Archive of Our Own ^beta

The universe likes repetition, Bucky has found. And everything starts and ends with falling.

As Bucky falls from the helicopter, chasing after the man that has chased him for so many years, he decides he prefers this kind of falling.

The kind that’s safe, that he knows he can survive, even from 200 feet up in the air.

Not the kind that comes from Sam’s lips trailing down Bucky’s throat, gooseflesh rising, the feeling curling low in his stomach, heating his insides.

It starts with a beer. An over-priced, tasteless, bottle of lukewarm beer. Bucky's sat in the crappy hotel armchair, faded blue, the springs digging into his back— across from Sam— when he grabs it from the table. The beer. Sam’s beer.

Sam's been nursing the damn thing for an hour, tipping it back, exposing the sharp line of his throat, lips wrapping around the mouth of the bottle, and it's giving Bucky ideas.

No one actually fucking drinks like that, okay? That's not normal.

"So," Bucky says, like they're just two guys casually hanging out in a hotel room. Like they didn't just rise from the dead, or attend a funeral or lose two of their best friends in the span of a few days. "What now?"

Sam swipes at the beer from across the table. “That’s mine, asshole," he says. "Now we go home. Whatever that means.”

“Home,” Bucky repeats.

It’s been two days since they arrived at the Stark Eco-Compound. Four hours of driving from Brooklyn, in Steve's shitty Honda, to pick up Sam in DC, and then another four to a second-rate three star hotel room with paper-thin walls and a bleach splattered rug.

"It'll be fun," Steve had said, which was an odd way to describe a drive to a funeral, but something about Steve wasn't quite right. Hadn't been right since Bucky and Sam returned from the Blip.

Steve had clapped him on the back and Bucky had shifted his bag up higher on his shoulder, frowning mournfully at Steve's car. Steve's scraped-up, banged-up, barely hanging on, piece of shit.

It mocked him.

See, a road trip with Steve? That was alright. Bucky'd done that kind of thing before. Been in plenty of small spaces with Steve, spent time with him in even shittier vehicles. But a roadtrip with Sam?

Now that was a particular brand of hell. Not that Bucky had anything against the guy, really. More the opposite. Bucky can’t function around him. There just ain't any guidebooks on how to recover a relationship when you almost kill the guy you want to stick their dick in you.

So. The road trip wasn't fun. It wasn't even good, considering, well.

Steve'd told him what he had planned for Sam.

They'd been on the highway for hours, car headlights buzzing past, a white-yellow blur. Bucky was in that half-dozing, half-awake sort of haze that would inevitably end in him jolting upright from a nightmare.

"There comes a point when you lose too much, Buck," Steve said. "Where you can't continue. Sam knows. His was Riley."  He sighed. "And mine. Mine was Nat." There were twenty-five minutes left on the GPS. Twenty five minutes to talk about why the fuck Steve decided to leave them both behind.

Steve said he wasn’t happy. He couldn’t stop thinking about the past. He was grateful for Sam and Bucky but he needed to go. This wasn't enough anymore.

Sam and Bucky were not enough.

"One more thing," Steve said, eyes fixed on the road. The GPS directed them off the highway. Steve put his blinker on. "Sam can't know what I'm gonna do. Not until it's all done."

Bucky wished he was the one driving, so he didn't have to see the way Steve swallowed, the way he clenched the steering wheel, exhaustion around his eyes.

“You shouldn’t leave him in the dark like that,” Bucky said. “He’s literally walked to the ends of the Earth for you.” 

Steve sighed. He ran a hand over his face. “I can’t do it, Buck. If I tell him, I won’t be able to leave. He’s the only person who could convince me to change my mind.” 

The grind of the asphalt signaled their arrival to Sam’s house. Sam was standing in his driveway, a duffel perched on his shoulder. His shoulders were hunched, tension apparent in the line of his back, even as he straightened to walk to the car.

“You two look appropriately glum.” Sam remarked and slammed the passenger door closed.

Steve shot Bucky a pleading glance to keep his mouth shut. Sam deserved to know. Sam deserved better than this. But Steve was his best guy, right? He'd follow him to the end of the line, that's what he said. And here they were. At the end of the line.

So Bucky said nothing and added Steve’s secret to a long list of reasons why Sam Wilson should hate him.

“I’m headed back to DC.”  Sam shrugs. “Then Louisiana to see my sister.”

Bucky nods. He picks up the bottle from where it's resting on the table. Tips it back. “I gotta go to Brooklyn and sell all of the shit Steve was kind enough to leave behind.”

Sam lifts an eyebrow. "His apartment?"

Bucky shakes his head. "Said I could keep the apartment. But the rest of the stuff has gotta go. Steve may be an artist but he's got no taste."

Sam snorts and nods in agreement. He reaches for the beer bottle in Bucky's hands, fingers overlapping Bucky's where they're curled around the neck of the glass. Bucky lets go immediately. "I've seen the couch."

"You've seen his apartment?" Bucky asks.

Sam looks at him like he has two heads, which thanks, he knows he's been out of commission for a few years. How is he supposed to know who's been where?

"Who do you think helped him pick it out?" Sam stares past Bucky, gaze soft. "Not that it got much use, with all the years we spent traveling." He clears his throat. "Nat and I used to hang out there sometimes." He wet his lips. "We'd play this game." He holds two fingers out, smiling. "Where you-" Sam's hands freeze, mid-air. The lump in his throat bobs up and then down again. Sam's hands drop back down to his sides. "You, uh, had to be there," he finishes, voice rough.

Bucky can't tell if Sam's eyes are glassy or it's just the lighting. He doesn't want to ask. He just swipes the bottle back instead. It takes Sam a moment to register the movement. "That shit is expensive, man."

Bucky lifts an eyebrow, puts the bottle to his lips. "Yeah? How much?"

Sam crosses his arms. "Guess."

Bucky purses his lips. "Five."

"No."

"Seven."

"No."

"Ten? No fucking-"

Sam nods. "It's ten."

"Ten dollars for this?" Bucky asks, nose wrinkling. "It's practically water."

"For you it is," Sam says. "Give it here."

Bucky slides it back across the table, rolls his eyes. “Does it matter? Ten dollars, twenty dollars, we ain’t paying for it. The room’s on Steve’s cred-” He stops.

Across the room, Steve’s duffel bag is still out. The pull-out bed neatly made. His shield resting against the edge of it, zipped closed.

Sam catches his expression and lifts an eyebrow. “That's right,” he says, without missing a beat. “Steve didn’t have the decency to leave his credit card before he left us behind to live his hundred years in paradise.”

And that's the thing with Sam. He has a way of making the hard stuff sound easy.

“What an asshole,” Bucky tells him, deadpan, and when Sam smiles, he can’t help but grin back.

The night starts with a beer, but it ends after three. It's enough that Sam's skin feels warm when his hand brushes the back of Bucky's, enough that he's loose-limbed and expressive, his laughter a slow, rumbling thing that sounds almost decadent– like molten lava cake– and Bucky's just foolish enough to wonder if Sam might actually like him.

They're down thirty bucks and they'll argue about the bill tomorrow, but for now Bucky can only stare, stupid with want, as Sam stands up from his chair and stretches, his t-shirt lifting to expose a slip of skin. Then Sam yanks the whole shirt over his head, before he drops it back into his duffel bag on the ground.

God. It'd be nice to get a warning when Sam starts stripping off his clothes like that. What the hell.

Bucky can't tear his eyes from the line of Sam's back, the way it curves, all smooth skin and hard planes of muscle. He swallows, just as Sam turns around. Sam smirks.

Oh fuck, Bucky thinks, and turns away, a little too late.

“See something you like?” Sam teases.

Bucky's face burns as he hears the rustle of clothing, looks back up to see Sam in sweatpants, obscenely low sweatpants, and nearly swallows his tongue. If he didn't miss Steve so goddamn much, he'd kill him right now, for putting him in this agonizing situation. He needs the fucking guidebook. 

Sam crosses his arms, waiting for an answer.

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters and stands up from his seat to slide into bed.

Sam laughs. Bucky thanks everything sweet and holy that it's dark on his side of the room, because his cheeks are on fire.

Sam settles into the other bed beside him, pulls the blankets over his bare chest. He grabs at the remote, flips on the TV.

Bucky shifts, trying to get comfortable. The bed’s too soft and he hates it, the cool white cotton sheets, scratchy and unfamiliar. He rubs at a loose thread on the comforter. “What're you watching?”

There’s a woman crying on screen, her fingernails painted lilac, dabbing at her eyes. “How could you do this to me?"

“Real Housewives.”

"Real Housewives?" Bucky repeats. He watches silently for a few minutes. He grimaces. “Is… it good?”

Sam grins. “No, it’s fucking awful. Sarah's been trying to get me into it.” He tosses the remote at Bucky.

"Are you?" Bucky asks, furrowing his brow. "Into it."

“Yeah,” Sam deadpans. "The crying really does it for me." He shakes his head. "Feel free to change it."

Bucky clicks the remote, switches channels.

“Seriously?” Sam asks. “Animal Planet?”

Bucky shrugs. “It’s good background noise.”

It’s what Bucky usually falls asleep to. This, or a sports game. He can't sleep when there's silence.

There’s a pack of Siberian tigers on the screen. They're crouched in the mountains, their tails swishing, scattering powdered snow. The music's a gentle drum beat.

It's nice. It provides the perfect cold comfort for drifting off to sleep. Perfect for drowning out the thoughts.

Sam seems to think so too, because halfway through the documentary, he falls asleep. His breathing is soft, slow. He sleeps on his side, fingers curled into a fist, his lips slightly parted.

Bucky looks away. There’s an intimacy, watching Sam sleep, that he’s not quite comfortable with.

“No matter how much an animal is domesticated,” the TV says, “there is still something wild in it.” The drums beat. The tigers roar. Bucky shuts his eyes and lets it all fade away.

He doesn’t sleep for long. He knew this would happen, if he’s honest, he’s just lost his best friend and he’s stopped fighting for the first time in 90 years. But the nightmares take him by surprise, because they’re not new, uncharted memories. They’re about Sam.

Bucky kicks him. Over and over again. Sam’s falling, one wing flapping uselessly, spiraling. Bucky reaches out for him but it’s too late and-

Sam’s hand is clasped on his shoulder. Warm. Affirming. Bucky blinks twice, lets his eyes adjust in the dark. And that’s when he notices that his other hand is wrapped around Sam’s wrist, gripping tight.

“Shit,” Bucky says, releasing him immediately. He slides back further in the bed, away from where Sam is watching him, brows furrowed. “Don't you know not to touch someone while they’re having a nightmare?”

“You were yelling in your sleep, I didn’t know if-”

“Yeah, well, thanks,” Bucky says, short. His stomach roils and his throat feels tight. There are tears pricking in the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t want Sam to see him like this. 

“You good?”

Bucky smiles, all-teeth. "Never better." And then he gets to his feet, walks calmly to the bathroom, and retches into the toilet. Fuck.

When he’s finished, he washes his face, rinses his mouth, and stares at himself in the mirror. Red-rimmed eyes, hair hanging in matted locks around his ears. To put it lightly, he's a fucking mess.

There’s a rap on the door. “Bucky?”

Bucky takes a breath, turns the doorknob. He steels himself for the oncoming slew of questions. He doesn’t want to have a heavy conversation right now. The last thing he needs is pity. 

Sam surprises him. “That goddamn eco-farm food is enough to make anyone sick," he says solemnly.

Bucky bites out a laugh. His throat feels dry.

Sam doesn’t ask him what he’s thinking about. He just hands him a glass of cold water and goes back to bed, sitting propped up against the pillows until Bucky falls asleep again.

Bucky is thankful. He’s never been all that great with lip service.

Watching Sam drink coffee, Bucky decides, is not any better.

They're both standing in the carpeted hallway of the hotel room, barefoot, crowded around a mini-counter with a single Keurig machine. Sam makes a show of swirling his paper cup around, sipping on it slowly, dark liquid perched on his bottom lip, dribbling sloppy down his chin when his mouth doesn't quite cover the rim of the cup. Bucky watches as it drips down Sam's fingers, his knuckles. His tongue darts out to catch the droplet on his wrist, and Bucky stays still, mesmerized at the flash of pink, the sheepish smile that follows after.

Jesus Christ. It's way too early for this shit.

Bucky lets Sam pour him a coffee, strong and black and extremely bitter. He swallows it down, the heat scalding his throat.

“Ow, Christ,” Bucky mutters.

“Careful,” Sam says, wry, his eyes crinkling in amusement. “It’s hot.”

“Yeah, no shit,” he says. He stares down at the paper cup, his expression turning sour. “This decaf?”

“It’s all we had left in the bowl,” Sam tells him.

“Tastes like ass." Bucky glances at the bowl on the counter, but Sam sees him looking and pushes it further away, out of his line of sight. Bucky huffs and moves closer. There are two instant coffee cups in the bowl, one decaf, one caf. “There was caffeinated,” he says, accusingly. “You took it.”

“You don’t need it.”

“But it tastes better," Bucky insists.

Sam scowls. “I have a long way to drive, I'm not sacrificing my one dose of caffeine just to satisfy your elitist palette.”

“I thought I was driving.”

Sam puts his coffee cup down. “You're not driving, the fuck?”

Bucky makes an impatient sound in the back of his throat. “Sam, if you drive, we’ll never get home. You drive like an 85 year old man. You yield to everyone.”

“Says the 105 year old man. ” Sam huffs. He picks up his cup again, and flicks an irritated gaze at Bucky. Bucky's not used to people looking at him like that. Like he can take it. Like he's not gonna break if someone so much as scowls at him. “You do 500 different things while you drive. And God forbid someone pisses you off, you'll be riding their ass til the end of the highway.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Ain't my fault people can't drive in the city.”

“And you're one of them." Bucky glares daggers into Sam's skull, but Sam isn't even looking at him. "Point is, I'm driving.” Sam says. “You can tailgate all you want on your drive home. Alone."

“Fine,” Bucky relents. “But you're buying me a proper cup of coffee.”

Sam flashes a smile. “Deal.”

It's easy to annoy Sam, Bucky finds. Nearly everything he does seems to piss Sam off, and Bucky likes it. He likes the idea of getting under Sam’s skin, pushing him, seeing Sam press his lips together and his eyes shut once and let out a slow, patient exhale.

“Stop messing with the radio. I liked that station," Sam says. Bucky reaches for the dial again, hovers his hand over the controls. "Bucky."

Bucky's fingernails dig into the ribbed edges of the dial as he turns it back. “This?” He asks, incredulous. “How can you call this music? There aren't any words.”

“It's smooth jazz, there aren't supposed to be words.”

“I hate it," Bucky mutters, glowering at the highway out the windshield. He rummages through the glove compartment and finds a cracked Henry James CD case Steve has shoved under a pile of brown paper napkins. “Here we go.” He slides the disc into the CD slot and lets the big band sound blare loudly from the speakers.

Kiss me once, then kiss me twice

Then kiss me once again

It's been a long, long time

Sam shuts off the music.

“Come on, it was just getting to the good part,” Bucky whines.

“I am not listening to that for four hours. I had enough on the way here.” Sam presses his lips together.

Bucky crosses his arms. “Well I'm not listening to that hipster shit you call music.”

Sam's hand tightens on the steering wheel. “Hipster? You’re calling Miles Davis hipster? ” He shakes his head. “You know what? Let’s just sit in silence.”

“Fine by me.”

A minute goes by. Then another. Bucky fidgets in his seat. Sam raps his fingers against the steering wheel. Bucky tugs on his seatbelt, lets it go. Tugs on his seat belt. Lets it go.

“Seriously?” Sam asks. “Stop it.”

Bucky grins. He reaches out to tug on the seat belt again.

Without looking from the road, Sam grabs Bucky’s wrist. Bucky freezes, Sam’s hand close enough Bucky can smell his cologne, a spicy sandalwood. It smells fucking good. 

"Get off me, Sam."

Sam's grasp tightens on his wrist. "Stop playing with the seatbelt."

"I'm testing its integrity. Since you keep letting maniacs merge in front of us, I wanna make sure it works."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Funny, considering the only car accident I've been in is the one where you grabbed the wheel." Well. Sam's got him there. “How the hell did I survive you the whole ride here?"

Bucky doesn't say he's thinking. What they're both thinking. That Steve had filled the silence and made comfortable conversation, bridging the gap between the two of them. He doesn’t have to.

Sam follows his gaze in the rear-view mirror, glancing at the back seat, where the shield is covered up, unmoving.

“Dunno,” Bucky says, and he's the picture of innocence as he reaches for the radio. “It musta been the music.”

You'll never know how many dreams

I've dreamed about you

Or just how empty they all seemed without you

“I hate you,” Sam says, but the way his eyes sparkle, give him away.

By the time they arrive in DC, it’s dark because Sam lets every car merge in front of him, just to piss Bucky off.

“I’ll be home after midnight, thanks to you and your grandpa driving.” Bucky grumbles.

They're standing outside in the driveway of Sam's house, the moon already high and bright in the sky, a white sliver. Bucky's lingering, soaking it in, the night air washing over him like a balm, sweet relief from the sticky humidity of Steve's car.

“Or,” Sam says, a touch too casual. “You could stay. Order something for dinner. You can drive home tomorrow. Less traffic.”

Bucky meets his eyes. Doesn't blink. “And what? I’ll sleep on your couch?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, lifting an eyebrow. “What’s the rush? You have someone waiting on you?”

Bucky frowns. “No.”

“Then stay.”

There's a beat of silence as Bucky mulls it over, the only sounds the incessant chirp of cicadas and the gravelly thud of tires on the road, somewhere far away. His heartbeat's loud too. 

“Fine,” Bucky says. He points a finger at him. “One night. And then I’m going back home.”

On Sam’s couch, Bucky doesn’t sleep. He slips in and out of consciousness only to wake at 4 am, his heart in his throat, dread clawing his way into his stomach like he's on the verge of a heart attack.

His skin’s hot, hair sticking to his forehead with sweat. He kicks off the blankets, but his body’s wound so tightly he needs the comfort of clutching something to his chest.

He feels fucking pathetic. His problems aren’t there and yet they’re still so fucking real. The size of a helicarrier, looming in the sky, casting its shadow over him, reminding him of Steve. Of Sam. Of falling. Of all the lives he’s ruined. He barely remembers it, only bits from his dreams. His stomach hurts. There's a ringing in his ears.

And then Sam appears, stumbling out into the kitchen in those goddamn sweatpants, torso gleaming in the moonlight, slick with sweat. Bucky can see his back heaving. Sam opens the fridge, pours himself a glass of water. He freezes when he sees Bucky staring from the couch.

“Shit. I didn't wake you, did I?”

Bucky shakes his head. He pushes himself to his feet to meet Sam in the kitchen.  “Can’t sleep?” Bucky asks, voice rough. He scrubs a hand over his face, clears his throat.

“God, no,” Sam says. He gets out a second glass and pours Bucky some water. “It's too quiet.”

Bucky takes a sip of water, lets the cool liquid rush down his throat like ice. “Yesterday was quiet too.”

“It's different.”  Sam says, “It’s easier with someone else in the room.” He looks down at his hands. “The breathing helps.”

Bucky nods. Sam looks so weary and exhausted, it's like looking in a mirror, and fuck, things are not great, they’re not even okay. They lost Natasha and Tony and Steve, and they were blipped for five fucking years and they're going to have to find a way to get through this anyway. Bucky barely knows how, barely even knows how to be his own person, but he can try for Sam.

“I can,” he shrugs, “you know. Be there. If you want.”

“You mean like, what, lay next to me?” Sam asks. “In bed?”

“If that’s what helps, then yeah.”

Sam hesitates for a moment too long and Bucky feels stupid about it, opens his mouth to take it all back.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” Bucky repeats.

Sam peers back at him, eyelashes fluttering. “Bucky, if you’re asking to get into bed with me, I'm not gonna say no.”

“That wasn't-” Bucky protests. He stops, narrows his eyes. Sam grins. He’s playing with him, the asshole, sliding easily into God knows what to sidetrack the conversation. But Bucky can roll with that. He can do better than roll. He steps closer, puts his fingertips on Sam’s jaw, tilts his head up.

Sam’s lips part, just a little, and that is exactly what Bucky is waiting for. He smirks. “Sweetheart, if I was asking to get into bed with you, you would've known a long time ago.”

“Sweetheart?’ Sam questions.

“Yeah,” Bucky says forcefully. “Sweetheart.”

Later, in bed, Bucky lays on top of the covers on his back, covered by the thin blanket from the couch. Sam’s mattress is firm, and his room is cool, and Bucky can feel the tension finally draining from his muscles.

Sam turns on his side next to him, curled up underneath the blankets.

“I still hate you,” Sam mutters, eyes shut, eyelashes curved against the pillowcase. He’s close enough that Bucky can count them, even in the dark.

“Too bad,” Bucky says. “You need my breathing.”

Sam snorts a laugh and nudges him in the arm with a fist, like a gentle punch. His hand stays there. Warm. Comfortable.

They fall asleep like that, the warmth of Sam’s hand burning heat into Bucky’s skin.

It'a not… unpleasant.

It's been ten days, maybe- time passes oddly at Sam's house, days and nights clumped together in a series of trash TV shows and excuses as to why Bucky can't leave.

Sam's car won't start up. Bucky's got a call with Shuri he needs to take, preferably not on the road, and hey, Sam needs him to look over this mission brief, does he mind?

Bucky keeps expecting Sam to push him out, but he says nothing. He and Sam still share the bed. Bump into each other in the kitchen.

Bucky deals with his problems by avoiding them. He grieves by not thinking about it, by dozing on the couch and letting the time pass him by.

Sam, Bucky learns, deals with grief differently. He’s good at posturing in front of Bucky. At least, at first.

Sam meditates. Goes on runs. Spends hours on the phone with his sister. Reviews intel with people Bucky’s never heard of. He’s already in the thick of it, not even ten days later. He makes sure Bucky’s eating, asks if Bucky wants the last slice of pizza. Bucky does, so Sam lets him have it.

Gone is the Sam that takes all the caffeine, the Sam who complains about Bucky’s music.

Bucky misses that Sam.

By day twelve, Bucky's stopped talking about going home at all. Steve's Honda, with its peeling blue paint and crooked radio antenna, sits cold in the parking lot.

Bucky's hunched down in his usual spot on the couch, hair mangled, ratty, still in his pajama pants. His eyes are glazed over from too many hours of watching the game, a crick in his neck from the awkward angle. He barely registers when Sam walks into the room and slams the cabinet door.

Bucky looks up.

Sam's face is bruised. There are dark bags under his eyes, and his posture is stooped, heavy in a way Bucky's never seen before. Bucky frowns.

“Chocolate or peanut butter?” Sam asks, holding up the last two protein bars.

“Chocolate,” Bucky answers, and Sam tosses him the granola bar. Sam rips the wrapper open. Finishes it in four bites.

Bucky takes his time with his, savoring the rich sweetness of it, the crunch. He's always liked the combination of salty and sweet. There's chocolate smudged on the pads of his fingertips, so he licks them clean. Sam watches him the whole time, hesitant, like he has something to say but he doesn't quite know how to say it yet.

Bucky finds out later Sam doesn’t even like peanut butter.

If everyone has their version of self-sabotage, Sam Wilson’s is his selflessness.

Bucky wants to reach out to Sam, to stop him from running himself to the ground, but he can barely get off the couch. He gets up when he has to, when Bruce calls with info on his pardon or he needs a shower.

Then Sam bursts through the door one day, blood trickling from a nasty gash on his forehead. Limping.

Bucky's on his feet immediately. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Got my ass kicked,” Sam says, sounding tired. “What does it look like?”

Bucky is at a loss for words, watching Sam dab at his forehead with a wet paper towel. The sight of Sam’s blood makes his stomach churn. “Gimme that,” he says, and he pushes Sam down into a chair, wipes the blood from the wound. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Sam winces. “I didn’t want to drag you into this shit. You have a lot going on.”

Bucky huffs. “Sam, I sat on my ass all day watching TV .”

“You know what I mean.”

Bucky wipes the wound a little too hard. Sam flinches. “Shit. Sorry,” Bucky says. “But it ain’t like you’re dealing with any less.”

“Maybe,” Sam says, “But your pardon’s still pending.”

Bucky stills, the bloody paper towel in hand. “Fuck the pardon. If you’re out there getting your ass kicked, I’m not gonna just sit here and let it happen.”

Sam’s eyes slip shut, and the breath rushes out of him all at once. “It’s just...a lot, you know?”  The silence hangs heavy in the air. “Avengers. The family. Natasha. Steve.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, quiet.

“I’ve dealt with worse. Lost friends before. Pissed off my sister plenty of times.” Sam scrubs a hand over his face. “But I’m just so fucking tired all the time.”

Bucky tosses the bloody paper towel in the garbage. Searches the cabinet for a bandage. “You gotta take better care of yourself.”

“I do. I go to therapy. Exercise. The whole thing.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about,” Bucky says, and he’s surprised by how forcefully it comes out. “You can check all the boxes, but none of that shit will work if you keep putting everyone else’s needs before your own.”

Sam is silent for a moment, as Bucky applies the bandage. “It’s my choice, you know? Been that way since I enlisted.”

“It’s not healthy, Sam.” Bucky says. “There are a lotta people who care about you. Who need you to come back in one piece.”

Sam laughs, bitter. Looks away. “Believe me, I know that people need me.”

Bucky’s hand drops from Sam’s forehead to tilt his chin up, so he’ll look Bucky in the eyes. They’re wet. “Hey,” Bucky says, thumb smoothing over the curve of Sam’s cheek. “You don’t have to carry it alone.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “You call me.” Sam lets his head drop to Bucky’s chest.  Bucky lets his fingers curl over the nape of Sam’s neck. “I got you,” Bucky whispers. “I got you.”

It gets easier after that. Sam's not disappearing all the time. Bucky gets dressed and gets off the couch. They go to dinner, they cook. They talk more, before they fall asleep.

Sam laughs the loudest in the dark, the bed shaking from it, and it hurts Bucky’s chest a little, knowing that it’s the first time they’ve laughed, really laughed since before the Snap.

Sometimes, though, Bucky wants to roll over to the other side of the mattress and press their lips together. See if Sam’s laughter tastes as good as it sounds.

On day thirteen (Thirteen? Bucky's stopped counting now.) Bucky wakes up breathing against Sam, Sam’s arm warm and firm, his stubble brushing the top of Bucky’s head.

Bucky freezes, a little terrified. Being in Sam's arms… it's.

Fuck. It's good, it's terrible, it makes every part of him want to run, and yet Bucky aches to move in closer. 

He forces his eyes open and finds Sam blinking two inches from his face, staring at him intensely.

“Hello,” Bucky says, snarky.  “How are you?”

“Pretty good, man.” Sam shoots back. He smirks. “Didn’t mention you were a cuddler.”

“I'm not.” Bucky’s face feels warm, so he rolls to the other side of the bed. “It’s you who can't keep your stupid wingspan to yourself.”

Sam laughs, bright and loud, lashes fluttering, “I touch a nerve?”

Bucky narrows his eyes. “You touched a lot more than that.”

Sam laughs again, and Bucky feels it in his chest. He's starting to think there's something budding here, something greater than a passing attraction. But Bucky could be wrong. He’s not normal, he hasn't touched someone like this in 80 years.

Sam yawns, rolls out of bed. “Okay, I need food. And coffee. It's almost noon.”

Bucky glances at the clock. The hell? He was supposed to get up hours ago. “You cooking?”

“It’s Friday,” Sam says. “No food left in the fridge. But there's coffee around here somewhere.”

“If you make me decaf, Wilson, I swear to G-”

“No need for threats,” Sam says, holding up a hand. “I'm already on it, princess.”

Bucky scowls. He grabs a pillow and chucks it across the room. It hits Sam square in the face.

“Oh,” Sam says, lifting an eyebrow. “That’s how it is?”

“That's how it is,” Bucky says, and he's grinning, but he regrets it instantly because Sam is pouncing on him like a cat, legs kicking out from behind him, and smashing his face in with the pillow.

Bucky laughs as he yanks the pillow out and sweeps his feet underneath Sam’s legs. He flips them, so he's on top, his thighs pressed against Sam’s sides, straddling his waist.

And oh, maybe Bucky should've thought about this position a little more, because it's a hell of a lot more intimate than he was going for.

He can tell the exact moment Sam realizes it too, because he stops laughing. His lips part and he drops the pillow to the bed.

They're face to face now, so close Bucky can smell remnants of Sam’s cologne, the staleness of his breath. Sam’s gaze drops to Bucky’s mouth before snapping back up to meet his eyes.

Bucky opens his mouth, ready to make a joke about their awkward position, but Sam gives him a look he’s never seen before.

And then Sam’s cupping the back of his neck and slamming their mouths together.

It's hot, fuck it's hot, and Sam works his mouth against Bucky’s in a way that's much too obscene for a first kiss. Sam cards his hands through Bucky’s hair, twisting his fingers in the strands, just the way Bucky likes, digging his nails into his scalp, and Bucky groans.

“God, look at you,” Sam murmurs.

“Shut up,” Bucky whispers, because Sam is the one who looks like that, stunning against the sheets, and Bucky has to lean in kiss him again.

They move slower than before, taking their time, learning and tasting with every swipe of tongue. Sam tastes salty, like morning breath, like no one Bucky has ever kissed before, and something about that makes him feel frantic, like he can feel every minute he’s ever wasted washing over him.

“If I knew it was this easy to get you to shut up-” Bucky starts but doesn’t finish, because Sam leans in and brushes Bucky’s hair away from his cheek. The gesture is strangely tender, and Bucky shivers.

“You were saying?” Sam asks, lifting an eyebrow. Bucky still can’t speak, because Sam’s hands slide underneath Bucky’s shirt, warm fingers spreading flat against his sides, and then he’s lifting the hem over Bucky’s head. Sam rolls them over, like they’re grappling, and Bucky tightens his fingers on Sam’s hips.

It’s been a long time for Bucky. The last time he let himself get this close to someone was back in the 40s, and despite his confidence then, being with Sam is a different league entirely.  He sucks in a breath. Wonders if Sam can feel his hands trembling at his sides.

“It’s been 70-some years,” Bucky tells him, for no good reason. “That’s why-”

“Hey,” Sam interrupts. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

And somehow, that’s exactly what Bucky needs to hear in the moment, to bring him back to the present, to stop his brain from overthinking and over-analyzing every one of his fucking reactions to Sam’s hands on him.

Sam traces his mouth along Bucky’s jaw, down the line of his neck, nipping at the skin there. “Jesus, fuck,”   Bucky breathes. He’s so hard from barely any stimulation at all and it’s fucking embarrassing. “Sam,” he pants out. “Wait.”

Sam stops, dazed, his mouth parted, eyes searching Bucky’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

“You should fuck me,” Bucky says.

Sam’s breath hitches and his teeth sink down into his bottom lip. “Shit,” he says, breathing hot on Bucky’s skin.

Bucky's hands reach for Sam's hips, and he draws Sam closer, slotting their bodies together, so Sam can feel how hard he is for him, and fuck, he can feel how hard Sam is too.

Bucky wants it bad. Wants it all, everything, immediately, all at once. He rocks their bodies together, experimentally, and the groan that tears from Sam's throat is too pretty not to do it again.

"Bucky-" Sam says. "Wait. Give me a second, okay?"

Bucky's eyes snap back to Sam's. They're cloudy, and he's taking deep breaths, like he's trying to work through whatever haze is currently in his mind. "We shouldn't right now. We can't-"

Bucky's cheeks flood with color. "You don't want to," he interrupts. He releases Sam and pulls away. He feels like a horny piece of shit, so lost in the way Sam's body felt pressed against him that he hadn't even noticed Sam's non-answer.

Sam sits back on the bed, resting his shoulders against the pillows and the headboard. He tilts his head back, exposing the long line of his neck. Bucky can feel his ribs squeezing together, his heartbeat thudding heavily in his chest. "You can say it."

"No, Bucky. That's— no. I want to. Fuck, I want to. I just-" Sam exhales. "I don't think now is the best time."

Bucky feels like he's had ice cold water splashed all over him. "Right," he says. "I-" I'm sorry. The words don't come out. His face is hot and he knows the start of an ugly, splotchy blush is beginning to make its way up into his hairline.

"Hey. Come here." Sam leans over him, heat emanating off his skin as he presses a soft kiss to Bucky’s lips. The tenderness of the gesture makes Bucky dizzy, like he’s been kicked in the stomach, completely winded. "I want to do this right."

But Bucky's not listening to what he's saying, he's too busy staring at Sam, at his sad smile, his thumb swiping back and forth on his cheek, barely visible in Bucky's peripheral, and he's thinking that this whole thing is too familiar, the soothing tone, the soft eyes.

He's had the pity from Steve and the pity from the doctors and just about everyone else.

But never from Sam.

Bucky sits up. “You don't have to say that."

"I'm not just say-"

"What time is it?” Bucky interrupts. He makes a very unconvincing grab for his phone, checks the time. “Shit,” he says. “Look, I gotta-” Swallows. “I gotta get up. I should drive home it’s already late-”

Sam makes a grab for Bucky's arm, but Bucky side-steps and moves away. “Hold on,” Sam says. “You're making too many assumptions here. Let's grab lunch first. Talk about it."

Bucky shakes his head, but his stomach growls in protest. He just needs to get the fuck out of there. “I’m fine, I’ll grab something on the way. Thanks for,” he waves his hands, like he doesn’t know exactly what, and grabs his t-shirt.

“Bucky-” Sam starts, but Bucky can’t look at him, he doesn’t want to see the hurt there, and his mind is still racing, thinking of how his name tasted in Sam’s mouth, the way his eyes had widened, gone all soft and tender. And he can’t-

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Sam hit the nail on the head. The timing’s all wrong, Bucky’s not right, he's got so many secrets, reasons why Sam should hate him, and Sam- he’s.

Too good for this world. He deserves more than that. So why does Bucky feel so sick about it?

Bucky gets his duffel bag on his way out, grabs Steve’s car keys on the kitchen table, and then he's gone.

When Bucky gets back to Brooklyn, he cuts his hair. He finds a pair of scissors that Steve left lying around the apartment, and he gets to the nearest mirror to hack it all off. He can still feel the way Sam’s fingers tangled in it, tugging on the strands, breathing hot air into his ear. He cuts it short, too short, combs it to the side, out of his face.

He feels worse than usual.

Bucky puts the scissor down. Goes to the main room of the apartment, where Steve’s duffel bag is, Steve’s couch, Steve’s books, Steve’s shoes.

It’s unfair that he’s the one who has to deal with all this, who has to sell all the stuff and live in a place full of Steve’s ghost and all the things he left behind.

And it's not like he ever loved Steve, not in the way that Steve loved Peggy, but being left behind still fucking stings.

His phone buzzes with a message from Sam.

Bucky stares at the screen. Types out, I’m such a fuck up. Deletes it. Types out, I’m sorry, deletes it.

He sends three words.

Bucky walks into the kitchen, finds a bottle of whiskey in one of the cabinets. His hands are shaking so much he can’t pour it properly, not without splattering it all over the counter. He knows the alcohol won’t work on him, but he brings it to his lips anyway, the liquid burning so good in his throat as it goes down. He knocks the rest of it back, pours another.

Bucky takes the glass to Steve’s bedroom. He’s not prepared for what he finds there, Steve’s closet door ajar, his laundry tossed sloppily in the basket like he had planned to come back.

“Fuck,” Bucky mutters under his breath, “fuck,” and he finishes the second glass too. He opens the closet and drags the dirty laundry in there. He gets all of Steve’s shoes and dumps them in there. His U.S. army poster, his books, all of his movies and CDs. His artwork.

By the time he’s finished, Bucky’s worked up a sweat, his chest heaving, tight with everything he needs to get rid of or shove in a closet, and then finally shut the door so he never has to look at it again.

The living room is nearly empty, the only thing that remains is Steve's duffel bag.

Bucky knows he shouldn’t open it, should just shove it into the bedroom like the rest of Steve’s shit. But his hands are on the zipper and he's sliding it open before he can stop himself.

On top of Steve’s neatly folded clothing is a little brown book. Bucky reaches for it, his hands trembling, bites down on his lip so hard he tastes blood.

Bucky flips through the book. There are song names, TV shows, movies, people’s names written in Steve’s scribbled handwriting. He wonders if Steve ever got through them all before... The thought makes him feel sick to his stomach. He shouldn’t have had that last drink, shouldn’t have opened the duffel.

Bucky puts the book down on the armchair. Runs a jittery hand through his hair, but it’s so short it barely does a thing.  He swallows hard. Takes a deep breath.

And then he heaves the duffel bag over his shoulder and throws it into the bedroom. Slams the door shut. Lets all of Steve’s belongings sit there like it’s going to decompose and turn to dust. He hopes it does.

Despite this place supposedly being his own, it doesn’t feel like home.

Sam’s voice rings in his ears. “It feels like it belongs to someone else.”

And ain’t that the truth.

Bucky spends the remainder of his free time flipping through Steve’s book. The pages are worn, wrinkled from use, from half-fingerprints and ink smudges. Bucky tries not to look at those. He does look at the other things, though. The names, the shows, the music. He distracts himself by catching up on all the things he missed, immersing himself in media until he feels jittered and overwhelmed by all the stimulation.

There’s one entry that looks different than the rest. A scribbled, messy, Trouble Man, as if Steve had written it in a rush.

Bucky finds the CD in Steve’s closet. Slides it into the CD player.

I, I, I come up hard, baby, but now I'm cool

I didn't make it sugar, playin' by the rules

He turns it off.

The condition of Bucky’s pardon is that he goes to therapy.

Bucky goes to Wakanda instead.

It’s easier there. A place he can go home without seeing Steve everywhere he turns.

Sam falls a few months later.

Bucky is in the kitchen, microwaving soup when he gets a call from Rhodey, asking if he knows where they're keeping him.

“Who?” Bucky asks.

“Sam,” he says, “You haven’t heard?”

Bucky watches the soup drone in lopsided circles in the microwave. Someone else takes the soup out. He doesn't remember who.

He opens his phone, pulls up his messages. Sam Wilson blinks on his screen:

That was the last time they talked. More than a month ago. Bucky swallows. He books his flight back to New York. He’s gotta see him.

Sam is asleep when Bucky enters the room, eyes shut and breathing peacefully. It eases the tension in his chest to see Sam there, alive and steady.

Rhodey told him they were keeping Sam in the New York med bay, keeping him there to speed up the healing process. He’s okay. Rhodey said. The injuries aren’t that serious. But Bucky heard injuries and nothing else.

Bucky’s squeezing a bouquet of flowers he’d bought from the store just outside of the airport. They’re shitty, petals drooping, leaves shedding in a trail on the floor as he walks. He holds it behind his back, chest tight.

He pulls back a chair, wincing slightly as it screeches against the floor. Sam doesn’t move, so Bucky stares openly, lets his gaze sweep over him to examine his injuries. There’s nothing outwardly damaged about him. Not on his face, at least, there’s not even a bruise. He’s beautiful. Skin smooth, brow soft, the curve of his cheek resting against the pillow.

Sam slowly opens an eye. “I knew it was you. Anyone ever tell you you have a staring problem?”

Bucky ignores him. “What happened?”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m fine. My parachute didn’t catch in time. I just fell a couple feet. Hurt my ankle, tumbled and cracked a few ribs.” Sam frowns. “Did you fly all the way here from Wakanda?”

“I stopped home first,” Bucky says. It’s a lie.

Sam glances at the bouquet Bucky's gripping tightly in his hands. Bucky feels ridiculous, but offers it to him anyway. “It’s not as good as I woulda liked, but there was limited selection.”

“Thanks.”

Bucky stands up, places the bouquet on the side table. There’s a card there, laying on its side, and if he squints a little he can make out the letters AJ. It feels like a punch to the gut.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” Sam says.

Bucky moves closer to the bed, his gaze downward, not meeting Sam’s eyes. “We talked about this,” he says.

“Yeah,” Sam says, “But you've been busy.”

It’s true, Bucky thinks, if you consider playing farmer in Wakanda busy. “Clearly I’m not the only one.”

Sam breathes out, shuts his eyes and lets his head fall back to the pillow. “Why didn’t you ever text me back?”

You call me. Bucky had told him, too many months ago. He's such a fucking hypocrite.

Bucky opens his mouth to answer but nothing comes out. There’s no excuse. He doesn’t know why. He’s pulled up Sam’s contact at least a thousand times since the last time he texted him, and he just- he just can’t look at his name without thinking about what it all means.

“Look, man, we don’t have to make this weird,” Sam says and his voice is flat. “You don’t have to go the extra mile and visit me in the hospital. But. We’re… at least acquaintances, right?” He looks almost uncertain about it, and Bucky feels his heart drop into the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah,” he answers, but honestly, he’s not sure what the fuck they are.

“Well,” Sam says. “It would’ve been nice to hear from you. Let me know you were out of the country.”

Bucky swallows. “Sure.”

Sam shrugs. “Even grab a beer every once and awhile. Preferably when I can move.”

Bucky’s lips curl into a small smile. “Careful, Samuel, or I might think you wanna keep me around.”

“Wouldn’t want to make that mistake.” Sam’s eyes sparkle and then go soft, sad. Bucky holds himself very still and pretends he isn’t cored through from that look alone. Sam fiddles with the bright blue wristband around his wrist. "Goddamn. I hate hospitals."

“When are they letting you out of here?”

"Whenever I want." Sam smirks, and Bucky knows there's no way the doctor approved a timeline that quick. "Maybe this afternoon?”

Bucky’s eyebrows draw together. “You gonna get on a plane to DC like this?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I cracked a couple of ribs, Bucky. I’m not dead.”

Bucky’s jaw clenches. “But you could’ve been.”

Sam studies him with a level of scrutiny that makes him want to squirm. Sam's brow furrows. “Are you-?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky snaps. Because he is. He’s just kind of pissed off, that’s all, because Sam got hurt and Bucky wasn’t there for him and Sam’s the one in the hospital bed and he’s still  asking if Bucky is okay. “You're not getting on a flight.”

“So what, am I supposed to just sit here and wait for my body to miraculously heal? I’m not you. It’s going to take weeks.”

“Come home with me,” Bucky says, and he’s making a mistake, he knows that the second the words come out of his mouth, but Sam is here in New York and Bucky can’t imagine a world where he leaves the hospital without him.

“I–”  Sam rubs his jaw. “Yeah, okay.”

The stairs are hard. Sam’s jaw is clenched and his knuckles are tight on the side railing as he sweats his way through two flights of stairs. Bucky is helping him through it, a hand pressed between Sam’s shoulder blades to guide him up to the apartment, but it’s not enough to erase all of the pain.

It makes Bucky’s throat hurt to watch him, torn between wanting to carry him all the way up and looking away.

When they get to the doorway, Sam straightens up and offers him a weak smile.

“About time,” Bucky says, because he’s an asshole, and Sam laughs then winces, and presses his fingertips to his side.

“Fuck you,” Sam manages, “Can you open the door? I need–” He leans against the edge of the doorway, closes his eyes. “I just need to sit down for a minute.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, and he bites his lip, his hands frantic when he slides the key into the front door. “Shit, sorry.”

The apartment is dark, empty, smells of damp wood and Steve’s detergent. There’s a dusty blanket folded over the couch Bucky keeps meaning to get rid of and a pillow on the floor, the TV screen blank.

Bucky guides Sam through the door, his hand on the small of Sam’s back. He helps him to the couch, easing him into it so he’s sitting up properly. Sam reclines back into the cushion and shuts his eyes, exhaling slowly.

Bucky goes into the kitchen and gets a glass of ice water. Presses his fingers very gently to Sam’s shoulder until he opens his eyes.

“Thanks,” Sam says. He takes a sip, wincing as he swallows, before pressing the coolness of the glass against his side like a makeshift ice pack.

Bucky swallows. Reaches out to brush his fingers against the nape of Sam’s neck very lightly.  “I’ll be right back.”

He's just going down the hall, to the bedroom to clear out all the shit he left there. He pushes on the door to Steve’s bedroom, but it won’t open. He jiggles the doorknob, bumps his shoulder against the wood. Nothing happens.

“Everything good?” Sam asks and his voice is too close to be coming from the living room.

“No fucking way,” Bucky says. Turns around. “Go sit down. The last thing I need is you passing out in the middle of the hallway because you wanted to spy on me.”

Sam scowls. “I’m not gonna pass out.” He gestures to the door. “What’s wrong with the door?”

“It’s fine, it’s just jammed.” He slams his shoulder against it for emphasis, and the door finally, finally cracks open. Bucky’s heart sinks. He’s forgotten how much he left behind. There are piles of stuff everywhere. Furniture, books, notebooks, clothing.

“Shit,” Sam breathes. “You’re getting rid of all this?”

Bucky sighs. “What else am I supposed to do with it?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says and he looks worn, suddenly, like he’s not exactly sure what he signed up for when he agreed to come back with Bucky.

“Go sit down,” Bucky says again, his tone gentler this time. “I’ll clear out the room for you to lie down.”

Sam scrubs a hand over his face and nods.

Bucky manages to clear out the bedroom space in under twenty minutes. Piles the stuff back into the living room, laid bare, out in the open. It doesn’t hurt so much, looking at Steve’s things, not when Bucky knows Sam is hurting worse, one room over. Bucky replaces the sheets and pulls the curtains closed. Makes his way back to the living room to bully Sam into bed.

Sam groans as he lays down, his lips pressed tightly together, his face scrunched up in pain.

“Everything hurts,” Sam mumbles, “I feel like my insides are on fire.”

Bucky swallows hard. Reaches out to squeeze Sam’s hand resting on the edge of the mattress. “I know, sweetheart. I know.”

Sam smiles weakly at the endearment, turns his hand over to press their palms together.

After that things are different. Or normal, Bucky’s not sure. They bicker like they used to. (“You’re so picky. ” and “No, God, please. If I have to watch another episode of this I’ll find a way to poison your coffee.”) Sam lays in bed all day and refuses painkillers and Bucky makes scrambled eggs and reads him whatever books he finds buried in Steve’s closet. ("A Gardner's Encyclopedia, Bucky? You've got to be joking.")

They don’t talk about it. The way the apartment gets too quiet sometimes, like they’re waiting for Steve to come bursting through the door.  Or the way, sometimes, Sam wakes up and catches Bucky standing in the doorway of the bedroom, watching for Sam’s breath, a steady inhale and exhale.

On day four, Sam finally leaves the bedroom, grimacing as he stands up, and Bucky reaches an arm out to help him, before he pulls it back. Sam’s far from fragile, but Bucky feels helpless, watching him hurt and not being able to fix it.

“I need a drink,” Sam says. “Tell me you have something stronger than the orange juice you’ve been serving me all week.”

“Beggers can’t be choosers, pal,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes. “You think I enjoy waiting on you hand and foot?”

“Wouldn’t put it past you, if you were into that,” Sam says. He turns his head to stretch out the cricks in his neck. Bucky hears his joints pop, but Sam's not wincing anymore, so that's something.

Bucky digs through one of the cabinets and finds a bottle of wine Steve left behind. It’s expensive, probably, but there’s no reason for him to save it. Bucky rinses two dusty glasses. Pours two drinks and swirls his around.

“You could sit down, you know.” Bucky says.

“I’ve been sitting on my ass for four days,” Sam tells him. “I could do with some exercise. Stop fussing over me.”

Bucky scowls. “I am not fussing.”

Sam scoffs. “Man, you read me bedtime stories .”

Bucky glowers at him. His face is hot, but he swears it’s from the wine, not from the way Sam’s eyes are crinkling in a smile, the way his body is turned to him, leaning in like he’s telling Bucky the world’s greatest joke.

Sam moves past him, wine glass in hand, towards the living room where all of Steve’s stuff is scattered. “Who knew Steve had this much shit in his apartment?”

Bucky shakes his head. “He’s always had trouble figuring out what to leave behind.”

Sam bites his lip, and his expression twists Bucky’s gut in pain-joy-pain. “He doesn't seem to have a problem with it now.” Sam says. He sets his jaw. “He didn’t even think what it would all mean for us.”

Bucky knows he’s not thinking about the stuff, the notebooks or the CDs that Sam’s running his finger over. He’s thinking about what comes next. The shield. Steve’s legacy.

Bucky sure as hell ain't gonna take that up, but Sam will. Because it’s the right thing to do. It’s what Steve would have wanted. And Bucky can’t think of a better man to take it on.  “He knew we wouldn’t be alone,” he says.

Sam scoffs. “Alone or not, we still got shit to deal with.” There’s a heat in his tone that Bucky doesn't quite understand. Sam puts the CD case down, walks over to the stereo. “Is this a CD player?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “wait-”

Before he can stop him, Trouble Man bursts through the speakers. Sam laughs, shakes his head.  “I knew Steve loved this song.”

Maybe Steve did, maybe he didn’t, but Bucky doesn’t have it in his heart to correct Sam. Say that it was actually Bucky who was listening to Trouble Man instead.

Sam knows his wine. Either that, or he’s lying about being able to taste the notes of cherry or blackcurrant or whatever else people put into wine to make one different from another.

Sam swirls the liquid around before he puts the glass to his lips, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth. "Mm. You don't taste that?"

Bucky takes another sip, but all he can taste are sour grapes and the sharp tang of the alcohol. "It just tastes like wine."

Sam makes an indignant noise in the back of his throat. "Nah. Steve has good taste. We've got some cherry in there. Blackberry. And that mocha finish. Damn."

Sam ends up finishing the bottle, standing in the kitchen, pan searing chicken breast and green beans. He’s humming under his breath, gripping a whisk he’s using as a spatula. Sam can cook, Bucky knows he can, so it doesn't make any sense why he's using a whisk instead of a spatula.

“What are you doing,” Bucky asks, eyes narrowed. “Why are you using a whisk to fry chicken?”

Sam turns to him, eyes sparkling, lips dark, stained with wine, and flashes a bright smile. “You questioning my cooking, baby?”

The way he says it, it's light, joking, not even intimate, but the pet name sends Bucky back, Sam’s eyes dark, fond, skin brushing together, tasting salt.

It's been easy, the past few days, to ignore the tiny flashes of memories that come rushing back to him, his feelings set on the back burner, like a sauce on low simmer. Bucky had a mission to help Sam get better. But now Sam's better. Walking around his kitchen, all loose-limbed, teasing, and Bucky feels inexplicably split apart, his feelings flaring hot and bright in the pit of his stomach. The smile drops from his lips.

“No, I’m-” he stops. “I need air.”

Bucky takes the few steps out of the kitchen to the fire escape. It’s nice out there. A place to view the city below, watch the people scuttle like ants across the sidewalk. Count how many plastic bags flow in the wind.

He walks to the edge, sits himself down.

Cars honk below him. The air smells freshly New York, like dew drops and smoke. The sky is dark, clouds collecting in a purple-grey haze above. The window slides open behind him. He doesn’t turn around.

“You good?” Sam asks. He climbs out the window to sit beside Bucky, wincing slightly. He smells like cologne and pan-fried chicken. “You look like a stray cat, just sitting out here.”

“You shouldn’t be out here.” Bucky says. “You’re hurt-”

Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re fussing again.”

“Am not.”

“You are.”

Bucky sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “Sam, I’m fine."

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sam responds. “The fresh air is nice. The apartment smells too much like Steve.” He pauses. “For better or for worse.”

Bucky's gotten used to the smell by now, but he knows what Sam means. Despite the clean-up, there's no escaping the constant reminders about the person who used to live there.

“It ain’t fair,” Bucky says. “You'd think after all that time he spent looking for me, he’d stick around a little longer.”

Sam looks away. “It wasn't him who was looking for you.”

“Yeah?” Bucky asks. He tilts his head, squints. Bucky never asked. He thought he caught sight of Sam once or twice when he was on the run. Always a pace behind, always a minute too late.

“You're real hard to track, you know that?”

“Part of my deal,” Bucky says, dryly.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and drags his fingers over the metal bars of the fire escape. “I’m starting to get that.”

The recognizable pain is back, a thickness in Bucky's throat that makes it hard to speak. It would be easy to apologize, to try and explain the months of silence, but there's an unspoken stalemate between the two of them. Things have been so good lately.

Bucky runs a hand over his face. Blows out a breath of air. He remembers something Steve said to him once. Riley. “How did you do it?” he asks. “Get over losing your best friend?”

Sam's face hardens, his eyes going flinty. “He was my best friend too, you know. Nat, too.”

Bucky rubs his neck. He shouldn't have said it like that. Like he's the only one experiencing a loss, here. “Sorry.”

Sam wavers for a moment. “You don't get over it,” he says. “It just gets easier.” Bucky watches the line of his mouth soften. “You keep going. You push through. You meet other people who change you.”

“And you lose them too.”

“That's life,” Sam shrugs. “Holding on and letting go.”  He lays his palm flat against his knee. “You just have to pick the right time to do one or the other.”

“I let you go,” Bucky says, before his brain can catch up to his mouth.

“Huh?”

Bucky scrunches his face, bracing for impact. Stupid brain. Stupid mouth. He wasn’t supposed to talk about it. “I left,” he clarifies slowly. “And I shouldn’t have.”

Sam swallows thickly. “Maybe,” he says. “It wasn't the right time for us to try and hold on.”

And now?  Bucky wants to ask. What about now? “Did you love him?” He asks instead.

Sam inhales sharply. “Steve?” His voice grows quiet, barely above a whisper. “Yeah. Yeah, sure, I loved him. Who didn’t?”

Bucky’s breath catches in his chest. “And Riley?”

Sam nods. “I quit everything when he died. Went back home for a bit. The family and the business were the only things that got me through.”

“And now?” Bucky asks. “What are you doing now to get through?”

The silence stretches huge and gigantic between them.

Bucky swallows hard. He knows it's what he’s feared. Sam pushing himself to the limits, always giving to others, always forgetting about himself. “Sam.”

“Missions,” Sam answers honestly.

Bucky's lungs constrict. He said he would be there for Sam, but he let him down. He's always letting Sam down.

“It's easier when I don't have to think. If I'm out there helping people, there's no harm in it, right?" Sam looks down at his legs again. "Sarah and I talk, though. So it's not like I've been dealing with it alone.”

"I should've-"

Sam stops him by leaning in. He wraps his hand around Bucky's forearm, squeezes. "Stop," he says. "We may be sharing the same loss, but we're not responsible for each other's healing. That's shit you figure out on your own." He meets Bucky's eyes. "I understand, man. I do."

Bucky doesn’t answer. His throat's so tight he's afraid if he starts speaking he'll end up with tears running down his cheeks. 

There's a fever rushing through Bucky's blood, but it's different than the typical desire he feels towards Sam. It's something else, like basking in warmth, scorching like a desert sun, and he’s not quite sure he wants to unpack it all yet.

The wind blows, and Bucky can tell by the smell of the air that it’s going to rain soon, but he doesn’t feel like moving. He wants to sit here until it pours, scrubs the smell of Steve’s apartment and pan-fried chicken out of his skin.

The first drop of rain falls, hits his cheek like a teardrop.

Sam nudges him. “You wanna head back inside? It’s fucking cold.” He smirks a little, peers at Bucky from the corner of his eye. “And you didn’t even offer me your jacket.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Who knew you were such a romantic?”

Sam shrugs, presses his lips together like he’s trying to tamp down on his smile. “I’m full of surprises, Buck.”

Bucky glares at him. "Don't call me that." He slips off his jacket and holds it out to Sam begrudgingly. "You should've grabbed your own jacket.”

Sam’s eyes light up, and he slips it on, the jacket sliding snug over his shoulders. Bucky has to tear his eyes away, run his fingers along the metal rungs of the fire escape just to have something else to look at. “If you’re dangling off a fire escape,” Sam says, “My first thought isn’t gonna be to go get a jacket.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I’m not a princess, Sam. I don’t dangle. Besides, even if I fell, it’s like 30 feet, max. I can handle it.”

Sam lifts his hands in surrender. “We get it, you’re a big guy. You don’t need saving. Now can we get off this thing before we’re soaked?”

Bucky nods.

Sam stands up, slides the window back open, holds out a hand, says, “Your royal highness?”

Bucky stares at him for a long moment, keeping his expression unimpressed. He wants desperately to laugh, but he knows a reaction will only encourage Sam further. So he just shakes his head and slips his palm, damp and cold, into Sam’s and lets Sam guide him through the window.

Sam smiles at him in return, all warmth and pearly teeth.  Bucky’s off the fire escape, his feet solid on the floor, but his stomach feels swoopy like he's still there, staring over the edge of it, just before he falls.

By day eight, they’ve finished clearing out the majority of Steve’s stuff, minus the ugly couch. Bucky does all the heavy lifting and Sam bosses him around and Bucky grumbles before reluctantly doing exactly what Sam tells him to.

“Would you stop complaining? If you put the armchair there, it’s going to block out all the light.”

Bucky sighs. “That’s the point, Sam.”

Sam scowls. “You need sunlight. With the amount of time your pasty ass leaves the apartment, you’ll be a vampire before spring ends.”

“I’m fine. I’m not going to sit it in anyway. It’s too soft. I hate it.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Is there anything you don’t complain about?”

Bucky’s reminded of the low light of Sam’s bedroom, the quiet of the morning, their bodies pressed together, how Sam kisses like it’s punctuation, the end of a sentence, the answer to a question Bucky’s been asking with his lips.

“No,” he says.

By the end of the night, they’re sitting on Steve’s ridiculous couch, the edge of Sam’s ankle pressed against Bucky’s thigh, a blanket draped over the two of them. There are two beers left open on the table, half-full.

It's too intimate, but the TV, playing Inside Out, is loud enough to drown out most of Bucky’s thinking.

When the movie ends and the credits roll, Bucky turns to Sam, to make a joke about the end scene, but he shuts his mouth when he sees Sam’s face, dark eyes and parted lips.

“Steve would've liked that one,” Sam says quietly.

“Yeah,” Bucky says.

“You think he's seen it?”

“Dunno.”

The credits finish and the apartment is silent except for the ticking of the clock, the cars driving by outside. Bucky stares straight ahead and watches the TV screen switch to commercials. It’s in moments like these, he doesn’t have to look at Sam to know what’s there. A shared hurt, a slight burn in the lungs, swelling like a raging sea.

“I miss him,” Sam says suddenly.

Bucky knows. He does too.

“Jesus, Sam, please don’t make me cry after a Pixar movie."

Sam laughs and wiggles his toes against Bucky’s thigh, which makes him squirm and his stomach flutter uncomfortably.

And then their eyes hold for a little too long.

“Is, uh, now okay?” Bucky asks.

Sam scrunches his nose up. “Now?” He asks.

“For holding on,” Bucky says.

“Yeah,” Sam says, and his voice is gravely when he speaks, rumbles through Bucky in a way that makes every part of him ache inside. “Now's okay.”

“The crying really does it for you, huh?”

Sam pinches him on the arm. “Asshole. I'm not go-” But Bucky doesn't let him finish before he's on it, pressing his lips against Sam’s sweet and slow. Sam tangles his fingers through Bucky’s hair and he kisses him back, fiercely, like he's been waiting for this, and God does Bucky know the feeling.

When they get to bed, Bucky expects it to be desperate, frantic. A hurricane that sweeps the two of them away, a climax that crashes into his body like a tidal wave. It's not. It's different.

Bucky’s gentle. He rocks into Sam without snapping his hips up like he wants to, pushes slowly in like he’s drawing it out. Sam groans beneath him and the sound tears through Bucky’s chest, tightens around his ribs like he's the one who cracked them in the fall.

And it's- God, it's Steve’s fucking bed and Sam body’s has barely healed and Bucky has at least a dozen names he needs to make amends to, but in that moment it's just the two of them, bodies hot, breaking apart and fitting together again. Tumbling over the edge in free fall.

When Bucky comes, his eyelashes are wet, a constellation of tears.

Bucky lets himself fall asleep, his body wrapped up in Sam’s embrace, relaxing with it, closing his eyes and imagining how it would be like to be held like this forever, to fall asleep like this every night.

He smells like Sam’s moisturizer and Sam’s sweat and Sam’s cologne and it’s easy, so easy to believe - briefly, temporarily - that he’s Sam’s too.

You could have this. A voice says. If you wanted.

“Hey,” Sam whispers, his lips against Bucky’s ear, his fingers curled around Bucky’s wrist. “We should talk about this.”

Bucky groans, turns over and blinks, because it’s seven in the fucking morning and this is the first time he’s slept on a bed in two weeks.

“I miss the days when you were knocked out cold,” Bucky mutters. He pushes his hair back, and rubs at the crust beneath his eyes.

“Me too,” Sam says. “I used to get breakfast in bed. Now I get a mop of hair in my face.”

Bucky scowls. “You weren’t complaining last night.”

Sam smirks. “Neither were you.”

Bucky frowns. Sam’s fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. He buries his face into the pillow. Deeper. Closes his eyes and inhales slowly.

“I’ve missed this,” Sam says and his hand falls to Bucky’s hip, voice so earnest it makes Bucky flinch. "Sharing a bed with you."

The words burn, rush through Bucky’s lungs like a turbulent wind, and he needs to get up now before he says something he regrets like is now okay and-

“Want breakfast?” Bucky asks brightly, smile sharp.

Sam pulls away.  Rubs a hand over his face.  “Bucky-” he starts.

“Don’t, Sam.”

“If you don’t want this, just fucking say it.”

Bucky doesn’t speak for a while, the silence unnerving.

Terrifying.

Because when an ex-brainwashed ex-assassin and a winged superhero bang to cope with the grief of losing a mutual friend, you don't talk about it.

What you do, instead, is swallow it down.

What you do, instead, is accept that you’re just another detour they took on the way to saving the world, and you enjoy the homemade dinners, and the freshly brewed coffee, and the way they tease you when you stumble on the word “anemone” in a Gardener’s Encyclopedia, knowing perfectly well that it ain't gonna last.

And then, months later, when it’s all gone and past, you laugh at it. You say, “Remember the time we-?” And then you laugh.

You don’t fucking talk about it.

The mattress dips as Sam starts to get up from the bed. Bucky's fingers twitch, wanting to reach out and pull him back. "Wait," he says. "Let me-" He shakes his head. "You've heard the story, right? With the boy and the magic beans."

“Bucky,” Sam interrupts. “What are-”

Bucky holds up a hand. “You’re the boy, this,” he waves between them, “is the magic beans, and I am the gold you think is up there, but what you actually get is a murderous fucking giant. You think you’re trading your good, steady cow for the magic beans to get the gold but you’re also getting the giant who’ll go on a murderous rampage and destroy everything.”

Sam clenches his jaw. “Are you serious right now?”

“Sam, you're too good for this. I'm gonna hold you back.”

“Will you stop-”

“I will,” Bucky says. “So it’s best if we stop now, so one day we can laugh at it. One day you can look back with your boyfriend or husband, your cow, or whatever, and he can say aren’t you glad you didn’t get involved in all of that and-” He runs a ragged hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut, because he can’t look at Sam right now, can’t look at his pinched lips and his blank stare, and the way his eyes go soft when Bucky says all the wrong things. “I’ll ruin you.”

Sam inhales sharply. “And you get to decide that?”

Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. “I don’t get to decide anything. I just. I know.”

“Bucky, you’re not going to ruin me."

“Yeah. I am.” There’s a silence and Bucky’s eyes flutter open. Sam’s expression is unreadable. “Let’s just chop the beanstalk, okay? Before it grows into something unmanageable.”

“Do whatever you want with the goddamn beanstalk,” Sam snaps. "But your metaphor is load of shit." He picks up his clothes from the floor and balls them into his fist. He's still in his underwear when he leaves, but Bucky knows he won't be back.

Bucky lets his head fall back into the pillows. He doesn’t move until he hears the front door open and then slam shut again. His hands feel clammy against the sheets, his heartbeat racing inside of his chest. He feels simultaneously sick to his stomach and relieved. He knows he's twisted in the head. Believes he deserves nothing, but wants everything all at once.

He can’t have it, though.

Not with the list of names he has shoved in a drawer somewhere. Not with the nightmares or the way he blanches, when he moves just so and it triggers a muscle memory.

Sam cares, Bucky knows he does, but he also knows Sam’s not going to wait around for Bucky to figure his shit out. It’s better that he doesn’t.

So it makes sense that Sam flies home that afternoon.  Makes even more sense that Sam doesn’t text him that night. Or the night after that.

The thing about Sam is. He's precise. Compartmentalized. Maintains nice, neat boundaries. So when Sam leaves the apartment, he leaves nothing behind. Bucky figures he’s used to this kind of thing, traveling from city to city, sweeping his belongings into a duffel in one go.

And it’s fine, really. Bucky’s been fine since Sam left, because he checks all the boxes and attends court-mandated therapy, goes to meet Yori on Wednesdays, swipes right and left on various dating apps. Maybe he thinks of Sam a little, throughout the night, when he flips on the TV and a Pixar movie is playing, or when he makes his coffee in the morning -- but he’s really, just. Fine.

It’s not until he’s walking home one Wednesday, when he thinks he smells Sam’s cologne, that he starts to have some doubts. The scent lingers in his nose, and he’s blown back to that night, the curve of Sam's lips brushing his ear, Sam’s arms around him in an iron grip.

It wasn’t long ago the doctors called Bucky an amnesiac, fractured memories available only in his dreams, but now, he can't seem to stop remembering.

It's Sam’s wine glass on the table, the whisk, the fucking whisk, and later, when Bucky steps under the hot spray of his shower to wash it all off, he can’t stop replaying every last detail of their night together. Can’t stop until he’s jerking himself off in the shower. He sees Sam’s face, Sam’s hands, his lips parted, murmuring I got you and Bucky spills all over himself, realizing suddenly that it’s never been fine.

Bucky sleeps on the floor again, because the bedroom feels too much of a crime scene, the sheets rumpled, the pillows imprinted, skewed. He imagines dusting himself in aluminum powder, each of Sam’s fingerprints mapped on his body like tiny footprints in the sand. He wonders if he’d find any of them left.

Bucky doesn’t tell Dr. Raynor about Sam. It’s already bad enough she can read his face when he lies, he doesn’t need her to break open his relationship with Sam, dissect it and remind Bucky of his intimacy issues, until all he has left of their time together is a clinical conversation with someone who reminds him how fucked up he is.

Sam’s not cruel, or maybe he is, because he texts Bucky again to wish him a happy birthday. Sends him a picture of a bean dish with a little candle, the message:

They’re not magic but they damn sure taste like it.

Bucky laughs. It crushes him, so he doesn’t respond.

And then John fucking Walker appears on his TV, and it’s not about him and Sam anymore. It’s about the shield.

When they meet again, Sam doesn’t look at him, just keeps to business, voice clipped, as if he couldn’t care less.  It makes Bucky’s skin pickle with irritation, his hands forming tight fists in his black gloves.

He wants to shake him, to yell, did I even matter to you? But he lost his right to do that when he let Sam leave.

So Bucky berates Sam for the shield, for not taking the situation seriously, and Sam shuts him out, says, “It’s a great reunion, buddy. Be well.”

But it’s not over, Bucky won’t let it be over.

Bucky’s falling from the helicopter and then they’re scoping out the area, Sam’s breath hot in his ear as they watch people load the truck.

There’s palpable tension between them, but Sam works with it in a comfortable ease, a hand on Bucky’s arm, a pat on Bucky’s back, touching him like it doesn’t mean anything. Like it’s all so fucking easy for him.

Bucky does his best to put it aside, to channel the frustration into the mission, into thinking about how Sam threw the shield away like it was nothing, with zero explanation or warning. Not that Sam owes him one. It just would’ve been nice.

And then they’re fighting young adults with masks, teenagers, really, and they don’t stand a chance. Bucky barely makes it without being crushed by the truck, Sam swooping under him, gripping him by the arms to roll them out from underneath.

Sam’s pressed against him as they tumble through the field, his skin searing hot, his suit damp with sweat.

They come to a stop, Bucky on top, and he can feel their bodies pressing together through all the layers of their clothes. It’s familiar and he feels sick with the contact, like he wants to bury himself in it, just for a minute.

Instead, Bucky holds himself together tightly, glaring at Sam, and lets the moment last for what it is. Sam stares back at him, eyes whiskey hot, baring into him, the intimacy of it curling low in Bucky’s stomach.

Bucky swallows and says the one thing that’ll get it all to stop. “Could've used that shield.”

Sam groans. “Man, get off me.” Rolls him to the side, his hand still pressed against Bucky’s arm, curled in a small fist.

It aches because Bucky remembers it. The way Sam’s hand felt pressed against his body when they fell asleep together, for the very first time.

That night, when they return from the mission and Torres is out of sight, Bucky stares at the grooves in the ceiling of the helicopter. He hears Sam’s breathing. The slow, steady inhale. The long, drawn out sound of a tired exhale.

They’re on their way to Isaiah and Bucky has to swallow hard just to keep all of his secrets down.

His heart pounds heavily in his chest, with the knowledge that Sam’s right there, just a few paces away. He wants to close the distance, sidle up next to him, bury himself in the smell of sandalwood and spice. It’s late though, and he can’t tell if Sam’s already asleep.

Sam's voice cuts sharply through the silence. “You’re not going to be weird about this, are you?”

“No,” Bucky says. He tries to say something else, something relaxed, but his voice sounds too jittery, too loud. “No, it’s- it’s not. I’m not gonna be weird. It’s alright, it’s. The shield, okay?”

“The shield,” Sam says flatly.

“Yeah.”

There’s silence on the other end of the helicopter and Bucky bites down on his lip until it hurts,  because he just needs Sam to keep fucking talking so he can stop thinking about going over there and taking him by the shoulders, apologizing for everything he understands and all the things he doesn't, until they’re pressed back together, Sam’s lips hard and unrelenting on his.

The helicopter stays silent.

“It’s a little close.” Bucky says, not even a few days later, because their thighs are pressed together, slotted together, and he wants Sam so bad he can’t breathe.

“It’s very close. That’s what you wanted, right?” Sam asks him, and there’s an unnatural stiffness to the way he says it, like he’s taunting him.

Bucky bites his lips, watches Sam’s gaze track back to his mouth, and he wants to say yes or no or something but the words don’t come out.

“Good, now look at each other.” Dr. Raynor says, and when Bucky meets Sam’s eyes the expression he sees is so raw, so pained, it makes him dizzy. It’s gone so quick Bucky thinks he’s imagined it, and Sam’s gaze hardens, evolves into something else, and oh, it’s a contest now.

“Why does Sam aggravate you?” Dr. Raynor asks.

Because he says he misses Steve, then throws away everything he stood for. 

Because he has a soft smile and a stupid laugh.

And because, sometimes, when Sam looks at him in just the right way, Bucky feels blown apart inside, like there's barely anything holding him together, and he thinks being in love with him might be the only explanation.

“Why’d you give up that shield?” Bucky asks instead. It’s almost satisfying, the way Sam’s eyes flash in exasperated anger.

“Why are you making such a big deal out of something that has nothing to do with you?”

Because.

“I know this matters to you but it's pushing you off the deep end,” Sam says later, and he's right, Bucky’s going off the fucking wall with all the things he's trying to compartmentalize. He can't sleep, can't think straight, can barely even get food down with all the shit he has going on.

He still breaks Zemo out of prison, anyway.

“When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you backed him.” He tells Sam, and he's reaching, digging his fingernails into the scar they both share. “You broke the law and you stuck your neck out for me. I’m asking you to do it again.”

Sam looks at him a little harder and lifts his flashlight, presses it into Bucky’s chest, right where his heart is. Bucky wonders if Sam can feel it through the plastic, if he knows how erratic it's beating.

“Okay,” Sam agrees.

And Bucky feels terrible, because he's fucked over Sam and the Wakandans but he can still save this mission, and if that’s the only thing he can wrap his head around right now, then so be it.

In Madripoor, Bucky’s reminded of therapy, when Sam’s thigh touches against his, a jolt of electricity that shoots through his body, when he’s pressed against him at a sharp turn.

But maybe it’s not healing, not helpful, doesn’t alleviate any emotional distress, maybe instead it’s the opposite: his touch is straight heroin and Bucky wants it in his veins.

“You look good,” Bucky says, breathless, in the backseat of the car. He can barely make out Sam’s face, the way his necklace hangs in the hollows of his shirt, the way the blue lights of the city light up his cheekbones.

“Shut up,” Sam grumbles. There’s a beat before he realizes Bucky isn’t joking, and his eyebrows go up. “You serious?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and he’s pretty sure he’s never been so serious about anything in his life.

“Oh,” Sam says. “So do you.”

Bucky smiles, ducks his head, so Sam can’t see. “You have a thing for leather, huh.”

“Maybe,” Sam says. He loops an arm around Bucky, brushes his lips up against Bucky’s ear, his voice smooth and deep. “But it’s not the leather I have a thing for.”

The statement sends Bucky’s heart skittering in his chest, thumping so hard he can feel it in his stomach, but the panic must show in his face because Sam’s lips flatten and he clears his throat and he releases Bucky to turn back towards the window, his shoulders held tightly together, posture unusually stiff.

Later, in the bar, Bucky mirrors the posture, his shoulders back, body rigid when he slips into his pretend Winter Soldier. And maybe he doesn’t consciously remember exactly how he’s supposed to stand, but his body does. It feels strange and awful, like slipping on a glove that’s much too big.

Zemo’s words echo in Bucky’s ears, “It didn’t take much for him to fall back into form.”

Bucky’s skin crawls. Sam’s gaze is pained, Bucky can see it in the corner of his eye, when Bucky kicks someone to the floor.

It almost looks like Sam’s... worried.

Bucky shakes it off, doesn’t think too much about the tenderness behind it, only thinks about the physicality of what he needs to do.

Should Sam be worried? Should he be -? It was easy to fall back into form.

No matter how much an animal is domesticated, there's still something wild in it.

Bucky twists here, punches there, flips a body over, lifts a man by the neck. Chokes him on the bar. His hand is tight on the man’s throat, and he hears guns being cocked, but all he has to do is squeeze and the man’ll be-

Sam puts a hand on his arm. A hand that says, “You don't have to do this. You can stop.”

Not an order. Soft, firm. The way it feels to press his lips against Sam’s. A relief.

So Bucky stops.

In Sharon’s safehouse, Sam’s bare chest stays imprinted on his eyelids. Bucky looks away too late, and Sam catches him, raises his eyebrows. See something you like?

And Bucky remembers the hotel room from so many months ago, before Karli and Sharon and Walker. Before he fucked everything up.

Sharon walks into the room and hands him a glass of whiskey. He’s thankful for the distraction, something to keep his hands busy and his eyes on. He sips from the glass, purposefully doesn’t look when Sam takes a seat next to him on the couch. It doesn’t last long, though.

Sam’s gaze flits back to Bucky. He takes a sip of his drink. The whiskey gleams wetly on his lips and Bucky freezes, feels like he can’t look away.

“Why are you always staring?” Sam asks. “Is there something on my face?” He swipes at his mouth with a thumb.

Bucky’s eyes follow the movement. “No.”

“Then stop looking at me like that.”

Bucky frowns. “Like what?”

“I don’t know,” Sam says, sounding genuinely annoyed. “Like you’re in love with me or something.”

Bucky’s face burns, caught out, and he forces a laugh, casual enough so Sam won’t know the truth.

Maybe because I am.

It’s so dark in the party that Bucky feels kind of drunk, stumbling through the rocking bodies, people brushing against them on either side. He’s following Sam through the crowd, until they make it to the edge of the dance floor, into a darkened corner where they have a better vantage point to keep an eye on Zemo and Sharon.

Bucky’s not looking for them, though. His eyes are trained on Sam, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs up and down when he swallows, the way his lips press together when he catches Bucky staring.

“What the fuck is your problem,” Sam asks tiredly.

Bucky licks his lips, forces everything down. “I’m. You know. I want to get on with it. Find Dr. Nagel.”

“Nah, that’s not your problem,” Sam murmurs. “Is it?”

His voice is pitched low and Bucky’s blood runs hot with it. Sam steps forward and Bucky almost stumbles trying to take another step back. His back is pressed against the wall and Sam keeps moving, his breath so close he can feel the heat of it on his lips.

Sam's hands move to Bucky’s hips and he puts his fingers there, digs his nails under his shirt, into the flesh at his hip bones. Bucky feels himself tremble, his eyes slipping shut and a fever surging through his blood.

“ Christ,” Bucky says. “ Fuck, Sam, I-”

And he can’t help it anymore, he reaches for Sam blindly and kisses him hard and desperate, not caring if anyone’s staring or Sharon is looking for them or if the world is about to end.

Sam’s mouth is hot and sweet-- like honey, and Bucky’s stomach flutters, a warm drop of pleasure spreading beneath his skin. He wants more.

But just as he’s about to clutch him closer, Sam pulls back, smirking like he knows how absolutely wrecked Bucky is, and swipes the pad of his thumb over Bucky’s bottom lip. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

And then he leaves Bucky standing there, lips still slick with Sam’s saliva, his heart pounding in his throat.

“Barnes, your partner needs backup in there.” Walker says, spits, really, his face twisted. “Do you really want his blood on your hands?’

Bucky swallows.

He’s reminded of microwaved soup. A drooping bouquet. A card signed AJ on a side table. Sam in the hospital, Sam struggling to get up the stairs.

Walker pushes him aside. Lemar follows. Bucky makes a half-assed attempt to stop them.

Karli’s yelling something and Walker’s following her, his walk all stupid and slow, but Bucky’s not watching them, he’s not watching any of them. His gaze stays on Sam, Sam’s nostrils flared and his eyes flashing with betrayal, and he doesn’t look at Bucky when he talks, only stares past him, like he’s not even really there.

They don’t have the chance to talk about it before they’re running again and Bucky’s jumping, falling the height of an entire staircase to go and find Karli.

Later, when they’re back at Zemo’s, Sam grabs Bucky by the shoulders, drags him into the bedroom, tension visible in his neck, his arms. “What the fuck,” he says. “I had it covered. Why did you let Walker get past you?”

Bucky shuts his eyes. Sam’s face is still there, his voice soft, “Everything hurts.”

“Ten minutes.” Sam says, voice rising. “That was all I needed.” He snaps his fingers in Bucky’s face. “Bucky, I asked you a question.”

“I know,” Bucky snaps. He tilts his head up. Meets Sam’s eyes evenly. He wants to bring up the shield again. Make Sam’s fist clench together. Maybe Sam will finally punch him in the face like he deserves.

He doesn't.

Sam straightens, stares down at him. “Man, you are so- ” He breaks off, and it strikes Bucky suddenly, the stark difference between the Sam from Steve’s apartment and the Sam standing in front of him now. Sam’s eyes have dark circles, his brow wrinkled, and his clothing is rumpled from a long day chasing super soldiers through the streets.

Sam looks disheveled, strangely worn.

He must be exhausted. Bucky thinks, like it’s a revelation. He feels awful, for everything he’s put Sam through and more. The shield and Zemo, the way he’d lean into a touch and then flinch away again.

“He asked me,” Bucky says, slowly, the words poison on his tongue, “If I really wanted my partner’s blood on my hands.”

“Coworkers,” Sam corrects, points a finger at him. “And don't give me those puppy dog eyes because you were the one who was so adamant about that.” He steps closer. Bucky can smell the sweetness of his breath. “We aren't partners unless you trust me.”

“I do,” Bucky says. But he doesn't even know if he can trust himself. He was in his head about it, one kick from Karli and Sam would-  Bucky exhales. “You're all I have-” and “I needed-”

“You needed what?” Sam asks. “More space? Therapy? Me to spell out every single one of my feelings for you, so you can understand?” He places his hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Squeezes, too hard. “And what about,” he grits out, “what I needed, huh?”

Bucky knows he’s the worst kind of asshole, the kind who uses his own trauma as an excuse not to pay attention to other people’s feelings. The kind that drags others into his problems before he realizes he needs to fix them.

He’s going to fix them.

Bucky lays on the ground, his hand sparking. He can’t move and he doesn't want to, pain flaring up in his entire body as he shifts on the floor. It fucking aches and Sam is still in the warehouse, fighting Walker somewhere.

He hears Walker yell, the sound of tech ripping apart, and Sam crying out. Bucky scrambles to his feet, panic clawing at his chest, watches Walker lift the shield over Sam like he's about to bash his head in and-

No.

Bucky leaps off the ground and throws himself at Walker just in time.

He wants to kill this man for what he's done to Sam, what he could’ve done to Sam if Bucky hadn't been there-

He shudders at the thought. His fist collides with Walker’s face. Walker’s fist collides with his. And then Sam’s up again and they’re wrestling for the shield, prying it out of Walker’s arm.

Walker screams. His bone snaps.

There’s blood. Blood everywhere. Outside on the fountain steps, here on the shield. Walker’s fingers are streaked with it, and now Bucky’s are too.

Bucky’s hands are trembling when he drops the shield in front of Sam. Trembling still when he’s walking away, back to the other building, past the blood on the steps that turns his stomach.

Bucky doesn't know why he stops there, but he can't keep moving, as the sirens blare and the lights flash and people are moving back and forth, speaking in low tones he can’t quite make out. He shuts his eyes and Sam’s on the ground, his face panicked, fingers flexing on the floor and Walker’s standing over him about to bash his head in.

It's not about the fucking shield, it's never been about the fucking shield, it's about Sam. It could've been Sam.

Bucky’s chest hurts with it, aches, he desperately wants to do everything to fix it. And Sam said, earlier, “We don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

Lemar and a super soldier are dead, but Bucky has done just as much destruction. How many people has Bucky hurt? At least 13 in his book.

No. That was the Winter Soldier.

How many people has Bucky hurt?

Sam. Ayo. The Wakandans. That’s already too many. Too many for one man.

Bucky balls his hands up into fists and feels the dried blood caked on his fingertips, and thinks Jesus Christ, Bucky, are you going to keep your head up your ass your whole fucking life? Stop moping about what you’ve done and get over your shit already.

He calls Ayo before he can second guess it. The line rings once, twice. He wouldn't be surprised if she lets it go to voicemail, it’d be more than he deserves, but she picks up on the fourth ring.

“Tell me you've found him,” Ayo says. “Or hang up the phone.”

“I,” Bucky says. “I know where he is.”

And then he gets a gun.

Ayo meets Bucky on an aircraft where she stands the whole time, and doesn’t say a word. The heat of her gaze burns hot on the back of Bucky’s neck, bristled, impassive.

Bucky turns around. Bites his lip. “I’m sorry,” he starts. “What I did was unforgivable.”

And sure, it was a means to an end. Sure, it was the only way Bucky could think of to find Dr. Nagel, but he did it without a warning or discussion, and Ayo had to find out from someone that wasn’t him.

Ayo holds up a hand. “Take me to Zemo and then we can talk about forgiveness.”

“No,” he says, because he needs her to know. “I thought I understood the pain. What it was like for you, to not be able to protect the one you love. The one you swore you'd never let anything happen to.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I didn't.”

Ayo purses her lips. Waits.

“I was almost too late today. I almost let someone down. Cost them their life. And the grief I felt, the grief I feel, thinking about if I had lost Sa- them. Is insurmountable.” His face hardens. “I would’ve spent my whole life looking for the person who cost them their lives. I would’ve fought anyone who got in the way.”

Ayo’s expression doesn’t change. She takes a few steps forward, eyeing him. She lifts her spear and flips it, presses the rounded bottom of it to his chest.  “Almost,” she says. “Is the key word, White Wolf. You cannot know our loss. You do not know our struggle.  A means to an end does not justify your actions.”

Bucky shifts in his seat. “I know,” he says. He grimaces. He’d go back if he could, talk to Sam about alternatives, but it’s too late now. “I know I didn't lose someone the way you have.” He bites his lip. “I can't pretend I understand the depth of your grief. But I'll do everything I can to make things right.”

Ayo studies him for a long moment. Removes the spear from where it’s resting on his chest.

Bucky knows his words are not enough, but it’s a start. There is a lot more that needs to be said, but the moment to say them is not now. It will take more time for the hurt to heal and their relationship to repair itself again.

“Good,” she says finally, and it’s not warm, but it’s not hostile either. “We will be counting on it.”

Bucky exhales quietly and folds his hands in his lap.

The rest of the flight stretches out long before them, Bucky leaning back into his seat with his eyes closed and Ayo turned away from him, an unnatural stiffness to her body.

“They literally programmed you to kill.” Zemo says, in front of the Sokovian Memorial.  “James, do what needs to be done.”

Bucky frowns. He thinks about Ayo’s voice. You are free. The shield, soaked in blood. Walker’s casual, “He’s too valuable of an asset to have tied up.”

Sam’s hand on his shoulder in Madripoor.

“Thanks for the advice,” Bucky says. “But we’re going to do it our own way.”

Bucky cocks the gun. Holds it to Zemo’s face.

No matter how much an animal is domesticated, there’s still something wild in it.

And then he smiles. Lets the bullets drop to the ground. The Wakandans may call him White Wolf, but he’s not a fucking animal. Not a fucking asset.

He's just Bucky.

The bullets cascade to the ground. The pings they make when they hit the floor sound like freedom bells.

Sam goes home after Riga. Bucky knows it without asking. If Bucky’s peace is in Wakanda, Sam’s is at home in Delacroix.

So Bucky’s on a flight again and he’s holding the favor he asked from Ayo. A suit specially designed for Sam. To shield him.  Protect him. He got the measurements from Sam’s files, spent hours researching the best materials and designs and arguing over what would suit him best.

In the end, Shuri knew what was best. He left the rest of the suit to her and simply picked up the package when it was finished. Bucky spent the rest of his time coming up with a plan. What he’d say to Sam. What’d he do when he saw him next, but nothing seemed quite right.

And now, just a few weeks later, he’s waiting by Wilson Family Seafood, literal suitcase in hand, watching Sam from a distance. The sun is brilliant, but Sam’s smile is brighter, and it warms Bucky from the inside, watching Sam in his element.

Sam’s voice comes closer. “How are we gonna get this off the truck?”

That’s my cue, Bucky thinks, and swoops in in all of his super-soldier glory to pick up the entire bundle of stuff on his shoulder.

When Sam sees him, their eyes meet, and it’s all heat. There’s a tenseness around Sam’s eyes that Bucky’s never seen before, and his lips flatten. Everything Bucky had planned to say flies straight out of his head. He feels weak in the knees, unable to string a simple sentence together. He swallows hard.

“Just dropping this off,” he manages. “You can sign for it and I’ll go.” Sam puts his hand on the metal case. “I called in a favor from the Wakandans.”

Sam stares at him. He opens his mouth to say something, but steam shoots straight from the pipe of the Wilsons’ boat and Sam is rushing off to fix it. Bucky knows better, though. He touches his fingers to Sam’s hip and Sam takes a step back, hands him the wrench. Bucky screws the pipe back in.  Shifts where he’s standing.

“So this is the boat,” he says, without thinking.  “It’s nice. Want any help?”

When Sam nods, it feels like relief.

On the Wilsons’ couch, Bucky sleeps without dreams. It's the second best sleep he’s ever had. Second best to his mornings with Sam, but he tries not to think about that these days. Instead, Bucky takes it day by day, enjoying the Louisiana sunshine and the hours of sleep and the sound of Sam’s nephews playing in the living room.

Bucky wakes to the front door slamming one morning, early enough that the sun hasn’t risen yet, and the air is still cool and quiet. He rises from the couch, rolls his shoulders back to work out the kinks, and gets himself ready to join Sam on the boat.

Despite the joy that comes from his new routine, from teasing Sarah and spending time with the boys, there’s still a tightness in Bucky’s chest.

Because Sam doesn’t talk to him.

When they work on the boat, they work in silence. Bucky gets the occasional smile, an eye roll, maybe a joke on a good day, but other than that. Nothing. Silence.

It’s real fucked up that Bucky had once wished his miracle on this, because all he wants now is to hear Sam’s voice again.

Sam asks Bucky to adjust one of the controls. Asks him to hold something down while Sam twists the screw in. Sam has to reach over Bucky to do it, leans in so they’re touching from their shoulders to their hands. The contact floods Bucky’s body with longing, and when Sam pulls away Bucky remains still, electric, shivering.

If Sam notices, he doesn’t say anything. Bucky has all of his apologies on the tip of his tongue, but Sam never meets his eyes so Bucky takes the coward’s way out and says nothing.

Bucky’s flight leaves Delacroix on the first of August. He’s sitting at the table when Sam comes up behind him, presses his fingers against Bucky’s back, warm.

“Come outside,” he says. “I’m picking up the shield.”

Buck leaves his coffee on the table, lets it grow cold.

The air outside is heavy.

It’s dense and it’s dewy and it’s fucking smothering. It’s more of a balmy humidity than a singing desert heat, but the long sleeve Bucky is wearing is definitely not doing him any favors. Sam guides them out into the front yard, under the drooping, slanted trees. He’s gripping the shield with strong, certain hands, and when he walks to the center of the yard, it’s easy. Unhurried.

Bucky, on the other hand, is not so calm. He feels jumpy, like all the words he wants to say are squirming and rutting against the tip of his tongue, like it doesn’t want to be there.

Sam throws the shield against the tree, biceps flexing under his grey quarter zip, the fabric pulled taut over lean muscle.

Bucky catches it.

They haven’t talked about the shield, not once since the therapy session, haven’t discussed what Sam’s going to do with it, but Bucky knows his opinion is probably the last one Sam wants to hear on the subject. He thinks he knows what Sam wants anyway, based on the fragments of conversation he’s overheard from him and Sarah.

Bucky clamps his teeth down around his bottom lip, worries it, chews it. He clears his throat.

“When Steve told me what he was planning, I don’t think we understood what it meant for a Black man to be given the shield,” he says. “How could we?” He holds the shield out for Sam.  “I owe you an apology. I’m sorry.”

Sam reaches out to take it from him, his lips pressed together, his fingertips brushing Bucky’s as he takes it from his grasp.

“Thank you,” Sam says.

It’s a start.

Later, Bucky says, “We’re partners,” and Sam still corrects him, but it’s without any of the heat that came with it before.

In the end they settle on “a couple of guys” and Sam watches Bucky with a strange expression on his face, before he shrugs and says, “I can live with that.”

Bucky wants to say more, still thinks about saying more, but he ends up nodding, all casual about it. “Perfect.”

It’s not perfect, not even close to being perfect, doesn’t even scratch the tip of the iceberg of everything that Bucky wants. But.

It will have to be.

Bucky spends 47 days crossing the names off of his list. Giving closure to people who scream at him, hit him in the chest, their small fists smashing uselessly against him, full of flayed out, carved out rage.  It's unbearable, but it's nothing compared to what The Winter Soldier has done to them, so Bucky takes it. He takes all of it.

The worst, though, are the ones who stare at Bucky in silence, their eyes hollow like he cut out a piece of them that they’ll never get back.

On those days, everything hurts.

But he texts Sam. And Sam texts back.

[Incoming Call: Sam Wilson]

“How did you know?” Sam whispers. “How did you know it was today?”

His voice tugs at something in Bucky’s chest, and God, it feels like years since he’s last heard Sam’s voice.

“There was that picture on the boat. You, Sarah and your Ma with the birthday cake. I just remembered the date, that’s all.”

There’s silence on the other end of the phone and Bucky hears a quiet rasp that breaks off suddenly. “Thank you,” Sam says, voice wobbling. “It’s her 70th. She would’ve been 70.” Bucky’s heart shatters, hearing him speak. He wishes he could be there in person, to squeeze Sam’s shoulder or offer him more than a lame apology over the phone.

“Jesus,” Bucky murmurs.

“Sarah bought a cake and ordered food from mama’s favorite restaurant. The boys were too young to remember-- but they’re trying. Flipping through the photobooks now. But the flowers, Bucky. These are... They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“They’re amemones.”

Sam laughs wetly. “Anemones.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No. You said amemones.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, good-naturedly. Sam’s not there to see it, but he’s sure he can hear the exasperation in his voice. “Whatever you say, pal.”

“Sarah just got back. I should get going. But-” Bucky hears Sarah’s voice murmur something in the background. “No. It’s Bucky. Yeah. Yeah, they’re from him.” Bucky hears “sweet” and “romantic” and then some more murmuring. “Okay, thank you, Sarah. That’s enough.” There’s a rustling sound before Sam’s voice comes back on the line. “Sorry. I’ve got to run. But thanks, man. It was a nice gesture. Made me smile. And cry. Just a little.”

The words get stuck in Bucky’s throat. His smile’s so wide he thinks his face might break. “I’m glad you like them.” He pauses. “So about that sauce...”

Sam laughs. “Bye, Buck.”

If another bouquet of anemones finds its way to Delacroix every few weeks or so, it has absolutely nothing to do with the way Sam calls Bucky every time, delighted, his laughter rumbling in Bucky’s ear like soft thunder.

Sometime in early October, Bucky hears a knock on his door. Sam is there, Bucky can see him through the peephole, staring intently at the door, shield in hand.

What the hell?  Bucky thinks. He opens the door. “What are you doing here?”

“It's Karli,” Sam says. “She's stopping the GRC vote. Tonight.”

“And you're here.” Bucky says.

“You told me to let you know when. I'm telling you now.”

“I told you to call me. Aren't we wasting time- ” But he stops, because Sam takes a step forward, into the light, and Bucky forgets how to fucking breathe.

Sam is wearing the suit.

And it’s-

It’s not just the suit. It’s snug in all the right places, stripes sloping downwards, cut to emphasize the V of his torso, the way his hips curve out. Sam’s freshly shaven and his skin is smooth, and his eyelashes are long when they sweep downwards. And it’s- it’s not that. It’s not any of that.

It’s.

It’s.

It’s the way his brow is set, the strength in his shoulders. The way he’s ready to take on a world he’s too good for, ready to fight if pressed, or put down his arms if necessary.

They’ve spent months together, in apartments and hotel rooms and houses, in Madripoor and Riga and Delacroix, and they’ve shared stories about Steve and all of their nightmares and Sam made him listen to all of Trouble Man and ruthlessly mocked him for not being able to cook anything properly besides scrambled eggs- and Bucky’s felt the butterflies and the breathlessness, but not once, not once had he ever felt like this.

He loves Sam.

“I, uh.” Bucky tries, valiantly, to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“You gonna stand here with your mouth open or you gonna invite me in?”

Bucky startles. He hadn’t even realized that was an option. He doesn’t know how much time they have, doesn’t know what to expect, but he steps back, nearly stumbles on his own two feet as he lets Sam in.

“Hi,” he says, when Sam steps into the living room.

Sam walks closer. “Hi.”

Bucky rubs his jaw and feels suddenly nervous, like he’s on a first date or something, which is ridiculous, because he and Sam have already fucked and then saved each other’s lives at least a dozen times.

“Suit’s cool, right?” Sam says, lifting an arm, showing off the way it bends and shapes to his skin.

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “I know.”

“Want to… test it out?”

Bucky’s eyebrows pinch together and his mind starts spinning because he doesn't quite understand what Sam means. But Sam walks to the window with the fire escape and slides it open. Slips beneath it and steps out into the evening air.

Bucky swallows and tentatively walks to the window. He doesn't like where this is going.

On the balcony, Sam unfurls his wings and Bucky can't stop staring. They're beautiful, like an angel’s, stretching the entire span of the fire escape. Sam floats upwards, stands on the edge of the rail, holds out a hand.

“Come on,” Sam says, “take my hand.”

Bucky moves to the edge of the balcony, looks over the railing. “No fucking way,” he says. “You fly. I'll watch from here.”

“You've fallen from worse.”

Bucky stares at him hard. Because he’s fallen through fucking ice and at least a whole goddamn forest and nothing, nothing has been as painful as falling for Sam.

“Come on, man.”

Bucky sighs, resigned, but at this point, he'd probably do anything Sam asked. He slides his gloved hand into Sam’s and he doesn't have a second to think before Sam’s shooting upwards into the sky.

Bucky’s gripping Sam’s hand for dear life, and it turns out he actually can dangle, and he's about to start screaming for Sam to put him down, when Sam yanks him upwards and grips onto his waist, pulling Bucky flush against him.

“Jesus, you're heavy,” Sam murmurs. And Bucky’s now noticing how quiet it is in the sky, how he can barely make out the honking beneath them, and the warm glow of the city lights as the sky stains pink and purple.

“You’re just out of practice,” Bucky shoots back, but he can't really think straight, not when Sam is lined up so perfectly, not when he can feel the heat of Sam's body in between the layers of their clothes.

Sam’s face is calm and warmly amused, and he's looking at Bucky like he can read everything that's going through his mind. Bucky feels kind of panicky about that, because Sam must know everything he’s been shoving down is about to come back up, like eco-farm food in a hotel room bathroom, and Sam.

Sam.

Sam almost died and he could die again tonight and Bucky can't go another fucking second without saying everything he’s been holding back because tomorrow might be too late.

“Sam,” he starts. He tightens his grip on Sam’s shoulders. “I fucked up.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “You did.”

Bucky frowns, because this was not how he wanted this conversation to go. This was not what he wanted to say.

“Sam,” he tries again. “I love you.”

Sam freezes. “You.”

“I love you.”

“What the hell happened to you in the past two months?”

“I-”

“You're telling me, this whole time, all I needed to do was put on this suit, and you’d finally say you love me?”

“No,” Bucky says. Because maybe Sam is good, too good, and Bucky can’t ruin him. But the truth of it all is this: To love is to be capable of ruin.

“It’s not the suit, Sam. I just-” he feels like it's hard to breathe up here, “I saw you and I couldn’t hold it back any longer.” He purses his lips. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, nodding, “That's okay.”

“Good.”

“Bucky-”

Bucky laughs, stupid with it. “Sam.”

“I love you too. Hate you for telling me in the air though.”

“Why’s that?”

Sam doesn’t answer and angles them downwards, folds in his wings a little, and they're falling, falling so fast Bucky’s stomach churns from it.

And then his feet are back on solid ground.

“Because I couldn't do this.”

Sam backs him up against the window, against the building, cool bricks digging into Bucky’s back, and seals their lips together.

Bucky fists his hand in the collar of Sam’s suit and kisses him hungrily, eyes shut, Sam’s hand warm, curved, burning into his stomach.

The world might end tonight, but Bucky can’t give less of a fuck as his lips slide against Sam’s. He wants to breathe it in, breathe it all in, for as long as he can bear it.

Sam pulls him in closer by the hips, pressing his entire body up against Bucky, and Bucky inhales sharply, sliding his hands up to cup Sam’s jaw with both hands.

Bucky wants to make it good for Sam, wants to spend time picking him apart, exploring all the places he can put his lips to to make Sam gasp. Bucky slides his fingers to cup the back of Sam’s head, dragging his fingers against his scalp.

Sam opens his mouth, lets his tongue dart out, and grinds their hips together. Bucky whines into it, can’t do anything but lean back against the wall and take it. Fuck, It’s a lot. Too good, too much, and Bucky has to break the kiss to take a moment.

“Bucky,” Sam groans.

Bucky breathes heavily for a moment, before he releases Sam. As much as he’d like to have Sam right here, right now, he doesn’t think the neighborhood would be as generous.

“Inside,” Bucky says urgently. “Now.”

Sam nods. Bucky clumsily slides the window open and steps back into the apartment. Sam’s barely inside before Bucky is on him, lips crashing against his, the two of them colliding and stumbling to the bedroom.

Sam tugs on Bucky’s shirt, lifts it over his head and then Bucky’s hands find the zipper of Sam’s suit, and he’s sliding it down, watching Sam step out of it, the fabric pooling to a heap on the floor.

Bucky presses his lips to Sam’s neck, the hollows of his throat, brushes a kiss to his bare collarbone. Sam shudders against him, and it sends blue-flame heat rushing through Bucky’s body.

Bucky walks them backwards, closer and closer to the bed until Sam can’t move any further back, and he drops to the mattress. Reclines back into the pillows.

“Fuck,” Bucky whispers, almost to himself. Sam stares back at him, all bare skin and darkened eyes. Bucky’s wanted this for so long he’s trembling with it, earthquakes in his hands.

“Come here,” Sam says, and he’s reaching for Bucky, lips and skin brushing together once again.

Bucky nips his way along Sam’s jaw and down his neck, pressing kisses all the way to his stomach, above the waistband of his briefs, until Sam’s breathing is ragged and he’s writhing against his lips, like he wants Bucky to fucking get on with it already.

Bucky grips Sam’s hips to keep them still, his fingernails digging into the flesh there, leaving moon-shaped imprints into his skin. He puts his mouth over it. Tastes salt. Heat. Like sunburn.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of Sam’s underwear. Slides them down.

Bucky tries to calm his racing heart but it’s a lost cause because Sam is.

Sam is so fucking beautiful.

And it’s not like Bucky hasn’t seen Sam naked before, but it’s different this time, because Bucky touches him with hands that are unforgiving, marks him with his mouth, his teeth, his tenderness, a physical expression of what’s inside.

His mouth ghosts hot over Sam’s cock and he presses a kiss to the tip, Sam leaking, his slick smeared on Bucky’s mouth, and Sam gasps, threads his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tightens, every sound from his lips like a goddamn privilege.

“Fuck,” Sam says, sounding wrecked, “yeah- that's- just like that, baby.”

Bucky hums, does his best to get him all the way down his throat in one go. He takes his time with it, peering up at Sam through his eyelashes, sliding his mouth up and down, engulfing Sam in warm, wet heat.

Sam’s groaning, making pretty little noises that make Bucky’s skin tingle. He tugs hard on Bucky’s hair.

“Bucky,” Sam says, “Bucky, hold on-”

Bucky pulls off of him, sits up and wipes his mouth with the pad of his thumb and Sam is sweating and his lips are bruised and his eyes are glazed-

“Fuck, you’re-- can I just-” Bucky says, and his hands are scrabbling at his pants, shoving his jeans and boxers down to his knees. “Sam, please-”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, you can.”

And Bucky strips the rest of the way down and rummages through his drawers to find the lube, the condoms, spends too many minutes working Sam open, Sam whispering in his ear how good his fingers feel inside of him.

When Bucky presses his body into Sam’s, finally, finally, it's not hesitant, not halting, there are no broken ribs, and he’s not holding back. He’s not worried about what happens when this is all over, not worried about ruining things or if they’re going to break. He just kisses Sam over and over again, pressing his lips on his body like he’s loving out a bruise.

Bucky rocks into him, pulling out and pushing in, the slap of their skin arresting in the quiet of the bedroom. Bucky wraps a hand around Sam’s cock. Sam gasps beneath him. There’s a part of Bucky that still can’t believe this is happening, but the thought is dim and distant, because Sam feels so good around him his chest feels tight with it.

They lock eyes and Bucky’s face burns like hot metal, the intimacy of it threatening to blow him apart.

Bucky wants more, God, he wants more, the gravity, the shrapnel, the after-effects so explosive they'll leave scars under his skin.

“Fuck,” Sam grits out, hoarsely, “M’not gonna last.”

Bucky chokes out a laugh because he knows the fucking feeling. He's close, already too close, his body pulled taut, tense, aching from wanting this for far too long.

Sam drags his fingers through Bucky’s hair and yanks Bucky’s face towards his, and makes a sound, a low pitched groan that rumbles through Bucky’s body, and then Bucky is gasping against Sam’s lips, tumbling, falling, crashing over the edge as he comes.

Sam's not far behind, his entire body seizing with it, riding it out with his mouth on Bucky’s, a low hiss between his teeth.

“Shit,” Bucky gasps. Slides out of him. Slumps forward.

“Yeah,” Sam echoes. “Shit.”

Bucky looks over at Sam. His eyes are closed, his forehead damp, lips swollen. Sweat gleams across his chest like dewdrops.

His eyes flutter open and he turns to Bucky, gaze tender, fond.

Bucky sighs contentedly. Wraps his arms around Sam. Holds him. Like thirst holds water, like dark holds light.

"The first time you left," Sam says, later, when everything is over, when they're curled up in Bucky's bed. "What was that about? You took one look at my face and took off running."

Bucky groans. Much as he hates it, he knows he's gotta be accountable for his actions, gotta explain it to make it right again. He shifts. "You said all that about doing this right, but your voice was so soft and, I dunno, I felt like you were saying it out of pity."

Sam's eyebrows shoot up. "You thought that that expression was pity?"

Bucky can feel the color start to rise on his cheeks. "Yeah."

Sam shakes his head and tucks his face further into Bucky's chest. "Baby, that wasn't pity.” He presses a kiss to Bucky’s collarbone. “That was love. ”

Bucky smiles. Sam reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together. Bucky’s stomach swoops like he’s falling off the edge of a cliff. A helicopter from 200 feet. A fire escape.

Falling ain't that bad, he thinks to himself. Especially when you got a partner with wings.