Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hold on, Bucky. Just hold on, man. They’re coming for you as fast as they can.”

Sam’s voice fades in and out of focus on the other end of the phone, or maybe it’s his own hearing that’s not working right. He can’t seem to get his voice to work either; he’s choking on dust and there’s a jabbing pain in his chest with every attempted breath, a pain that makes his lungs seize up and pushes speaking to the very bottom of his priority list.

“Don’t you dare check out on me,” Sam says, his voice firmer now; it's an order from Cap. “This isn’t how it ends, right?”

Well, maybe this isn't how he would have imagined eventually finishing his existence, but who's to say that this isn't how the life of James Barnes ends? Who’s to say how anything is supposed to go for him these days? He’s never been a big believer in fate, but if it were a thing then surely even it wouldn’t know what to do with him anymore. He’s not the man he used to be, and he’s not someone new either, but some sort of Frankenstein’s monster of patchwork parts all pulled together from his horror story of a life. Who knows how it’s meant to play out for him anymore?

He doesn't have the breath to say any of that, so he just closes his eyes in the near-darkness and listens to Sam's voice. It’s louder and more insistent now, but he can’t make out the words. He slowly lowers the hand that’s holding the phone, letting it fall limp against his chest. He'll figure out what to do in a minute, after he's rested.

~

It was a paint scraper that had really set him wondering about it all in the first place; the matter of who he was anymore. It hadn't started it, exactly, but it had somehow solidified the feeling he'd been having for months once he'd finally gotten a chance to stop and think. For those several months he'd been drifting through life, trying to figure out who he was and where he was going, and whether he even wanted to go there after everything, and without Steve.

And then one day he'd been sitting on the dock while he waited for Sam, tossing the tool idly, watching the way the sun sparked off the blade, feeling the weight of it as it landed back in his hand, enjoying the balance and the ease with which he snatched the tool back from its lazy arc through the air.

Well, he'd thought he was enjoying it. But a couple of nights later a memory had come back to him as he slept. 

The Soldier had been allowed to choose his weapons, once upon a time. He'd remembered the sensations; tossing a knife in the same way, testing its weight and balance, snatching it from the air, assessing how easily he could end a life with it and in how many different ways, nodding to his handlers in satisfaction. He'd taken that knife on his next mission. His hand still remembered the slowly yielding resistance as he'd drawn the knife across a throat, hot blood spilling over his wrist. 

He'd woken up with a stifled cry, coated in sweat, breathing hard in the silence. He'd done that. It had been him that had done that, even if he hadn't known that he was him at the time . He'd just breathed deeply for a while, using what Dr Raynor had shown him, trying not to give in to the urge to throw up. He'd lost that battle.

Was that what he'd been doing on the dock too, without even realising? Testing a weapon? What if some other part of him, a ruthless killer, had been the one guiding his movements in what he'd thought was just an innocent moment?

He'd shaken that off. He'd tried to, at least, because no, he didn’t want to believe that. The water around him had sparkled when he'd toyed with the paint scraper, and the sun had shone, nothing like the ice of Siberia, and Sam had been there with his easy warmth, and he'd simply been playing, testing his reflexes, passing the time, relaxing in a way he hadn't been able to do in a long while. Nothing like before. He'd tried to ignore the nagging doubt as he lay there trembling in the wake of the nightmare, and he’d gotten out of bed, and gotten dressed, and gone back to work again, because Sam believed that some things could still be fixed even when it all seemed hopeless, even when it seemed they were broken beyond repair, and even if they couldn't then it was at least worth trying, and he'd wanted to believe all that too.

He hadn't been able to quiet his thoughts fully even after that, even through the distraction of working with Sam, having a purpose again. Who the hell is Bucky? he’d asked of Steve once, and it had seemed he still wasn't quite sure of the answer.

~

He coughs, and the pain in his chest flares into fierce jabs that leave him gasping, yanking him back to awareness from a half-conscious doze. He blinks heavily, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light, but there’s little to see anyway. 

Steve wouldn't have ended up stuck here like this. Steve would have come up with a better plan; he always had a plan. Right to the end, he'd had a plan.

Steve. A weak smile twists his lips upwards at the thought of him. Steve had been so hopeful that finding him meant getting his old friend back, always so hopeful. That hope in his eyes had been painful to see when it had become clear that the old Bucky wasn’t coming back. So many conversations with Steve had started with ‘ do you remember when…’ and no, no he hadn’t. Not all of it, not at first, and even now there are details of his life, his family, that he can’t bring back to mind. 

He’s always known that there’s no way back to the Bucky he’d been before the war. That Bucky had lost his innocence looking down the barrel of a tank, surrounded by suffering, and it had only gotten worse from there. He can’t take out the things that were put into him to turn him into someone else. Can't take out the serum, or the knowledge of a hundred different ways to kill someone silently, or the memories of doing just that. Can't unlearn the skills he never asked for, can’t unsee the horrors.

Maybe Steve had realised that too, eventually. No wonder he'd gone, chosen to live the life he was meant to have.

Working with Sam for a while has helped him, he's sure of that. It’s given him a lifeline, almost; something he hadn’t thought he’d ever find again after Steve left. It had given him something that he could do. It had shown others that he could still do something useful. Even now that he and Sam don’t work together so much, he’s still got missions, and a purpose.

This life he's got now does have its disadvantages too, such as the fact that at this moment he’s trapped underground in a space that’s gradually filling with cold water, and he can't move. He’s lying under a twisted tangle of wreckage, metal and stone, a massive heap that’s immovable in his current state. Right after it had all come down he’d tried a few times to shift, to sit up even a little, but each time he’d tried it something in his back had locked up, with pain sharp enough that he'll gladly wait before trying it again. His ribs are aching fiercely, and he can’t get a full breath, something stabbing hard inside him whenever he tries. What remains of his left collarbone is definitely broken, the ends of the bone grinding together when he attempts to move his stronger arm. The wreckage presses the most heavily on his left leg, creating an agonising pressure on bones that are surely cracked at the very least, and his whole leg’s alight with white-hot pain. 

If he could move even a few inches, or if he could muster up even a short burst of strength, he might be able to release the weight a fraction, just enough for a moment to drag himself free of it, but he's lost touch with the part of himself that can tolerate unimaginable pain. Back then , he’d been driven by the mission, by the threat of punishment, by the single-minded focus on achieving his objectives. Before that he’d been a soldier on the battlefield, responsible for the lives of others, putting one foot in front of the other because he had to, no matter how he felt. He can’t do that anymore. There’s only him here. No one is counting on him. There's no one to save. No one is expecting him to report back. He feels all of the pain, and there’s no stronger force driving him to push past it this time. 

He rests his head back against the hard wreckage. If this is it, maybe he'll see Steve again.

The few dull emergency lights down here are flickering, about to go out. The cold water’s almost risen to the level of his chin.

“Bucky? Do you hear me? If you hear me, I need you to stay awake. Bucky!”

Sam. He hadn’t bothered to end the call when he dropped the phone onto his chest a while ago. He hadn't realised that Sam was still there.

“Hmm,” he manages to say, his voice hoarse, and at first he isn’t sure that Sam could have heard it, but then there’s a gust of breath on the other end of the call; one that probably wouldn’t have been audible without his enhanced hearing. The brief attempt at using his voice sets him off coughing, and the metallic taste of blood fills his mouth, and something warm and wet trickles down his chin, dripping into the water lapping at his side. He's cold, so cold.

“Hold on. They’re almost with you.”

They. They're almost with him. Where's Sam? He's on the phone, but he's not here. In DC, he recalls vaguely. He's often away these days, working alone or with Torres. He doesn't need a damaged, centenarian former assassin for a partner, and that's perfectly okay.  They’re still friends, and Sam knows that he can call on his help if it is ever needed. Of course the powers-that-be would rather have him working alone for them, carrying out the jobs that Captain America can’t be seen doing. 

That's what brought him here, to this facility, which is now nothing more than a shell full of rubble. It's a job that calls for stealth. Quick and quiet elimination of the targets, under the radar. You understand, of course. He had understood; that he was to use his dubious skillset again, and that it was apparently alright to do so as long as the good guys were asking. He’d done what they’d asked of him, but not without triggering a trap.

“Okay, so maybe you trying to talk isn’t the best idea right now,” Sam’s saying, and he tries to focus in on that voice. “ Just listen. A lot of people are looking for you. They know your last position. They’re making a way in to get to you. And I’m almost there. We’ll have you free any time now; just hang in there a little longer.”

Free. Now there's a word. He’s supposed to be free already. Free from fighting, free from the control of others, free from his own mind working against him. When Ayo had told him that, he'd sobbed with relief.

Of course he knows now that he'll never be free, not while there are fights to be fought. He’s never wanted to fight, but he’s always wanted to stand up for the little guy. He’s always wanted to do the right thing, especially these days, so that some good can come of the powers he’s been given. That hasn’t gone so well for him this time. 

He tries again to move even slightly, pushing up with his one good arm that’s miraculously about the only part of him not trapped and tangled under tons of wreckage, but pain shoots through his whole body all at once, blinding and intense. It's so bad that he gasps, his body seizing up, and sucks in a lungful of water. He’s hacking it up again, squeezing his free arm against his ribs as best he can, forcing his eyes closed against the tears that build in response to the agony, when Sam speaks again, and his voice sounds so unfamiliar that it takes him a few moments to realise that it’s fear sharpening his tone.

“Bucky. Don’t you dare. Don’t you die on me. It’s almost Christmas, man, and you said you’d help me. You said you’d help me build that gaming chair for Cass, remember? You said you knew how to make the best mashed potatoes. I want you there, Buck. Sarah and the kids want that too.”

“Not g’na… die,” he grits out, and he means that with an intensity that almost surprises him. 

Why is he fighting so hard, after so many years of just wanting to stop? Maybe he can take a rest now. It's dark, and cold, and he’s in so much pain, and he's so very tired. He hadn't even been sure he wanted to stay around, after Steve left and before he started to work with Sam. He’s tried to do some good in the world. This isn't how he expected it to end, but…

But… he has a family again now, in a way. He certainly has friends. In his pocket there's a keyring that Sarah gave him, and he pushes his right hand as far as he can into that pocket and runs his fingers over the smooth curves of the shiny resin fish shape that she'd said would remind him of their family. Just holding that smooth shape brings him back to the Wilsons’ dinner table, the kids shrieking with laughter. To the dock, sipping a beer with Sam, the sun warm on the back of his neck. 

His fixer-up motorbike is there, at the Wilsons' house. Sarah had let him park it there when he finally decided to buy the one he'd been eyeing up; she'd said that at least it was one way she could be sure he'd visit, and then she'd lightly smacked his arm. She's never been afraid to treat him as just Bucky; nothing more.

There’s a map of the States on his table back home; one with neon post-its stuck all over it; places that he's going to finally see once he gets the new bike running the way he likes. He'd left his place in a hurry, abandoning both that map and the course brochure lying next to it. He'd been applying for Politics; figured maybe it was time to do something where he could try to make some sort of a positive difference in a way that was all his own.

His place is a mess, if he remembers correctly; as much of a mess as he's capable of making, because he was packing when he got the call for this job. He's supposed to fly down to Delacroix next week. The plane ticket's tucked under the loose floorboard by the TV for safekeeping, if he can just go get it. He wants to go get it.

He doesn't want to die. His eyes sting with tears, and he takes a few sobbing breaths. He's not dying here, not if there's anything he can do about it. He's not.

He wedges his right hand’s fingers against the twisted metal and gets a hold on it. He pushes at it, screaming, shoving as hard as he can with the heel of his good leg too until he manages to force himself backward a couple of inches. His broken bones grind together. The water laps over his mouth. The phone slides off his chest, splashing into the pool somewhere by his waist, but he doesn’t need it now. He's getting out of here.

He stops, panting shallow breaths with the effort those couple of inches cost him, trying to get enough air through the sharp pain that erupts all over. He coughs again, harder now, and the bitter taste of iron floods his mouth. There’s a strange floating sensation, and if he could see much of anything he’s sure he’d be seeing spots.

He maybe loses some time after that.

When he blinks back to awareness, groaning at the pain that assaults him all over again, it feels different. In his new position, there's less pressure on his injuries. A little more space to move. It's a little easier to keep going. Not easy, not by any means, but a little easier. He keeps going, gritting his teeth, dragging himself free bit by agonising bit, inch by inch, his cries echoing off the walls and rubble around him. 

Eventually he works his foot loose from under the wreckage, the last part of him that was stuck, and he falls back, limp and exhausted. He lies there, tilting his head back just enough to breathe through his nose above the water. He can’t move. He can't do any more. But he has to. He’s not drowning down here. He pushes himself up on one elbow, choking back a cry as pain lances through his back. He's shaking with the effort, but he manages to prop himself against a hunk of stone, and he leans there, closing his eyes, trying to get enough air into his lungs through the rattle in his chest.

He’s bought himself a little more time, but there’s no way he can stand, or get the rest of the way out of here. At least he isn't going to drown yet.

~

He’s not sure how long he’s sat there, but he jerks back to awareness at a high pitched screeching from somewhere above and to the side of him. There’s a crash and then artificial light floods his little space and he squints, lifting his good hand to shield his eyes at the sudden brightness. 

“Shut it off!” someone yells, and the screeching sound fades back to silence. There are voices now, anxious voices, and then a figure descends through the new hole in the roof feet first. They have wings. A blur of red, white and blue. 

“Sam,” he gasps. He’s never been so relieved to see his friend. Tears prick at his eyes and he swallows them back, watching as Sam clambers his way across the wreckage and rubble, splashing through water that’s almost at the tops of his boots. 

He braces one hand on the stone behind himself, trying to force himself up. His arm shakes before he's even made it a couple of inches off the ground, and he braces himself for the extra pain of collapsing back, but then hands are on him, lowering him gently, and that pain never comes. He can save himself, but Sam is there to help with that.

“You're alive,” Sam's saying, resting one hand on his cheek, and that hand is blessedly warm after the chill of the place that almost became his tomb. “I've got you now, man. It's okay.”

“You're supposed to be in DC,” he gasps out, his brain misfiring. 

“I got a call about you. I came as fast as I could.” Sam’s voice is trembling almost as badly as his own is. 

“Who…” he breathes, unable to finish the question. Who would care enough to call Sam for him? To launch a rescue effort of the scale that this one sounds like? Not Torres; he'd already been with Sam…

“Sarah saw the explosion on the news; they suspected you were here. She called until I picked up,” Sam supplies. His forehead creases with worry as he looks Bucky up and down. “Come on, we need to get you to a hospital.”

He hates hospitals, and Sam knows that well, but for once he’s not going to argue. He needs to know something, though. “Was anyone… else… hurt?” he asks, grasping at Sam’s sleeve. His targets were, obviously, and he needs to think about that later, but anyone else… any innocent bystanders… please, no.

Sam’s face softens with sympathy. “No, man. Only you.” He holds out his hands. “This will probably hurt. I’m sorry in advance. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

He doesn’t doubt that for a second, and Sam’s true to his word as he wraps careful arms around him and lifts them both off the ground, but he wasn’t wrong about it hurting. He muffles his groans of pain against Sam's shoulder as the other man hoists him up and back out to street level. It's raining, and the chill in the air is biting against his already wet skin. He can't stop shivering, and it jostles all his injuries. He’s lightheaded again, and he’s only dimly aware of being placed down on something soft, and someone wrapping a blanket around him.

“I’ve got him,” Sam’s saying to someone he can't see, and he closes his eyes and lets himself sink. 

Chapter Text

He can’t make sense of where he is, but there's pain. It fades into dullness for a while, and then returns all too soon, hot and sharp and everywhere , and he can hear his own groans but he can't speak, can't open his eyes, can't move.

Someone seems to notice anyway, because there are disembodied voices. One that he knows well rises above the others. “I’m telling you, he needs more than you’re giving him.” There are clatters, and hands on him, and his heart rate picks up, and then it all fades out again before he can gather his senses enough to try and throw off the people who are touching him.

“It's alright, man. You're alright.”  Those kind words penetrate through the haze somehow as everything fades.  The sharp pain doesn’t return in the same way after that. 

He's cold, too, his skin prickling with it even though he's covered with something. The snow. It’s still falling, sticking to his freezing skin, clinging to his bloodied arm, bringing a deep aching cold that wars with the agony of the broken bones…

“Hey, it's okay. You cold?” That voice is still here. Sam. He dimly feels a warm hand on his arm, and then something being pulled over him, and softness being tucked under his chin. It keeps the cold at bay.

~

“You gonna make it inside?” Sam slips his truck into park outside Bucky’s house and studies him.

“Yeah.” He fumbles with the crutches he was given when he was released, or, more accurately, when he'd simply refused to stay any longer, trying to manoeuvre them into place in the cramped footwell of the car. His shoulder gives him a sharp stab of pain as he does so. They’d apparently opened up his shoulder to get at the broken, displaced remains of his collarbone, and there’d been enough metal already in there that they’d been able to connect the bone back to that to heal. He doesn’t want to think about it too much, but even though it’s apparently safe to use that arm as long as he’s careful, it still hurts. 

He throws the door open and gets his good leg out first, already sweating from that simple movement. His back locks up with sharp pain as he turns slightly, and he stifles a gasp, clenching one hand on the doorframe. 

“You know what, I can't watch this.” Sam opens his own door and gets out. “Hold on.”

“I can do it,” he growls, sliding his casted leg out of the car as well and struggling to get up.

Sam's already around at his side now. “Would you stop being so stubborn, for once in your life.” He reaches in and takes a careful hold of Bucky’s arms without giving him a chance to say anything, helping him out of the seat, and he’s glad of it despite his protest. Getting upright hurts, and he ends up clinging to Sam as he stands not-quite fully upright, trying to catch his breath through the waves of pain.

Once he can move again, Sam walks with him to the building too, and keeps a steadying hand on his back as he makes his careful way up the short set of front steps. He’s shaking by the time he reaches his front door, and Sam’s hand has moved to his waist by now, holding him up more than a little. 

“Where’s your key?” Sam asks. 

“Right pants pocket.” He frees a hand from one of the crutches to reach for it awkwardly, stumbling against Sam.

“Stop, I’ll just get it. Please, just… don’t make this weird.” Sam reaches into his pocket for him with a fixed blank expression, not unlike the one he's seen him wear when he guts a fish. 

“You’re the one making it weird. What are you doing in there? It’s not that hard to find.” He grimaces as Sam digs around in the depths of his pocket and finally yanks the key free, bringing the fish keychain with it.

“Aww, I didn’t know you’d kept this.” Sam gives him a sidelong look as he fits the key into the door.

“Of course I did. Sarah gave it to me.” Despite how bad he feels, there's some satisfaction in the irritated glance that Sam throws his way. Sarah's almost like the little sister he might have grown up with if his life had gone differently, but messing with Sam once in a while is still amusing. He can't bring himself to tell Sam how much that keychain meant to him while he was trapped.

He makes his slow, painful way inside and over to his couch with Sam hovering beside him, lowering himself carefully to sit down and leaning back as far as he dares into the cushions. Even the slightest shift of position hurts. He can't quite remember the last time he broke this many bones in a single event, and the broken ribs have apparently done a number on one of his lungs too, not to mention the bruising both in and outside his body in places he didn't even know he had.

“This place is nice. You’ve got it looking kind of like a normal person lives here these days.” Sam watches him for a moment and then wanders over to the table, studying the papers laid out there, placing his hand on the map. “You going on a trip?” 

“Thinking about it. Gonna finish getting that bike fixed up one of these days, see some places.” He closes his eyes, resting his head against his hand. 

“And politics?”

When he lifts his head and cracks his eyes open, Sam's holding the open course brochure in his hand, looking at him with raised eyebrows, but it's curiosity, not judgement. “Yeah,” he grunts, sitting forward again and wrapping his arm around his ribs. As nice as this couch is, it's impossible to get comfortable right now. There's no position that doesn't hurt.

“Not something I'd have expected you to go for.” Sam puts the booklet down again and sits down across from him in the armchair he ordered a few weeks ago. A few curtains had twitched when he'd taken that chair from the delivery guys and hauled it inside himself. “That the direction you want to go?”

He shrugs one arm. Winces. “I think so. I at least want to look into it. See if I can do some good, you know? Try to stand up for the little guy.”

Sam watches him, not saying anything, his warm eyes inviting him to go on. 

“There’s a guy I know,” Bucky continues, closing his eyes again. “Can be pretty smart sometimes. On occasion. Said something once to a bunch of politicians, about how they could feed a million people with a phone call, but the right people needed to be in the room with them when they were making those kinds of decisions. Kind of made an impression. I figured maybe… if I get into the room… I can make sure those people are there with me.” He pauses. “If I hadn’t been drafted way back then I might’ve gone on to study something, y’know?” He opens his eyes, glancing at Sam for his reaction.

A gentle smile tugs at Sam's lips, and he ducks his head in acknowledgement. “Yeah. Well, that's good, man. I want you to be happy.”

“Thanks,” he says, and there's a warm feeling in his chest that's drowning out the ache of his ribs slightly. He clears his throat. “How was your meeting?”

Sam waves a hand. “Too much talk. Not enough action. I'm working on it.”

Bucky studies him; the frustration in the crease between his eyebrows, the sadness in his eyes, the determination in the solid set of his shoulders. “You'll do it,” he says, and Sam's eyes fix on his own. “I mean, if anyone can, you can. You don't give up. You make people feel heard, and so they listen to you too. It's a skill.”

Sam's eyes glitter as he listens, a small smile curving his lips. “Man, I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”

“Make the most of it. Won't happen again.” Bucky offers him a smile, one that he hopes conveys the opposite. Sam smiles back.

He tries to lean back again, his whole body aching, his limited amount of energy almost gone, and groans in frustration as his back flares with pain the moment he shifts his weight. He freezes in place, trying to breathe through it. His left arm is an added weight, tugging on his painful shoulder, and it’s putting a strain on his injured back too. He cups his other hand underneath the elbow, trying to take some of the weight. It’s a useful thing, and he’s endlessly grateful for it, but sometimes it makes everything that little bit harder when he’s not feeling his best. 

Sam gets to his feet. “Again, I can't watch this. It's tragic. It's like watching one of those nature documentaries where the terrible things happen to the sad-faced animals.”

“I'm sorry that my pain is inconvenient for you,” Bucky snarks back at him, but then Sam's standing beside him, reaching for him.

“Is this hurting you?” Sam asks, one hand coming to rest on his elbow, supporting the left arm, and his eyes are full of concern. It’s such a relief to have someone take the weight off of his battered body that he could almost cry, and Sam’s perceptiveness is having the same effect.

“It’s kind of heavy,” he mutters. “Normally fine, but…”

“But you took kind of a beating recently,” Sam finishes for him. He pauses, studying Bucky’s face. “You know, I know a few amputees. Counselled a few. They didn’t always wear their prosthetics. Especially if it was a bad day...”

He does take this arm off sometimes, of course he does, but not often. Doesn’t often feel safe to do it, but Sam’s here…  He takes a deep breath, looking up at his best friend. There’s nothing but compassion in Sam’s eyes. “I could take it off for a while,” he says, his voice coming out with an audible tremble. 

“Yeah.” Sam’s voice is soft. “Do you want help?”

The usual answer, no, I’ve got it , almost rolls off his tongue. Does he, though? Maybe, but he trusts Sam, and help would be… nice. He nods, not trusting his voice, and reaches up to tap the coded pattern to release the arm. He can’t help groaning with relief as it lets go, and Sam takes the weight of it for him, laying it aside on the table.

“Okay, come here. Lean on me and lie down here.” Sam takes hold of his shoulder and guides him downward towards his less-injured side, supporting him so that it's a gentle descent until he's lying propped against the arm of the couch with a pillow beneath his head and good shoulder. “There you go,” he says. “Can you get your leg up?” Sam places careful hands on it and helps him do that while Bucky clenches his teeth and breathes slowly through the pain. “You need anything else while I'm up?”

He shakes his head against the cushion, finally relaxing a little. “No. Thanks. I'm all set if you want to head out.”

Sam lingers beside him. “I don't think I'll go anywhere just yet. I still want you in Delacroix next week if you're up to it. Might stick around and make sure you don't die before then.”

Bucky huffs. “‘m not gonna die. ” It mirrors the words he said to Sam while he was trapped, and Sam flinches, seeming to recognise that too. “Already got my plane ticket,” he says, softer now. “Kinda kept me going, thinking about it.”

Sam blinks. “Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” Suddenly he needs to be holding it in his hands. “Could you… by the TV, third floorboard out from the wall. It's under there.”

Sam pulls up the loose board and lifts out the envelope, bringing it over to him. He's glad that he doesn't question the hiding spot. Even these days he can't quite shake the habit of needing to hide anything that's truly important, just in case.

“You know,” Sam says, handing over the ticket. “Getting that call about you, it scared the shit out of me. I thought I was losing you.” 

Bucky swallows, looking up at him. “I'm sorry. It wasn't supposed to be a difficult job. Pretty easy for me, actually. Quietly eliminate the targets. Get out again without anyone knowing. Could have done it in my sleep.” He can hear the bitterness seeping through his own tone, and judging by the worried frown on Sam's face he's not doing a good job of hiding his feelings in the slightest. His mom always did say his face was like an open book.

“That's not who you are anymore,” Sam says, his voice firm. He backs up a few steps and sits back down on the edge of his chair, waiting.

Bucky snorts. “And yet the killing part went fine. It was more the getting out part where I hit a snag.”

“It's not you,” Sam repeats, more firmly now. “And nobody should be asking you to take on those kinds of missions; that's all kinds of wrong. I'll talk to some people, if you want me to. It won't happen again. That’s not you.” There's a quiet anger in his voice now.

“It's not who I want to be,” Bucky agrees. His voice breaks on the last word.

Sam is looking right at him, not letting him hide. “Who do you want to be?”

“This…” He waves a hand at the papers on the table; his plans for the future, the things he wants to do just because he might like them. Holds up the plane ticket. Blinks a few times. “I just want to be… Bucky.”

Sam sits back, but he can still feel his eyes on him. “Man, you know something? You amaze me.”

No, he doesn't know that. He shakes his head. “What?”

“All the shit you went through, and look at you. Still going out there, trying to help. Still getting up when you get knocked down. Making these plans, living your life, moving forward. You're still you , Buck. You always have been, despite everything. That's what amazes me.”

Tears prickle at the backs of his eyes. What does he even say in response to that? 

Sam gets up and comes closer, placing a careful hand on his shoulder. “Why don't you get some rest now, man. You still look like shit.”

There's real concern underneath those words. He still can't find the right thing to say in response, but he shifts his arm upward enough to place his hand on Sam's arm, squeezing gently, hoping that conveys at least some of his meaning for now.

Sam surprises him when he doesn't pull away but instead sits down on the floor next to the couch, keeping his hand in place on his arm. It's still there as he drifts and starts to dream.

~

Sam stays with him for the next week. He lets Bucky stay sleeping on the couch for the first night, before he starts insisting that he needs to be in a real bed and practically drags him there, acting highly delighted when he discovers that Bucky in fact owns a bed these days.

He stays nearby and takes hazy-sounding phone calls while Bucky sleeps or dozes, from people who might be the President, judging by what he can make out on the other end of the phone. He makes a few calls of his own too, going as far from Bucky’s bedroom as he can to speak in low tones, but Bucky can still make out the urgent, furious hiss of some of his words. “ Everything he gave for this country… hell, this planet. ” A pause . “...veteran… PTSD… No. No, it can never happen again.”

He speaks to Sarah a few times too, but he never leaves, except for one time when he goes out for an hour and comes back inside laden with grocery bags. He goes into the kitchen every so often and comes back to the bedroom with water, painkillers, soup, sandwiches, some sort of spicy stew, as if he doesn't have a full time job and a host of other responsibilities jostling for his attention. He lends a hand so that it's as painless as possible every time Bucky has to crawl out of bed, even though he doesn't have to help.

Accepting help doesn't normally come naturally to him, not after so many years of having no choice but to push through, to carry on, but he feels raw and laid open by his brush with the death that he's realised more than ever that he doesn't want at all, and the conversation that had followed it. He'd told Sam his plans and he hadn't questioned them, hadn't laughed in disbelief. Sam had said… what he said about him. Not much surprises him any more, but that did. He feels like… Iike finally he might be getting somewhere.

~

“Sam,” he says as it nears the end of the week, hobbling into the living room where Sam's reading his phone on the couch. He's still got a way to go; his bones are still healing with that unnerving grating sensation that they always give him, but it's being helped in a big way by the amount of food and sleep he's been getting. It probably wouldn't have been the case if he'd been alone. In any case, it's looking like he's going to be okay enough to fly. He needs to say something before they get there.

“Yeah.” Sam looks up, giving him that soft smile. “Sit down, you still look about half dead.”

He limps over to the couch and lowers himself down next to Sam, who silently offers him an arm to grab as he does so. “How are you doing?” he asks once he’s made it to sitting.

Sam turns to face him with an ease he envies, studying him. “I'm alright, but I didn't get myself crushed under a heap of rubble and half drowned.” 

“Thought I was a goner for a while back there,” Bucky mumbles, running his hand over his face. “You did too, I guess.”

“I did.” Sam puts down his phone. “You kept fading out like crazy. I thought for sure I was listening to your last words; scared the hell out of me when you stopped talking to me. Hate to admit it, but I'd miss you.”

Sam says it lightly, but Bucky’s a master of deception himself and he can see the sincerity in his eyes, and he can hear the change in his breathing.

“Likewise,” he admits. “I'm sorry you went through that.”

Sam glances at him. “It wasn't your fault, man. And it won't happen again if I have anything to do with it.”

Well, he's already heard some of what Sam's been doing to try and ensure that, and he believes him. He could keep fighting; he will if he's needed, but he'd rather not. Not like that. He can do some good in other ways, and it means everything that Sam seems to think that too.

“Listen, I've been thinking about what you said. About me still being… me.”

“I meant it,” Sam says. “Proud of you, Buck.”

That slams into him and stops him in his tracks, and the words he'd finally gotten straight in his head drift away from him. “Well… I needed to say… um.” He takes a breath and starts again. “If I kept going… if I moved forward… well, after Steve went, I couldn’t have done that without you. Thank you.”

Sam shakes his head slightly. “I think you could. You're stronger than you think.”

“No. No, you showed me a way forward, even though you had your own stuff going on. Wouldn't have found it myself if I'd kept on the way I was.” He pauses to blink tears away, and Sam's still looking at him, not saying anything. Impatience flares up. “Will you just accept a thank you when I'm trying to give it? What's the matter with you?”

Sam grins. “That sounds more like the cranky old man I know.” He shifts a bit nearer. “I hear you. Now come here, idiot.”

Before he realises what's happening Bucky's being pulled into a sideways hug, a gentle one that doesn't hurt. He tenses up for half a second before relaxing against Sam, letting his friend’s warmth sink into him. He doesn’t have the energy to move, and if he’s honest with himself he doesn’t really want to. “Thanks,” he mumbles against Sam's shoulder. “Thanks for coming for me, and for… all of this.”

“Of course, man.”

Sam doesn't seem in any hurry to let go of him, any more than he is to move, and he feels like his body's getting heavier as he sits there.

“You falling asleep on me?” Sam asks, squeezing him a bit. “Well, I guess that’s okay. I’m not going anywhere.”