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“Why didn’t you wait for me?” Sam asked, voice low. He stood across the room, his arms crossed over his chest. He’d drug Bucky away as soon as they’d gotten back from confronting Karli, leaving Zemo alone in the main room with a not-at-all subtle threat that if he took off, there would be consequences. Somehow, he’d managed to make that vague threat sound intimidating, though Bucky doubted Zemo was really going to take off before they’d found Karli again.
“Walker—he…” Bucky swallowed, and Sam’s face somehow managed to get even tighter. It would have been better if he just yelled, threw something, maybe slapped Bucky. At least then Bucky would know what to do with his anger. Sam just looked… disappointed, and that was so much worse.
“We knew Walker was going to interfere!” Sam answered. “Why did you came storming in with him? If you had a problem with the plan, why didn’t you say something earlier?” He waved his right hand in the air as if to emphasize Bucky’s stupidity. He was still wearing that tan jacket from his talk with Karli, the sleeves tight around his biceps. Bucky forced himself to focus. He doubted Sam would appreciate his line of thought.
“It wasn’t that…” Bucky answered, trailing off before he admitted something stupid, like how Walker had gotten in his head. He could still hear Walker’s words ringing in his ears. This is all really easy for you, isn’t it? All that serum running through your veins. He didn’t want the serum to have changed him. He didn’t want Hydra to have changed him. Barnes, your partner needs backup in there. Do you really want his blood on your hands. He had been so scared that Walker was right, that they’d walk in and find Sam bleeding out and there would be absolutely nothing he could do.
“Then what was it?” Sam asked. He stepped closer, his voice raising in frustration, his posture stiff, his expression almost pleading. Bucky ducked his head.
“C’mon, man,” Sam said. “I’m trusting you to have my back here.” Bucky swallowed. The floor tiles were multicolored, two cracked by his feet, a faint smell of gunpowder lingering in the air. He didn’t want to tell Sam. He didn’t see any other way out of this conversation without hurting him. God knew he’d done enough of that already.
“Look, it wasn’t you,” he said, forcing his eyes up. “I just—It was—” Inhale. Exhale. It’s just Sam. Relax your hands. Don’t panic. It’s just Sam. “Walker got in my head, and maybe he was just spouting his own insecurities at me, but Sam…” Sam’s eyes were dark brown in the faint light of the room, the lines around his face pronounced as he frowned. “I can’t lose you. I can’t do it.”
His voice broke, his hands trembling, and Sam’s eyes widened, something like realization flashing across his face. He stepped forward, and Bucky clenched his fists. He wanted Sam to touch him. He wanted Sam to say he understood. Even if he didn’t mean it. God, it would be fine if he didn’t mean, if Bucky could have just a minute of Sam understanding, of believing Sam thought him worthy enough to understand.
“Bucky,” Sam said, his voice soft, and he stepped back again, two steps, cleared his throat and then took another. He looked away, and Bucky’s heart dropped from his chest down into his stomach, leaving a path of molten lead. “I’m not Steve.”
Bucky blinked, warring between the pain and the confusion. It was funny how long it took him to understand Sam’s answer, to even begin to see how him not being Steve was connected. Because in the end Bucky was a bag full of cats that only Steve was prepared to handle, and even he’d up and left.
“I think we should focus on the mission,” Sam said. Another step away, and he was blinking too, grimacing like he was in pain. Bucky opened his mouth, but he didn’t know if he was going to agree or disagree or just make a vague sort of grunt of pain, because he’d thought… Sure, Sam had said they’d leave each other alone after this was over, and he’d insulted Bucky, and he’d told him he hated him, but Bucky had thought… Sam had also laughed with him. He’d touched him, his hands firm and lingering in that disaster of a couples therapy. He’d saved his life, cradling his head as he caught him from under that semi. Bucky had thought Sam had just been angry. He didn’t think Sam really wanted him gone. He didn’t think…
He had never thought Sam was one of the people who looked at him and only saw someone useful for helping to complete a mission.
He didn’t get a chance to find out what he would say, because John Walker’s voice was suddenly calling from the main room, followed by the overturning of furniture, and some snarky reply by Zemo, and Bucky didn’t have time to be hurt or heartbroken or upset. It was time to focus on the mission like Sam wanted, and if he would jump through fire for Sam, well, then Sam didn’t need—or apparently want—to know that.
He debated between showing up with Sam’s new suit or just mailing it to him with a sticky note that said ‘sorry. Hope you like this.’ or something equally inane. In the end, he’d dismissed the idea of mailing a dangerous piece of Wakanda technology as a bad idea. His visiting Sam—and staying to help fix his boat—had absolutely nothing to do with wanting to see him.
He could already hear Dr. Raynor’s voice calling bullshit in his head.
In the end, it was easier than he expected it to be. Fixing the boat, bringing Sam his new suit, flirting with Sarah, chatting with AJ and Cass, that was all easy. It wasn’t easy when Sam plopped himself down next to Bucky at the end of the day, holding out a beer for him to take.
“Can you even get drunk?” Sam asked, propped against the side of the boat. His eyes crinkled as he smiled, his own beer bottle half raised to his mouth.
“Nah,” Bucky answered. “Tried after I escaped Hydra. I burn through the alcohol in my system too fast.”
“Yeah, Steve was the same way,” Sam said. He chuckled under his breath. “No fun at parties.”
“He was no fun even before the serum,” Bucky answered, taking a swig of his beer. It was bitter on his tongue, a cool burn down the back of his throat. “I’d try to take him out, set him up with girls, but he’d always have that stick up his ass.” Bucky chuckled, more forced than he meant it to be, and Sam’s eyes traced across his face like he could read the myriad of conflicting emotions battling in Bucky’s mind, which would have been impressive because Bucky wasn’t even sure he knew what they were.
Angry that Steve had left him. Grateful Bucky been given another chance. Angry that he was angry that Steve had left him. Hoping Sam and he could save the world and keep seeing each other after. Bitter that Steve hadn’t really meant it when he’d said, ‘I’m with you till the end of the line’. Happy that Steve had gotten his happily ever after. Envy that Bucky would never get his. Pleased that Steve had gotten to live the life he’d wanted. Despair that Bucky hadn’t been good enough for just one person. Relieved that Sam was with him now.
“Steve said you were like that,” Sam said eventually, the joking tone gone now, his eyes serious. “A charmer. Always taking girls out.”
“It wasn’t like I could take the guys who fucked me in backs alleys out,” Bucky answered, taking another deep drink. He didn’t even know why he said it. Maybe because he couldn’t when he’d been growing up. Maybe because he hated the way Steve had always mocked him for being a lady charmer when he’d had to hide half his personality back then. Maybe he just wanted to make Sam jealous, as ridiculous and unlikely as that was. To his satisfaction, Sam did choke on his drink, spirting beer across the deck as he started laughing.
“Dude,” he said, whipping the beer off his mouth. Bucky just shrugged. Sam was still smiling, his teeth glinting in the moonlight and his eyes a light brown. He was more handsome than any man Bucky had even looked at in the 40s. “I mean, I guess I knew what with you and Steve but still…” His smiled faded slightly and then he met Bucky’s eyes and the smile was back with full force as he leaned back against the boat.
“Me and Steve?”
“Yeah.”
“What about me and Steve?”
“You know,” Sam said, swinging his beer around like that was supposed to mean something. His eyes were intense, almost angrily locked on Bucky’s. “You guys were…” He made a vague circular gesture with his free hand, nodding along with wide eyes like Bucky was, again, supposed to interpret something from it.
“We were…”
“Fucking, man, c’mon,” Sam answered, and Bucky blinked, the words swirling around his head as Sam kept talking. “Or dating or whatever weird relationship you had.”
Sam had thought…? Had other people thought that? But Steve wasn’t even…. Was he? He’d never told Bucky he was anything but straight and there’d been plenty of opportunities for him.
“Steve and I weren’t like that,” Bucky said.
He didn’t say anything about all the men he’d gone down on wishing they’d been Steve or the way he’d chased his own pleasure with Steve’s name on his tongue. He didn’t tell Sam that there’d been a time he was in love with Steve, back before getting drafted and the serum and the shield and Peggy and Hydra. It seemed so long ago now, barely there memories of picking a scrawny kid off some back alley after a fight, recollections of the heartbreak he’d felt when Steve had looked at Peggy Carter.
It wasn’t that the serum had changed Steve. He’d been the same reckless, righteous do-gooder, who couldn’t stand down from a fight. It was just that he was also Captain America, the hero people started to look up to, the guy falling for someone else. He’d loved Steve, but war and getting tortured and experimented on had a way of making you move on from the impossible.
Then after Hydra, Steve had still been Steve, but Bucky hadn’t been Bucky anymore. Not in any way that counted, and it was hard to stay in love with an idol when that idol wanted you to be someone you’d been a lifetime ago, someone you were never going to be again. Loving Steve—being in love with Steve—was a distant memory, almost unreal with how dusty it felt.
“Oh,” Sam said, eyebrows furrowed, eyes fixed on the deck below them. He had that expression on his face that Bucky sometimes saw in the mirror, like some fundamental belief was coming apart at the seams. “So, you and he…”
“Weren’t fucking or dating or whatever you said. He was my best friend. Never anything more,” Bucky answered, turning his face away. He didn’t say that it was Sam he was in love with. He didn’t say that it was Sam he wanted to fuck or date or whatever. It was probably obvious on his face anyway.
“Well,” Bucky said when the silence became unbearable. “Got to check my flight for tomorrow. Get a hotel room for the night. Crash, you know.”
“So, you just going to set me up like that, huh?” Sam asked, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.
Then Sam asked him to stay the night and that was less easy. Sam throwing the shield across the yard and giving him advice about his nightmares, Sam clutching his hand and smiling and joking and promising to call when he got a lead on Karli, that was all so complicated.
Bucky wanted it to be easy. He wanted to know what Sam wanted from him. A friend? A partner? A pity project? Maybe it didn’t matter. Sam had been the one to say they should focus on the mission. Maybe everything else between them was just supposed to be meaningless. He wasn’t stupid enough to try asking again. He didn’t hate himself that much.
Bucky didn’t know what he expected after Karli and the flag-smashers. Sam walking up to him after scolding the members of the Global Repatriation Council, his lips curling in a smile and his eyes tired and sad wasn’t it. He looked beyond beautiful, his new suit hugging the curves of his hips and ass nicely and the white playing with the dark hues of his skin.
Then he was laughing at Bucky’s joke, his eyes lighting up and his shoulder brushing against Bucky’s, and when someone came over to ask Sam to help round up the last of the flag-smashers, Sam smiled over at Bucky, his eyes crinkling happily as he answered.
Bucky stood around awkwardly, trying to decide whether to just take off or wait for Sam. A couple of people cast him strange looks, glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes and skirting around him as they cleaned up the area. He still hadn’t decided by the time Sam swooped down next to him, which was way stranger than just sticking around. Sam’s landed next to him easily, his wings buffeting the air into Bucky.
“You waited for me?” he asked, and he didn’t sound offended. He sounded pleased, his eyes flicking across Bucky’s face and his lips quirking up. Bucky just shrugged, turning to head down the sidewalk. It was impossible to keep facing Sam when he was looking like that. Sam laughed, his footsteps loud on the cement as he followed Bucky.
“You heading to your apartment?” Sam asked, and Bucky shrugged again.
“You mind if I crash with you?” Sam asked. His arm brushed against Bucky’s, warm and solid, and Bucky couldn’t bring himself to pull away.
“Whatever,” Bucky answered, and Sam’s smile widened. He shifted closer to Bucky, the back of his knuckles touching Bucky’s and then not drawing away, and Bucky wasn’t sure he understood what was going on. It wasn’t that he really thought Sam would take off running in the opposite direction the first chance he got, it was just… surreal. Strange. After telling Bucky they’d never see each other after this mission, after rejecting him, Sam wasn’t supposed to seek him out. he wasn’t supposed to smile and laugh and invite himself to Bucky’s house like he wanted to hang out with him. Was it different now that the mission was over?
It wasn’t until Bucky was unlocking his door that the idea of showing Sam his apartment—and just how little was inside—really hit him. He froze with his hand on the doorknob, anxiety thrumming through him.
“What?” Sam asked, impossibly close, warmth seeping from him.
“I just…” Bucky cleared his throat, determined not to make a fool of himself. “I don’t have much.” Sam raised an eyebrow, a smile still playing along the edge of his lips. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Dude, us standing here with you asking me not to make it weird is making it weirder than I ever could.”
“Whatever,” Bucky answered, refusing to acknowledge how it made him feel better.
He pushed open the door to the apartment, Sam following on his heels. Sam’s eyes flicked around, touching the couch, the TV, the pile of blankets stacked next to the couch. The bed he’d bought when he first moved in was half assembled, two minutes of trying to lie on the mattress leaving him feeling like he would fall and fall and fall if he closed his eyes. Sam didn’t linger over anything in the living room. Instead, he crossed into the kitchen, pulling open the fridge like he really expected anything to be in there.
“Uh,” Bucky said, wandering further into the apartment. “We can order something.”
“Sounds good!” Sam answered, shutting the door without commenting. “I’m starved.”
Bucky pulled one of the menus he kept off the counter and Sam hummed when he handed it over. It all seemed too casual. The food ordering, Sam chatting about how he’d decided to pick up the shield, about how it felt to stand up to the Global Repatriation Council, Bucky standing to get the food when the guy knocked on his door, Sam throwing his head back to laugh while they ate, Bucky smiling over the bowl of Sweat and Sour Chicken when Sam told a joke.
“We should get to sleep,” Sam said finally, too soon. He pushed his own bowl away from him. Bucky could see the moonlight shining in through the window, and they really should sleep. Bucky just didn’t want to. He wanted to spend another hour just talking to Sam.
“Right,” Bucky answered. He gestured down the hall. “The bedroom’s the first door on the right. There’s a mattress.”
“You don’t have to give me your bed, man,” Sam said, and Bucky didn’t miss the way his eyes flicked to the pile of blankets like he already knew Bucky hadn’t been sleeping in said bed.
“It’s fine,” Bucky answered. “I prefer the floor anyway.”
“No, I mean we can both take the bed,” Sam said. He fingered the counter, suddenly avoiding Bucky’s eyes, his lips curled up in a shy smile. “Or the floor or whatever.”
Bucky blinked at him, almost completely sure he’d either heard wrong or misunderstood. Sam wanted to… But even if he’d heard right that didn’t mean Sam actually wanted to…. right? Sam had been clear that he didn’t feel the same way Bucky did. So, why…?
“You want to…?” Bucky trailed off, unable to bring himself to say the words. What is he’d misunderstood and Sam laughed or got angry or just left? Something about his tone must have caught Sam’s attention, because he glanced back up, his eyes soft in a way Bucky wasn’t sure he understood.
“Yeah,” Sam answered. “Yeah, I do.” He reached across the counter, his fingers wrapping around Bucky’s, warm and grounding and sending Bucky’s heart beating through his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had held his hand. It must have been in the 40s, before he’d gone to war, and this was Sam, touching him like… like…
“I’m sorry about before. Thinking you and Steve…” Sam trailed off, his eyes flicking off to the side like he was embarrassed.
“Uh, don’t worry about it,” Bucky said. It seemed an odd thing to bring up at the moment. Or to even really apologize for in the first place. It wasn’t Sam’s fault Steve and Bucky hadn’t worked out, and Bucky didn’t see how that had anything to do with Sam holding his hand and looking up at him through his eyelashes like he wanted him when he knew, he knew that couldn’t be true.
“I always worry about you, Buck,” Sam answered and then he was leaning forward across the counter, and he was right there, his breath hot on Bucky’s mouth, his left hand coming up to cup Bucky’s cheek. He gave him plenty of time to pull away, but Bucky couldn’t have backed away if he wanted to. And then Sam was pressing his mouth against his, Sam’s hand sliding into his hair, Sam’s tongue gliding along his lips, Sam’s body moving around the counter to press against his. Bucky moaned against him, and Sam moved his leg against Bucky’s crotch, and Bucky jerked away from him, the sudden shock of realization cold and surreal.
Sam’s eyebrows furrowed, his pupils blown wide with lust as he pulled back. His face was the picture of concern as his thumb rubbed circles in the back of Bucky’s hand, soothing and comforting, and Bucky shouldn’t have shuddered at the feeling. He shouldn’t have pressed himself closer to Sam, breathing him in and resting his head against Sam’s shoulder like some needy whore.
He wondered how long Sam had been planning this. At least since he’d started following Bucky home, his good mood and good-natured teasing now explained. Wouldn’t want to offend the guy you wanted to put out for you later. Not that Bucky knew how to say no to him. Sam didn’t want to cuddle and date and hold him. Sam didn’t want him.
Bucky had seen enough men giving each other a hand after an intense fight, adrenaline and fear and triumph souring through their veins after a victory to know exactly what Sam was doing now, and it didn’t have anything to do with affection.
“We don’t have to—” Sam started, one hand coming up to comb through Bucky’s hair, reassuring even when Bucky was clinging to him in a way that could only be annoying.
“No,” Bucky interrupted. He moved away from Sam, gripping his hand like a lifeline. Because of course Sam would want to make sure this was what Bucky wanted too. He was so good it made Bucky ache, and if someone like Sam thought all he deserved was one night of adrenaline filled passion, then it could only be true, and Bucky would do anything to hold onto every tiny piece of Sam that he was offered.
“No,” Bucky insisted. “I want to.” Sam smiled as Bucky led him back to the bedroom, soft and full of desire.
It was everything Bucky expected. And it was nothing like he expected. It was Sam. Sam pressing him into the mattress, Sam’s fingers opening him up, clutching at his thigh to hold his legs up, Sam mouthing at his stomach, Sam pinching his nipples, Sam’s cock in his mouth, in his ass. He forced himself to turn on his stomach before Sam buried himself, pushing his face into the mattress and trying to control the way he moaned. Sam was heavy against his back, muttering about how tight, how good Bucky was, and Bucky bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood when Sam kept saying it, because he wasn’t. He wasn’t good, no matter how much he wanted to be, and couldn’t Sam just stop saying it.
Sam thrusted hard in him, brushing right against Bucky’s prostate and made a comment about what a great ass he had, but it wasn’t until he commented on how beautiful Bucky was that he felt the hot prickle behind his eyes. He didn’t remember the last time he’d cried. It had been something that irritated his handlers, no matter how much pain he was in, and after a while the urge had just… stopped. It was humiliating that it was Sam, muttering praise that they both knew wasn’t true, that broke him.
Sam was still inside him, Sam’s hands still hot on his stomach, on his chest, running down his side, Sam’s breath in his hair, his mouth sucking down his neck, and Bucky had to bite the inside of his lip to stop from sobbing, his chest tight and his dick still painfully hard between his legs. Sam’s thrust sent shots of pleasure through his body, and Bucky buried his face further in the pillow.
He didn’t want some one-off on his unused mattress because Sam decided he was hot, and they were both lonely and Sam was high on adrenaline. He wanted Sam to want him. He wanted Sam to hold him and laugh his stupid gap tooth laugh and cover his back and defend Redwing when Bucky made fun of the thing. He wanted it to work between them, but when Sam was tensing behind him, ordering Bucky to cum for him and leaving Bucky absolutely no choice but to do what he wanted, he realized he would never get what he wanted.
“Where are you going?” Sam asked, his hand dragging across the mattress to rest on the small of Bucky’s back. He was half asleep, sprawled out under the sheets with his eyes closed. His hand was warm, as comforting as Sam ever was, and it made something in Bucky’s chest claw its way up into his throat, painful and demanding. He leaned forward, planting his feet on the floor and Sam’s hand fell, his eyes flicking open at the motion.
“Buck?” Sam asked, his voice soft and full of concern. Bucky couldn’t let him think he’d done anything wrong. He also couldn’t stay in bed with him a second longer.
“I’m covered in jizz,” he said. “I’m going to go clean up.”
“Let me help,” Sam answered, already sitting up. He didn’t try and touch Bucky again, but he was wearing his ‘I know something’s up’ expression, and it was almost impossible to get away without a conversation once he’d plastered that on.
“Nah, man,” Bucky said. “I just need a shower.”
“Bucky.” His voice was low, his hand twitching like he really wanted to touch Bucky. Bucky really didn’t want Sam to touch him right then. He wanted nothing more than Sam to touch him and then never stop. He didn’t want Sam to feel obliged to take care of him just because they’d fucked. He should just be able to get over this.
“I just need a minute, Sam,” he said, his voice sharper than he meant it to be. He turned his face away, rising from the mattress and heading to the bathroom. Sam didn’t call after him, didn’t follow him, didn’t try to help him.
Bucky twisted the shower on, making the water as hot as possible. He hated that he almost wanted Sam to come barging in, demanding that Bucky explain himself. He rested his forehead against the tiles, the water hot as it rinsed away the last of the cum clinging to his belly. Sam had wiped most of it off when they’d finished, but he hadn’t gotten it all, and it made Bucky feel dirty. Used.
He pressed his fist into the tiles next to his head, the water beginning to scald his back. Why couldn’t he just be happy with what Sam was offering? Sam was kind, comforting him and praising him. What did it have to matter that he didn’t really mean it? Why did it have to hurt so much that Sam thought only Steve, Steve who’d known Bucky their entire lives and never really understood him, could care about him? Why couldn’t he take a que from his dick and just enjoy what Sam was willing to give?
Sam got up at 6:27 the next morning, stumbling into the bathroom for about five minutes before coming into Bucky’s kitchen, standing awkwardly in the doorway and just staring. Bucky ducked his head, stirring the eggs he’d bought that morning and refusing to look up at Sam.
“Torres called,” Sam said, letting out a loud breath as he moved to sit at the counter. “He tracked a few more flag-smasher supporters down last night. Asked if we’d be willing to bring them in.”
Bucky hummed, flicking off the stove and shoveling the eggs onto a plate. His shoulders relaxed, tension he hadn’t even known he was carrying seeping out of him. He’d been so sure Sam would insist they talk. He was more relieved than he thought he would be that Sam was willing to just let it go, that he wouldn’t have to lie about what had happened or worse tell the truth. He wasn’t sure he could think of anything worse than confessing how Sam’s touch made him feel flayed alive. How he was selfish enough to want more than Sam could give him, what he’d been clear he didn’t want to give.
But then, what had Sam said back in Madripoor? I think we should focus on the mission. Something dark and painful curled up in Bucky’s stomach. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised that Sam didn’t want to deal with Bucky’s feelings once there was a mission on the line.
He pushed the plate toward Sam and found eyes already fixed on him, flicking across his face, slightly narrowed with brows furrowed. Bucky cleared his throat and turned away to grab a fork.
“Don’t you need a plate?” Sam asked.
“I already ate,” Bucky answered, and Sam’s lips tightened, looking through the bald-faced lie in half a second. He made no move to pick up the fork when Bucky set it in front of him.
“Your metabolism runs too fast to be going on a mission with an empty stomach, Bucky.”
“Are you my mom now?” Bucky asked. Sam’s eyes narrowed, his lips pressing together even harder, and Bucky could tell he was actually starting to piss him off, and Bucky didn’t actually want to piss Sam off. He just didn’t want to stomach food on top of the roiling unsettling feeling his stomach had decided to come up with once Sam had appeared.
“Buck,” Sam said, voice low and commanding and doing things to him. He flicked the stove back on, reaching back for the carton of eggs and desperately hated himself, hating the situation. His stomach roiled unpleasantly again, and he wished this, whatever this was, could just be enough.
Sam pressed a button on his visor, his shoulder brushing against Bucky’s as he read through the information Torres sent him. It was the tenth time he’d touched Bucky that morning and they’d only been out of his apartment for about twenty minutes. While it wasn’t like Sam went out of his way to avoid touching Bucky in the past, this was… this was different.
He kept reaching out, his fingers brushing along Bucky’s shoulders to get his attention, his hand resting on Bucky’s back to guide him, his fingers tight on Bucky’s shoulder when someone had stepped too close to them. After last night, it made Bucky feel raw, flayed out and exposed, his entire body set on fire every time Sam so much as glanced at him. He wasn’t sure how much more he could stand.
“I think it’s this way,” Sam said, gesturing with his phone. His shoulder pressed more firmly against Bucky’s as someone passed them. It almost seemed like it was unconscious motion, like he’d leaned into Bucky a million times before, and Bucky wished he could understand. Did Sam just not think it mattered anymore after last night?
“Buck?” Sam asked. His eyes were locked on Bucky’s face, his eyebrows furrowed. “I know you don’t want me to ask this, but are you sure you’re alright? You keep zoning out.”
“I don’t care what you ask,” Bucky answered, and Sam raised an eyebrow, his ‘you know I know that was a blatant lie, right?’ expression plastered across his face. Bucky scowled at the building across the street, wishing Sam would just leave it alone.
“I just think we should focus on the mission,” Bucky said, hoping miserably that Sam would take the hint. Sure enough, Sam’s eyebrows rose sharply, his eyes flicking across Bucky’s face, but he, thankfully, didn’t say anything.
“Alright. But you know we’re talking about this later, right?” His hand rose, fingers brushing the part of Bucky’s shoulder that he wasn’t already leaning into, and it felt so good to be comforted, to sink into the knowledge that Sam cared about him. It made him want to throw up the eggs he’d managed to eat.
“You said this way?” he asked, yanking away from Sam’s touch. Sam sighed behind him but just followed.
Torres’s information led them to a dilapidated warehouse that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned for at least ten years, one of the doors hanging off the hinges as sunlight shone through the ceiling. Sam raised an eyebrow as he pressed some button to summon Redwing. The stupid machine popped out of his back with a low grinding pop and flew off in the direction Sam indicated.
“Why are we always going to abandoned warehouses?” Bucky grumbled. “Why can’t bad guys hang out at like four-star hotels where they’ll rub my feet while I catch them.”
Sam snorted fainting, shaking his head like Bucky was absurd. He didn’t get it though. He could just fly when his feet hurt.
“I think I got them,” he said, already starting to creep forward. “Near the back of the warehouse, three heat signatures.”
The inside of the warehouse wasn’t much prettier than the outside, dust and cobwebs sticking to every surface and corner. Some of the crates were broken while others looked like the wood had rotted away, leaving the insides unprotected. It wasn’t until they were a good way in that Sam ducked behind a stack of crates, motioning Bucky down beside him.
Bucky slid beside Sam, trying not to touch the wood that looked like it would fall on their heads any minute. Footsteps sounded from the other side of the crates, two voices talking in harsh whispers drifting up. Sam peeked over the side of the crate, and Bucky smacked him on the side. Sam glared back at him, and Bucky gestured to his visor. What was the point of Redwing if he didn’t use him? Sam just scowled harder. Bucky made an impatient rolling gesture with his fingers as the footsteps started retreating, and Sam shook his head, holding up a finger to wait, which, whatever, Bucky wasn’t going to wait around for Redwing to get back from his nap.
He leapt over the crate they were hiding behind, ignoring Sam’s low call of his name as he landed in front of two very surprised men. The one on the right made a high-pitched squeaking noise as he fumbled for his gun. The other had already apparently had his gun in his hand because he raised it quickly, his hand shaking as he tried to square his feet.
Bucky reacted, grabbing the gun with his vibranium hand and yanking it away. The man cried out sharply and Bucky felt something pop as the gun was wrenched out of his grip. He sprawled on the hard floor at Bucky’s feet, cradling his hand as Bucky threw his gun to the side, and it was only then that Bucky realized how young he was. He couldn’t be more than twenty, caught up in Karli’s call for battle because he’d believed she could make the world better.
“Bucky!” Sam called, and he flinched as Sam appeared in front of him, kicking a gun that had been pointed right at Bucky’s head out of the other man’s hand. Sam turned on his heel and kicked the man in the head, sending him sprawling before turning to Bucky, his nostrils flaring.
“What the fuck was that, man?” he asked. “What kind of half assed plan was that? You couldn’t just wait for my lead? And then you freeze in the middle? Are you trying to get shot?”
“I wasn’t—” Bucky started, shame and embarrassment and frustration and anger welling up in his chest.
A gun shot rung out in the quiet of the warehouse, and Sam cried out, his wings snapping open as he dived toward Bucky. They hit the ground hard, Sam’s wings covering them protectively as another shot rang out in the air. Another voice shouted at the two boys to run, frantic as one more shot rang out and then there were running footsteps and then silence.
Sam panted against Bucky’s neck; his face screwed up tightly. Bucky could feel something hot and wet running down his leg and something cold racing through his chest.
“Sam,” he said, wrapping his fingers in the fabric of Sam’s shirt. Sam didn’t answer, his forehead coming to rest on Bucky’s shoulder. “Sam!” Bucky tried again, his voice louder than he meant it to be. He could hear panic creeping into his voice as he shook Sam, could feel cold dread creeping into his fingertips.
“I’m alright,” Sam answered, pushing himself away. His wings folded back into his body as he propped himself up over Bucky, one hand on the hard floor by Bucky’s head. “It’s just grazed me.” His eyes flicked over Bucky, over his face, down his chest, over his legs, his hands running down his shoulders and arms.
“Let me see,” he said, pushing Sam off him. Sam sighed but showed him the shallow cut along his thigh, just deep enough for blood to begin seeping onto Bucky’s leg. They could probably clean it and leave it to heal on it’s own. No big deal. Except…
“I’m fine, Buck,” Sam insisted, his hand coming up to cup Bucky’s cheek, and it felt so real, so warm. Bucky swallowed hard, biting his lip as he leaned into Sam’s hand. Sam had almost… He could still feel the stinging edge of panic clawing at his vision. Sam had almost been shot because of Bucky. He should have been paying more attention. He should have… He closed his eyes, nausea running hot through him as he tightened his hands on Sam.
It took longer than Bucky would have liked to pick himself back up again. In the end, it was only how concerned Sam was getting at his reluctance to move that got him up. Afterward, it was clear that the flag-smasher supporters were long gone. Torres would have to track them down again. So, they started heading back toward Bucky’s apartment. Bucky was half-surprised Sam was willing to stay with him again. He was too terrified Sam would come to his senses to bring it up.
In the end, it was him constantly touching Sam on the way back, brushing his hand along Sam’s every chance he got, touching Sam’s shoulder to remind him he wasn’t dead. Sam was limping slightly, wincing when he stepped wrong, and Bucky really felt like he would throw up every time he did.
When they finally got back, Bucky immediately dug out his first aid kit to give to Sam before locking himself in the bathroom and throwing up the eggs he’d made himself for breakfast. He could hear the click of the kit, the tearing of what must have been an alcohol wipe as he stared down into the toilet. This was all such a mess. He just wanted to be good enough, to do right.
He flushed the toilet, his head clouded and numb before wondering back into the living room. Sam had already packed the first aid back up and was sitting on the couch, his face intense and insistent.
“Bucky,” he said, voice soft, careful. Bucky wanted him to be anything but careful. He wanted him to yell at him, to tell him how much he’d screwed up. He wanted Sam to just tell him what the fuck he wanted with Bucky. He was so tired of not knowing who he was, to himself, to other people.
“What’s going on in that cyborg brain of yours?” Sam asked.
“It’s computing,” Bucky answered, finishing the joke, and Sam smiled softly like Bucky had passed some kind of test.
“Come compute over here,” he said, patting the couch next to him. Bucky went, putting more distance between them than he really wanted to. He wanted to touch every inch of Sam, wanted to run his tongue down his body, to breathe him in and feel him and feel that he was really alright.
“What happened in that warehouse, Buck?” Sam asked. “Or last night for that matter?” Bucky turned his head away, clenching his jaw, and Sam sighed, exasperated and frustrated, but Bucky wasn’t going to give Sam any more reason to think him weak. “I want to help you, Buck.” His hand raised slowly, hesitating before laying it gently on Bucky’s knee. “You can trust me.”
The point of contact was fire, burning through Bucky’s pants and into his veins, and it was like watching his willpower crumble all at once. He let out a whimper as he collapsed forward, tucking his face into Sam’s throat, his hands coming up to grip Sam’s shoulder harder than he meant to. Sam grunted under his weight but just wrapped his arms around Bucky’s back, pulling him closer.
“I’ve got you,” he muttered, his lips brushing against Bucky’s ear, his voice soft. Bucky shivered. He turned his head, leaning forward just enough to catch Sam’s lips with his own. It was such a bad idea. He shouldn’t cross the line. He didn’t even know if Sam wanted more than a one off, but he couldn’t not—not after Sam had almost… and Buck just wanted—
Sam kissed him back easily, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Bucky’s head. His lips were warm and chapped and moved in just the right way. Bucky leaned more into him, reaching down with his right hand to touch the zipper of Sam’s suit. Sam tensed, pulled his mouth away from Bucky’s.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Buck,” he said, his face tight, and Bucky felt his chest twinge painfully, something hot and excruciating leaking down his chest like molten lava. It must have shown on his face because Sam’s expression spasmed, his hand tightening on the back of Bucky’s head.
“No,” he said, his voice holding an edge of frenzy. “That’s not… I didn’t…” He sighed and leaning forward to rest his head against Bucky’s. “Let’s just sleep for a while. We’ll talk and work everything out after a couple good hours of sleep.”
He said it like it could possibly be true, and Bucky let Sam lead him back to the bedroom, let Sam spoon him with his arms wrapped around his waist and his face pressed into the back of his neck like he actually believed it. It was just so nice to pretend, for even the few minutes it took to fall asleep.
Bucky was falling, his arm burning. A man standing over him, cutting away at the tattered remains of his stump. Bone deep pain spreading from his shoulder to his neck to his chest. Sitting in the chair, a man pacing behind him желание, ржавый, Семнадцать, Рассвет, Печь, девять, добросрдечный, возвращение на родину bouncing off the man’s tongue and echoing in Bucky’s ears. The weight of the gun in his hands as he pulled the trigger once—a young boy’s face, his lips trembling—twice—a woman on her knees crying for mercy—three times—and Sam was crumpling to the ground in front of him, blood pooling at the single gunshot between his eyes.
“Bucky!” someone shouted. Hands gripped his shoulders, hot and solid and claustrophobic, and Bucky jerked away, the back of his head ground into the hardwood of the floor under him. The hands disappeared. “Bucky, wake up. Come on.”
Bucky forced his eyes open, Sam’s voice shoving the last illusions of his nightmares out. Sam knelt beside him, his hands half raised, his eyes locked on Bucky’s face. He was sprawled out in his bedroom, his legs the only things still left on the mattress as his head was flung off the side, his back bowed uncomfortably.
“I…” Bucky pushed himself up, scooting himself back until he hit the wall. The blanket fell down to his waist, the air cool on the sweat sticking to his stomach. “Sorry.”
“I was already awake,” Sam answered. He sat back on his heels, letting his hands fall to his knees. “You slept a long time.”
He wondered if that was supposed to be some kind of accusation. If Sam had been waiting for him to get up so they could have that talk that was supposed to solve all their problems. He closed his eyes and took a shallow breath. He didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to think about watching Sam die in his dream, about Sam wanting him or not wanting him, about talking to Sam, about any of it.
Something brushed his thigh, and Bucky flinched away, his eyes flying open. Sam pulled his hand away, his face scrunched up like he was in pain, and Bucky forced himself to his feet, his left knee wobbled slightly, a sharp pain in his right thigh. His hands were trembling. He didn’t want Sam to touch him. He wanted Sam to hold him, to tell him he wanted him, to tell him he wasn’t going to leave.
“Bucky, wait,” Sam called. Bucky ignored him, slamming the bathroom door harder than he meant to and turning the lock. He leaned against the door, his chest feeling like it was on fire, his eyes burning. He hoped Sam would be gone when he came out. He wanted Sam to chase him for the rest of their lives no matter how it hurt. It was all so stupid.
Sam was waiting for him when he came out of the bathroom, curled up on the couch with his knees pulled up to his chest. He looked smaller than he ever had before, his eyes watching Bucky warily. Bucky tried to ignore him, heading toward the fridge to grab a bottle of water.
“You got to talk to me, man,” Sam said, and Bucky froze, the bottle pressed his lips. The water was cold in his throat, Sam words a hot punch to the back of his neck. There was shuffling behind him, the squeak of the couch springs. Bucky lowered his water bottle, his left arm cold and inhuman.
“First this morning and now this. Are you…” Sam trailed off. Bucky swallowed nervously, refusing to turn around. “I’m not a mind reader, Buck. You got to talk to me.”
He set the bottle on the counter, the plastic crinkling dangerously under his hand. He didn’t know what Sam wanted him to say. He already knew how Bucky felt. What had he been expecting when he’d jumped into Bucky’s bed because he was fucking horny? His left fist pressed into the granite, making a low grinding sound that he knew couldn’t be healthy for his hand or the counter.
Sam sighed, and there was more shifting. Bucky just set his jaw. He was so angry. At himself for not being good enough. At Hydra for destroying him. At Sam for not just leaving him alone.
“I think I should go,” Sam said. Bucky spun around, the water bottle crashing to the ground. Water stained his sweatpants, pooling along the tile at his feet.
“What?” he asked. Sam sighed, meeting Bucky’s eyes like it wasn’t even hard.
“I don’t think me being here is doing us any good,” Sam answered. He shifted the backpack on his shoulder, and Bucky felt a stab of pain as he realized that Sam had already packed. He wondered if there had been anything he could have done that would have stopped Sam from leaving or if it had all been meaningless. “I should head back and see Sarah, check in with AJ and Cass anyway.”
“Oh,” Bucky said. He felt numb, confused, his mind fuzzy. “Right.”
“Bucky,” Sam answered, taking a hesitant step forward. Bucky watched him, feeling like he was incredibly far away and looking through someone else’s eyes. “You can call me anytime. I’m always here for you, man.”
“Right,” Bucky said. Sam took another step toward him, and he felt impossible close with his untouchable beauty and his warm heat. He raised his hand, and Bucky held his breath, hoping desperately Sam would touch him before he left, but Sam’s eyes just flicked away and he lowered his hand, turning away. Bucky couldn’t even be surprised.
The apartment was miserably quiet without Sam. There was no one to nag him or laugh at his own jokes or admire. There was just… no one. He flipped on the TV, the quiet hum of some Spanish drama only making the silence more profound. He hadn’t felt so alone since before Steve had taken him to Wakanda. He thought he’d gotten used to the idea of being alone, made his peace with the idea that no one was going to stick around.
He leaned back against the wall, his feet stretched out in front of him. He wondered how long he could just sit here before anyone would notice. If anyone would ever notice. He’d left Steve’s notebook with Dr. Raynor, so she wouldn’t be expecting him. Sam wasn’t coming back any time soon. He sighed up at the ceiling, the sounds of people yelling in Spanish washing over him. It would be such a pathetic way to go out after everything. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to feel anything besides a vague sort of heaviness in his chest.
He didn’t know when he fell asleep, but he must have if the way he woke up with the scream dying in his throat was anything to go by. Someone banged on the wall to his left, loud and annoyed, and Bucky swallowed, laying his forehead against the couch. Sweat clung to his shoulders, memories wrapped up in memories of Sam and the Winter Soldier and his life before all of it like some kind of twisted horror story. He wanted to forget it all. He wanted Sam to hold him. He just… wanted Sam.
Bucky, Sam’s voice rang in his ears, unwanted, and Bucky squeezed his eyes closed. You can call me anytime. I’m always here for you, man.
“Fucking liar,” Bucky muttered. His phone was still sitting on the kitchen counter where he’d left it, the sound muted. He could call Sam. “He’s the one who left.” Would he even pick up? He’d promised he would.
Bucky curled his hand into the fabric of the couch. His whole body trembled, his eyes wet. God, he was finally crying, wasn’t he? At least Sam couldn’t see.
Maybe Sam would want to see.
“He’s the one who left,” Bucky muttered into the couch. “He’s the one who didn’t want me in the first place.”
He didn’t get to suddenly decide to promise to…
Bucky pressed his face further into the couch, his chest spasming painfully. He just wanted Sam to come back. He raised his head to look at the phone. The fabric of the couch was dark from his tears, his face feeling shining and tight. Calling him to remind him what a mess Bucky was would hardly make him want to come back.
Days passed. Bucky broke his phone by the end of the second day. He left the Spanish soap operas on, his eyes staring blankly at the screen as the actors yelled at each other and then kissed passionately. He barely moved from in front of the TV. His stomach growled, and he ignored it.
It wasn’t until the eighth day that he realized how bad he looked. Someone was banging on his door. At first he’d been determined to ignore it, but after five minutes of insistent banging that only got louder, he figured he’d at least tell his neighbor to fuck off.
Instead, he got Sam standing at his door with a suitcase and a backpack, looking for all the world like he was about to break down Bucky’s door.
“What the hell, man?” Sam asked, lowing his fist. “I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”
“I broke my phone,” Bucky answered, and Sam’s eyes flicked over him, his eyebrows furrowing. That same look he’d had when they were in Madripoor, and he thought Bucky was going to lose his mind, and Bucky realized he probably did look that horrible.
Bucky shifted his feet, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t showered in several days and was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. He knew he had bags under his eyes from not sleeping, his cheeks gaunt and pale. He could have used to warning before Sam showed up.
“You gonna let me in?” Sam asked, and Bucky hesitated just long enough for Sam’s expression to get even more worried before stepping aside.
The state of the apartment didn’t make Bucky seem any more stable if the look on Sam’s face was anything to go by. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything as Bucky flicked the TV off.
“Torres called,” Sam said. “He has a lead on the flag-smasher supporters that got away.”
“Oh,” Bucky answered. He’d known Sam was here for business. It wasn’t a surprise. He just didn’t know why it hurt so much to be reminded. He’d wanted Sam to come back, hadn’t he? Sam swayed back on his heels, his hands clenching on his backpack, his face scrunched up, and God, Bucky had missed him.
“If you’re not feeling up to—” he started
“No,” Bucky interrupted. He couldn’t risk Sam just taking off, not after last time, not after spending the past week thinking he wasn’t going to come back. “Just let me shower and you can fill me in on the way.”
Sam hadn’t put five words together the whole-time flight to France, which for Sam Wilson was some kind of miracle. Even after Bucky had asked him about Sarah and AJ and Cass, there had just been one-word answers and more silence. Bucky was beginning to feel insane. Sam was right there, and yet, he couldn’t feel more far away. It was almost worse than the past few days had been.
It was a relief to finally land in France. It would have been more of a relief if Torres hadn’t called them with directions as soon as they got their bags, and Bucky was treated to a front row seat as Sam chatted with Torres. If he needed any more proof that it was just him that Sam hated…
They found the flag-smashers in yet another abandoned warehouse, because apparently these guys had no creativity. Unlike last time, they didn’t see Bucky and Sam coming until they were handcuffed and waiting for the police to show up. Even then, Sam wouldn’t talk to him. Barely even looked at him, his jaw set as he stood beside the flag-smashers and stared off at the skyline like anything was more interesting than Bucky.
Bucky stood to the side as Sam talked to the authorities, his heart sinking further toward his feet every time he looked at Sam. Ever since Sam had left, he’d wanted nothing more than for him to come back, but this was just… He didn’t want this.
If he had to pretend nothing was wrong, if he had to lie through his teeth and convince Sam that nothing between them had changed, he would do it. Sam nodded at the policeman as he headed over to Bucky. He just wanted Sam to look at him. He wanted Sam to touch him. He didn’t care about the reason. He didn’t care how much it would hurt after.
“It’s getting late,” Sam said, glancing at the setting sun. Anything to keep him from having to look at Bucky. “We should probably find somewhere to crash for the night before heading home.”
“Good idea,” Bucky answered.
The hotel they ended up at was rather high end, the Avenger’s travel fund apparently sizeable enough after the whole stopping the blip thing. Their room had a living area with a small kitchen attached and two bedrooms. Bucky wondered if Sam had picked it just so he would have somewhere to get away from Bucky. There was no other reason he’d gotten somewhere so extravagant when they were only staying one night.
Still, Sam didn’t immediately retreat to his room. Instead he sat on the couch, his legs propped on the coffee table as he watched some show about people surviving naked in the wilderness. He hadn’t barely glanced at Bucky since they checked in, and Bucky was so, so tired of this distance between them.
Bucky crossed the room, feeling like one wrong move would send Sam barreling back away from him. He slid onto the couch next to Sam, who didn’t even glance at him, his attention remaining firmly focused on the TV. Bucky swallowed, his heart beating wildly as he settled his hand on Sam’s thigh, his fingers resting along the inside seam of his jeans.
Sam tensed under his hand, his jaw clenching and then unclenching, and Bucky slid his hand further up. If he had to sleep with Sam to get his attention, then that’s what he would do. Anything to ease this horrible tension. Anything to get Sam to look at him again.
“Bucky,” Sam said, his voice sounding agonized as if he were somehow in just as much pain as Bucky. His fingers slid through Bucky’s, resting on his thigh as Sam half-turned, half-collapsed toward him.
Bucky let his fingers rest on the back of Sam’s head, guiding him so their lips fell together. Sam tasted like that horrible mint gum he liked, his lips soft and insistent, his free hand rising to tangle in Bucky’s hair. His tongue ran along Bucky’s bottom lip, wet and arousing, and Bucky wanted him so much. He just wanted…
He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on kissing Sam, lowering his hands down to the button of his jeans. It wouldn’t be as bad this time. He knew what he was getting into. He just had to make Sam see that he was worth it, that this could work, that he didn’t have to keep Bucky so far from him.
Sam caught Bucky’s wrists, his lips leaving Bucky’s with a wet smack. His eyes flicked over Bucky’s face, his eyebrows furrowing. Bucky swallowed. He felt hollowed out, emptied, everything Sam didn’t want to see on display. And sure enough, Sam sighed, scooting backward on the couch away from him and dropping his hands. He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression that scrunched up worry one he wore when he had to make a hard decision.
“We can’t keep doing this, Buck,” he said.
“But—” Bucky tried, scooting closer. Sam held up a hand as if warding him off, and any argument he would have had died on the tip of his tongue.
“I can’t sleep with you when you look like I’m torturing you,” Sam said, dropping his hand. His eyes were wide and light brown and so beautiful in the bright light of the hotel room.
“I want—”
“Don’t fucking lie, Bucky Barnes,” Sam interrupted, his expression spasming angrily. “Don’t you dare fucking lie. If you think I can’t tell whether someone actually wants to sleep with me or not, you’re crazy. And you touch me like it’s the last thing you want to be doing.”
“You’re wrong,” Bucky answered, setting his voice as firmly as he could. Because Sam was wrong. Mostly. Sam sighed again, his expression twisted up with frustration and resignation and hurt.
“Then tell me what’s going on in your head, man,” he said. Bucky set his jaw and turned his head away. He didn’t understand why Sam kept asking when he clearly didn’t want to hear the answer. The last time Bucky had told him what was going on in his head, Sam had made it more than clear how little he wanted to do with it.
“Bucky,” Sam said, his voice softer, a pleading edge creeping in. “If we’re going to do this, we gotta be able to talk.”
“Not about this.”
“Yes, about this,” Sam answered. “We’re never going to have a successful relationship if we can’t get past this.”
Bucky blinked, Sam’s words bouncing around in his head. Sam thought of them as having a relationship? Not even that, but he wanted a successful relationship. Was he talking about their working relationship? It was the only thing that fit, but then, what did that have to do with whether they slept together or not. Sam had never asked to get inside his brain before. He glanced at Sam through his eyelashes,
“What does this have to do with our working relationship?” Bucky answered, and Sam froze, his mouth popping open like Bucky had asked why cats were falling from the sky
“What?” Sam asked.
“I said what does—”
“I know what you said,” Sam interrupted. “I just don’t understand what you’re talking about.”
“You said we need to get past this to have a successful relationship, but the only relationship I see is our partnership,” Bucky answered, and he could hear his own frustration coloring his tone, could feel it beating through him. Why did Sam have to make this so hard? “What does—”
“What do you mean the only—” Sam cut himself off, shaking his head as if to clear it. His eyes were wide and confused as they locked on Bucky’s, his eyelashes catching every ray of light. “Bucky, aren’t we dating?”
“What?”
“I thought…” Sam trailed off, dismay plastered across his face.
“When would we have started dating?” Bucky asked, anger beginning to burn at the back of his throat. He wanted to scream. Wanted to throw something. All this time Sam had thought… After he’d looked Bucky in the eyes and said…. “Was this before or after you told me you didn’t want me.”
“I never—” Sam started, squeezing his eyes shut like this was just some bad dream.
“Latvia?” Bucky interrupted. His eyes were stinging again, that sharp burn that meant he was really going to cry. He was even going to do it in front of Sam this time. “I practically screamed I was in love with you, and you told me you weren’t Steve.” He bit his lip, because saying it to Sam’s face was so much harder than saying it in his head. “Because we both knew Steve was the only one crazy enough to put up with me.”
“Bucky, no!” Sam said, and he’s suddenly so close, his hands closing around Bucky’s and squeezing. He looked on the verge of crying himself, his eyes red and his cheeks pale. “I said that because I thought you were in love with Steve. I just didn’t want you to choose me because I was the next best thing, and then we talked on my boat, and I realized how wrong I’d been.” He closed his eyes, letting out a stuttering breath. “I thought… After Karli and the flag-smashers, I… you were trying so hard, and I’d been in love with you for so long that I just… I shouldn’t have assumed.” He swallowed thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing wildly. “I should have told you what was going through my head instead of expecting you to just know.”
“You…” Bucky trailed off, his hands were limp in Sam’s, the anger that had raged just a minute ago nowhere to be found. His chest felt like it was blazing, so close to combustion. He just didn’t know which way it would tip yet. “You love me?”
“Yes,” Sam answered, sure and steady. He dropped Bucky’s hands only to take his face between his palms, his hands warm on either side of his cheeks. “I really do.”
Bucky’s chest spasmed as something wet rolled down his cheek, catching on Sam’s thumb and sticking between them. Bucky felt like he was being flayed alive, Sam’s confession digging him open and leaving a mess of broken bits behind. He gasped brokenly, and Sam made a little wounded sound in the back of his throat, drawing Bucky toward him. His hands were warm on Bucky’s back, his shoulder solid against Bucky’s forehead.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said again, rocking them gently back and forth, and maybe Bucky was supposed to be mad. Maybe he supposed to be trying to forgive Sam, but all the anger he’d felt had evaporated, Sam’s ‘I’d been in love with you’ circling around and around in his head like some kind of fever dream.
He pushed away from Sam’s chest, and Sam let him go easily, his hands dragging over Bucky’s arms like he wanted to keep touching him no matter what. His eyes flicked over Bucky’s face anxiously, his eyebrows scrunched up, and fuck, but Bucky wanted him so damn much. He leaned forward, slotting his mouth with Sam’s. Sam tensed against him, his hand raising to brush Bucky’s cheek.
“Are you sure?” Sam asked when they pulled away. His hand was rough against Bucky’s cheek, calluses from years of hard work making themselves known.
“Yes,” Bucky answered, and this time when they kissed, Sam leaned into him, his mouth hard and insistent. Sam tipped them backwards, Bucky’s head smacking against the armrest of the couch as they went down. He snickered against Bucky’s mouth, his breath hot as his lips so brushed against Bucky’s.
“Stop laughing and get naked,” Bucky answered, reaching for the button of Sam’s jeans. Sam’s face went all soft, his head tilting to the side as he did absolutely nothing to help Bucky. “Sam,” Bucky hissed. Sam kissed his jaw, his tongue brushing out just long enough for Bucky to feel the wet scrape.
“You’re awful impatient for someone who hasn’t wanted me to touch them recently,” Sam said, leaning down to kiss at Bucky’s throat. Even though his voice was even, Bucky knew he was asking a question. Could still hear the ‘we’re never going to have a successful relationship if we can’t get past this’ behind his words. He hated how Sam felt the need to talk about everything.
“I wanted you to touch me,” Bucky answered. He felt like his face was on fire, his body prickling everywhere Sam touched. “I just wanted it to be real.”
Sam hesitated, his eyes locked on the skin of Bucky’s throat, and for one long second Bucky thought he’d messed up, that he’d said more than Sam had wanted to hear, but then Sam groaned in the back of his throat and rose to kiss Bucky so hard their teeth scraped together.
“It is real,” he said, bruisingly sincere.
Things got a little hazy after that. Bucky sort of remembered their pants coming off, and he sort of remembered throwing them in a rumpled heap on the side of the couch, but what really stuck out in his memory was pushing Sam down and taking him in his mouth, the weight heavy and warm and so, so real in his mouth.
And then Sam had made some comment about the couch not being big enough and they’d stumbled to the bedroom, knocking against the wall hard enough to send the stock picture the hotel had hung up rattling on the wall. They’d giggled like a couple of drunk teenagers, and Bucky had no idea where their boxers or shirts had ended up. That was a problem for future him.
Present him was being eaten out by Sam, clutching at the pillow as Sam stuck two fingers and his tongue up Bucky’s ass and completely ignored Bucky’s demands to just get in him already. Sam pulled away with a filthy slick, lube and spit catching across Bucky’s ass.
“Come on, babe,” Sam said, his teeth biting in Bucky’s left cheek. Bucky whined as he tried to relax his left hand. The hotel staff probably would appreciate him ripping the pillow in half. “I just want to make you feel good.”
“I’ll feel just fine with your dick in me,” Bucky answered, and Sam laughed. Had his laugh always sounded so arousing? Bucky buried his face into the pillow and pushed his ass further back.
“Fine, fine,” Sam said, sounding entirely too put together as he pulled his fingers out. “Turn over.”
“What?”
“Turn over,” Sam said, his fingers pressed into Bucky’s, gentle and insistent, and Bucky was moving before he fully realized what he was doing, turning onto his back and looking up at Sam like it was somehow a good idea to do it facing each other.
Bucky swallowed nervously as Sam drew away, leaning over him to get a condom. He’d never had missionary sex before, and with Sam… with Sam there was so much he could give away. Sam kissed him, his tongue running along Bucky’s lips and stroking across his tongue. His hands ran along Bucky’s chest, light and soothing as he laid himself down between Bucky’s legs. He pulled away slowly, his gaze flicking over Bucky’s face like he could tell how nervous he was. Like he cared how nervous Bucky was.
“You good?” he asked, his hands still smoothing down Bucky’s sides and his hips pulled away from Bucky’s ass like he was fully prepared to pull a full stop even though they were both still hard. Like he was prepared to do whatever Bucky wanted. Bucky swallowed hard, his eyes stinging again. He wished he would stop wanting to cry around Sam already.
“I’m good,” he answered, and Sam smiled, his lips curving up gently, and then he was pressing into Bucky, pulling his legs up around his waist and leaning down to hover his mouth over Bucky’s.
Sam panted against him when he bottomed out, leaning against his elbows like he thought his weight would hurt Bucky or something. Bucky shifted his hips and Sam groaned, immediately pulling out and pushing back in again. Bucky threw his head back, the drag of Sam inside him feeling like a particularly wonderful bliss.
~~Fin~~