Archive of Our Own ^beta

“You sure this is okay with you, Buck?” Steve asks, hands gentle on Bucky’s waist. Bucky forces a smile, though he knows it won’t reach his eyes. God, he wants to be normal, wants it more than anything, but even thinking about Steve’s hands on him, in the way they were before, in the way so many others’ had been since, is making his skin crawl. It was seventy years of constant touching— touching to hurt, touching to violate, touching for their pleasure. But that wasn’t Steve’s fault, what kind of person would Bucky be if he denied Steve what he’d been waiting decades for?

“I’m fine. Just.. not used to this. That’s all.” Bucky’s stiff as he forces his voice to soften, and tries to loosen his shoulders. Steve gives him a look, not believing him completely, but almost desperate to find truth in the words. Steve’s hands are so gentle as they slide down to Bucky’s hips, his thumbs moving in gentle circles as he looks at Bucky with so much love and patience. It nearly breaks bucky down, because he wants to want it so bad, but his hands shake as he guides Steve further down.

“I can stop whenever you want, Buck. It’s okay” Steve’s eyes are gentle and his voice is kind, but his hands stay there, and Bucky’s throat feels like it’s closing in. He shakes his head and presses Steve’s hands closer. He closes his eyes as he braces himself for his clothes to come off.

“Bucky… this is only if you want it.” Steve’s hands go limp against Bucky’s sides, but Bucky’s holding them too tight for him to pull away.

“No, I want this. Please, Steve, I want it.” Bucky whispers, leaning in almost imperceptibly, body still tense. “Please.” Please love me. Please let me be normal. Please don’t think I’m disgusting. But Bucky doesn’t have the courage or the will to say any of it. The minutes pass in a blur. His skin crawls as he feels the touch dancing across him like branding burning into his skin. Steve’s so soft and gentle, but Bucky’s too focused on acting like his breathing isn’t so shallow and fast, and his heart isn’t racing in his chest, and he’s not forcing his body to drop the tension that keeps coming back every fraction of a second. 

Bucky’s eyes are shut so tight it hurts. It’s like he’s outside his body as he moves down. He’s bare and face down on a bed, fists tight as his body moves back and forth through it. He hardly even notices as he starts hyperventilating and trembling. He sobs in relief as Steve finally pulls away, but his whole body flinches as Steve turns him over.  Half of him is here, in Steve’s apartment. The other half is gone, somewhere in Russia on a cold warehouse floor as a belt snaps shut above him. The sheets under him shift into concrete. Steve’s confusion and horror turns into the snarl of his handler. Bucky claws for a pillow and clutches it to his chest, like it can somehow hide him enough to give him seven decades of stolen dignity back. 

“Bucky, please, what’s wrong? What’s going on?” Steve reaches a hand out again, trying to comfort Bucky, but Bucky tenses so much he’s shaking and lets out an almost animalistic sound in his fear. Steve’s hand flies back like it just caught on fire. His eyes are wide in horror at himself, because he did this, but Bucky said it was okay. “Okay. Okay, I’m gonna call someone. Not me, you don’t need me right now.” Steve’s hand moves to smooth Bucky's damp hair back, but his hand only hovers aimlessly for a moment before he gets up and walks away. 

Steve hesitates as he walks through the door, but his feet carry him faster than he’s aware of as he goes out of the apartment and into the hall. He just sort of paces back and forth for a minute, clutching his phone like a lifeline, and waiting for a solution to fall into his lap. The guilt crawls under his skin. He just wanted his Bucky back, he was so blinded by that he didn’t even realize how tense Bucky had been. It was so, so obvious, how could he have been so stupid and selfish? He drops his phone when his hands shake too bad. He scrubs a hand over his face before reaching down to call the only person he can think to call. Sam picks up after two rings.

“Cap?”

“Sam. It’s bad. Bucky… I messed up. Bad. I don’t know what to do.” Steve’s voice is shakier than it ever had been. 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” The jingling of Sam’s keys was audible through the phone. “Talk to me, what’s going on? What led up to it?”

“I should’ve waited, and now he’s like that, and…”

“Okay. I’ll be there soon. Just try to give him space.”

Steve could’ve been gone for minutes, or hours, Bucky had no way of keeping track. He was curled up and trembling the whole time, eyes wide. Then there’s someone crouching low in front of him until they’re eye level with one another.

“Hey, Buck.” Sam’s voice was more gentle than Bucky had ever heard from him. It wasn’t the sarcasm he normally used with Bucky, it was kinder, no trace of teasing.  “We’re gonna get you out of here, okay? You’re safe.”

Bucky found himself actually able to meet Sam’s eyes.

“We’re just gonna breathe, okay? Can I put a hand on your chest?” Sam’s voice is warm, safe, and Bucky almost leans into it. He nods almost imperceptibly, and Sam gives a small smile and moves a hand to rest over Bucky’s heart. “In and out… Just like that. You’re doing really well.” Sam mirrors his breathing until Bucky’s breathing steadily and his knuckles grasping the pillow aren’t stark white.

”Do you hear that? The clock ticking? That’s real. This is real. It’s okay.” Sam puts  a hand to Bucky’s cheek, and Bucky finds himself moving closer. “We’re gonna get you to sit up, yeah?” Sam puts a hand to Bucky’s shoulder and helps guide him up, nothing but gentle hands and safe touches. “Arms up for me, alright?”

Sam takes off his own hoodie and slips it onto Bucky, just something to preserve some of his dignity,  whispering soft things as he does. The weight of the hoodie and the warmth of Sam’s hand is like heaven in Bucky’s terrified, broken mind.

“Is there anywhere I can take you?”  Bucky’s quiet, just staring, wide-eyed. Sam brushes his hair behind his ear and gives him so long to answer, but when he doesn’t, Sam volunteers something for him. “Is it okay if we go to my place? I can get you some food, water, whatever you need.”

A few beats pass before Bucky gives a small nod and gives a halfhearted attempt to reach for Sam, but his mind is still fuzzy and the movement is just a little too much effort.

“Okay. We’re gonna get you up, hm?” Sam guides him to stand up, though his knees are too weak to hold him up on his own. But Sam was warm, and gentle, and Bucky didn’t want him to leave.

Bucky’s feet move without his input until he’s sitting in Sam’s car.

Days pass in Sam’s apartment. Bucky’s just been crashing on the couch. It’s nothing fancy, but it's enough. There’s routine, and choice, and Bucky doesn’t feel like he’s wearing the face of the man who died in the Alps. On the fourth day, Sam leans on the doorframe to the living room as Bucky lays, eyes open but fixed on the ceiling. 

“What’re you thinking for breakfast, Buck? I got… oatmeal and toast, I think. Not exactly superfoods, but hey. I gotta go out later anyways.” Sam walks through the living room, making his way into the kitchen to rummage through the fridge. Bucky doesn’t even startle when Sam walks behind the couch, out of his line of sight.

“Oatmeal’s fine.” Bucky pushes himself up to sit on the couch and grabs a hoodie Sam had left on the coffee table for him in case he got cold. He runs his thumb over the fabric for a moment, trying to decide whether he wants it. It’s soft, and the fabric seems to cling onto Sam’s scent, Chamomile and something vaguely citrusy. For whatever reason, that feels safe. He pulls it over his head, the fabric heavy and warm against him, and pads over to the kitchen behind Sam. He leans back against the counter. 

“Can I crash here a few more nights? I was gonna stay with Steve, but you know.” Bucky looks down, avoiding Sam’s eyes as they soften. Sam turns away from squinting to read the instructions on the side of the box to face Bucky.

“Buck, it's not your fault. He doesn’t blame you.”

“I know. God, I know, I just don’t think I can go back.” The words hang heavy in the kitchen for a moment, before Sam turns back to fiddling with getting the oatmeal open, not wanting Bucky to feel like a spectacle.

“That’s okay. You stay here as long as you need.” Bucky stares for a moment, his gaze lingering on Sam, but then catches himself and moves to walk away. 

Collapsing back on the couch, he thinks of how safe it is here. He hadn't known a real home since long before Hydra, and he thought he’d lost the ability to feel the safety of home somewhere between the war and the brainwashing. Even with Steve, there was a stiffness to it, the cool draft of the ghosts they used to be. Sam walks back into the living room, and Bucky smiles, considering for the first time in over seven decades that maybe he’s finally found his home.