.”
Sam watches him, his gaze flicking between Bucky’s mouth, his throat, the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he’s holding himself back.
“Sharon?”
Bucky nods. “The power broker.”
“What? No, but, that makes no sense,” he says, racking his brain for a piece of the puzzle he might’ve missed.
“Yeah. Except Shuri showed me the proof and, I mean, their intelligence network is pretty undefeated. They’ve been tracking the situation in Madripoor. It’s her, it’s always been her. So I think she’s after us, Sam. At the very least after Ross, so I don’t know if he’s safe even in the raft,” he finishes, joining Sam on the couch.
“Sterns did say he got something from the CIA, when he was working on sabotaging the president. Could’ve been her, damn.”
“This is why I can’t give up, not now, Sam, I—” Bucky leans closer, his breath warm against Sam’s jaw. “I have to protect you.”
Sam stiffens. “It sounds dangerous.”
“I’m the Winter Soldier, I can handle myself.”
“No, you’re not.”
“No, I’m not,” Bucky agrees softly before pulling back, creating the space between them once again.
Silence stretches, heavy, charged, bouncing off every wall.
Sam could kiss him.
Right now, right here, he could take Bucky by the collar and crash into him, drink down every unspoken word, every regret, every please Bucky won’t let himself say out loud. He knows it would be welcomed.
But he doesn’t. Because this isn’t just desire. It’s something deeper, messier, something that will ruin him if he lets it.
Sam swallows, throat tight. “I can’t lose you, too, Bucky.”
Bucky lifts a hand, hesitates. Then, slow, deliberate, he brushes his fingers along Sam’s wrist. It’s light, barely a touch, but Sam feels it everywhere.
“You won’t, you won’t, I swear, Sammy. I’m coming back. And I know you’re capable of protecting yourself, but I will keep an eye on you, always, and if there’s anything you need me for, anything at all, just call me and I’ll be there.”
“I’m Captain America. I should be the one to say that to you,” he replies, shaking his head.
“There’s no need to say it, pal. I know you would, you will, anytime. I know, Sam. You’ve done it for me, so many times.”
Sam smirks, but it’s tired, lopsided. “If we count Steve sending me to haunt your ass down, that’s what, three, four times I stuck my neck out for you?”
Bucky smiles softly, a little sadly. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“You already have,” Sam says, he means it. It’s not just about the battles. It’s the way Bucky’s been there, helping him with the boat, becoming part of his life, standing by him when no one else did, getting him the suit, being the one person he could count on. So many things, too many to name, but all of them make this moment real.
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Bucky says after a long pause, voice heavy with regret. “I’m sorry I have to go.”
Sam’s response comes quietly, without resistance, the fight drained from him. “It’s okay. Just... come back, yeah?”
“To you? Always.”
Sam reaches out, squeezing Bucky’s shoulder briefly, before standing to leave. But Bucky catches his wrist, gentle but firm, the touch grounding.
“I can stay ’till the morning.”
Sam should say no. Should walk away. Should set a boundary that means something.
But their eyes lock, and there’s no hiding from it now. This is love.
Instead, he murmurs, “On one condition.”
Bucky tilts his head. “Yeah?”
“You don’t say it again.”
Bucky doesn’t need to ask what it is to know what they’re talking about.
“You don’t get to say it ’till I get to have you.”
Bucky’s breath shudders. “You have me—”
“’Till I get to keep you.”
Bucky nods and releases the grip on his wrist.
Sam reaches out, slow, like testing the edge of a knife. He drags his knuckles along Bucky’s jaw, feeling the rough scrape of stubble. Then lower, down his throat, until he can feel the heavy pulse beneath his fingertips.
Bucky closes his eyes, leans into the touch.
Sam lets his thumb drag over Bucky’s lip. Just slightly. Just enough.
“I get it, Buck. I get why you’re doing it, why you couldn’t tell me. But I can’t put my heart on the line, not knowing if, when you…” he trails off.
He doesn’t say how it would affect everything — his reputation, Bucky’s election, the scrutiny, the headlines, Steve’s legacy. How Captain America can’t be seen publicly dating a member of the government. How their friendship alone is enough of a spectacle.
“It’s at least two years, isn’t it?” Sam exhales. “Your mandate?” His fingers linger at the hollow of Bucky’s throat. “I waited this long. I can wait a little more.”
Bucky turns his head, pressing a kiss to Sam’s fingertips. “Okay,” he whispers.
Sam swallows. His whole body is too hot, too tight.
He should step back, pull away, put distance between them before this turns into something neither of them can afford. Before it turns into something real.
But Bucky is looking at him like that again — like he’s memorizing the shape of him, like he’s already planning his own exit wound.
Like he wants to stay forever.
And God, Sam wants to let him.
His heart is a traitor, beating too fast, too loud, drowning out all the reasons why this is a bad idea. Two years is a long time to wait for something you’re already starving for. A long time to hold onto something you’ve never actually had.
He tells himself to be logical. To be smart. To be careful.
But then Bucky breathes, just a little too hard, and Sam feels it against his skin, and suddenly logic doesn’t mean a damn thing.
Because it’s always been like this — a quiet thing between them, humming beneath every glance, every too-long touch, every fight that’s meant I’d rather die than lose you.
Bucky’s fingers tighten around the hand on his face, just slightly, like he’s afraid Sam might let go.
Sam should let go.
If he had any sense, he’d tell Bucky to go.
If he had any self-control, he wouldn’t want him to stay.
But Bucky is warm beneath his palm, solid in a way that makes Sam feel like the world isn’t about to tilt out from under him, and maybe just for tonight, that’s enough.
Maybe just for tonight, he can pretend.
“You can still join me in bed,” he says, softer now, but rough around the edges.
They know. They’ve always known.
“Lead the way, sweetheart,” Bucky says, voice low, dangerous.
And Sam does.