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The first time it happens, they’re in Wakanda.
It takes a minute to get there. They start with breaking Sam out; a secret prison, sure, but Steve's somehow got the plans anyway, or T’Challa does, and that's enough to go with. “I’m going with you,” Bucky says, and it doesn’t matter that he’s missing an arm, that he’s got broken ribs and probably a half-collapsed lung; he gets on the plane regardless. To Steve’s credit, he doesn’t point out how little help Bucky might be in an assault on the Raft. Bucky’s glad he doesn’t push it; doesn’t want to have the conversation about how much he’s done in worse shape than this. It’ll make Steve make that face, the one Bucky hates.
“You can fly a plane, right,” Steve says, jaw working hard, and yeah, Bucky can do that even with only one arm.
He stays on the jet while Steve storms the Raft; in case we need a quick takeoff, Steve says, and Bucky lets them both pretend that’s why, so it’s Bucky that gets to welcome them all. The girl looks in bad shape, but the guy—Clint, Bucky thinks, didn’t he say his name was Clint?—and Scott are taking care of her. That just leaves—
“Wilson,” he says. Blinks, drops his gaze. Looks up again, as if Sam might have stopped being so goddamn handsome in the last couple seconds. It’s unfair, Bucky thinks; it’s unfair that someone should be so good-looking and also be such a goddamn pain in his side.
“Barnes,” Sam says, neutral shading to perhaps the mildest annoyance. “You flying this thing?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, taking a deep breath and immediately regretting it; his fucking ribs, Jesus, they always take longer than they should to heal. “Got a seat saved for you. Not much leg room though, you might have to squeeze. Shouldn’t be a problem, right.”
“You’re still an asshole,” Sam says, “good to see that didn’t get lost along with the arm,” and finds a seat next to Scott.
Right, Bucky thinks, and sees Steve barrelling toward them in a way that means they gotta get going and fast. “Hold on,” he says out loud, to nobody in particular, and pushes them into the air so fast Steve has to jump a little to make it in.
He puts the plane on autopilot once they’re at altitude; in all honesty, Wakandan tech, it’s so advanced he probably doesn’t need to fly it at all, but he’s old-fashioned that way. Thinks about getting out of the pilot seat, joining the others, but in the end he just stays put. Listens to the conversations behind him while pretending not to.
“Hey, thanks, man,” Scott says, and Bucky can practically hear Steve frown. “For getting us out of supermax? Thanks. You, uh, you know where we’re headed now, though?”
“Wakanda,” Steve says, “to start with. I think we’ll be able to negotiate for you to go home, though. King T’Challa said he’s willing to raise it with the government, he's got leverage now that it's all gone to such shit. Embarrassing that Ross started a manhunt for the wrong guy.”
“Right,” Clint mutters. “You want to catch us up on what we missed, bud?”
“Yeah,” Steve sighs. Coughs, that same little throat-clearing shit he used to do when he knew he was about to deliver some absolute bullshit, and begins to fill them all in.
There's a compound in Wakanda, something deep underneath the palace complex which Bucky recognizes as the kind of secure that's at least half not for their safety but for their containment. It doesn't matter; it's peaceful, quiet, enough space for them all. Steve disappears somewhere with T’Challa, and Shuri's med techs, the ones who've already done their best to cauterize and cap the open wires and nerve endings in his shoulder, take over from Clint, whisk the girl off somewhere for proper observation. Bucky just takes another deep breath—his lung function's almost back to normal, score one there for the serum—and heads to the kitchen for a glass of water.
Sam follows him, something he doesn't notice until he's drunk his water and is contemplating the empty glass in his hand, and then Sam clears his throat, rolls his eyes when Bucky startles.
“Thought you were the bionic man,” he says. “Extra hearing and shit, like Steve. Your reflexes are fucking shot, brother.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, “well, I've been through a lot the last couple days.”
“Haven't we all,” Sam says, unsympathetic, and begins to search the pantry.
He doesn't really know Sam, he realizes, as he watches him open and close cupboards until he finds one with jars of what Bucky assumes is tea. Doesn't know him at all. The airport. The car. Bucharest. The—
“Did I kick you off a helicarrier,” he asks, not making eye contact, and Sam pauses where he's taking a mug out of the pantry.
“Yeah,” he says, carefully neutral. “You did.”
“Man, no wonder you hate me,” Bucky sighs. Sam looks briefly outraged.
“I don't—”
“It's okay,” Bucky tells him, “it's not like I… What are you making?”
“Tea,” Sam says. “And no, I won’t make you one, man. Make it yourself if you want it.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, “okay,” but doesn’t. Just watches Sam a little longer, until Sam is glancing back at him, rolling his eyes.
“Come on, man, the staring contest is getting old. Do you want a drink or not? I think this is yerba mate or something.”
“Sure,” Bucky agrees then. “Sounds good.” Touches his cheek, where he knows the serum hasn't had enough time to fade the bruises.
“Fractured zygomatic arch,” he says conversationally. “You too?”
“Thought so at first, but I don't think it's broken. Just soft tissue damage. Fuck, that's unfair, you look weeks better healed than I do. How'd yours—”
“Stark kicked me in the face,” Bucky says, and catches Sam's shoulders tensing. “Hey, that's not on you. You were trying to help. Did help.” You did more than I could have asked, he thinks, you went to prison for me, and maybe it shows, because Sam obviously consciously forces himself to relax. “What about you?” Bucky asks, sipping his tea and then wincing, blowing air through his teeth; it’s still too hot to drink. “Is that from the airport?”
“No,” Sam says. Goes silent for a bit, pushing a teaspoon around the rim of his cup. “They interrogated me. In the Raft.”
Oh. Bucky thinks about that for a minute. Watches Sam’s body language. Not sure what to say, but— “Waterboarding?”
Sam huffs a short laugh. Makes a face. “Mostly just punching, really.”
“Amateurs,” Bucky scoffs, and that makes Sam laugh again. He rests his hip against the counter, looks at Bucky more directly.
“You’re chatty tonight,” he says. “What happened to the dour silent guy I know and dislike?”
“I've been bouncing around central Europe for the last two years evading local cops, the CIA, and Steve Rogers, and before that I got muzzled every time I went outside,” Bucky tells him. “So yeah, I got the opportunity to talk, I’m gonna talk.” Steve’s not here, he doesn’t say, I don’t gotta pretend— but maybe that shows, too, because Sam just breathes out and nods, stirs a spoonful of honey into his tea.
The moment of peace doesn't last. It's Steve who breaks it; Steve, pushing ahead like the power of his will and his gritted jaw combined can fix everything.
“We might have some options for clearing the triggers,” he says, loitering in the doorway. “You wanna come hear it, Buck?”
“It can't wait until morning?” Bucky asks, and Steve's face falls in a way that makes him immediately guilty. “Yeah,” he says, “okay, I'm coming,” and drains his tea, leaves the empty mug next to the sink. “You coming?” he asks Sam, a spur of the moment decision that makes Sam's eyebrows go up like he's surprised.
“It's kind of none of my business, man,” he says, and Bucky shrugs.
“You got the blunt end of it in Germany,” he says. “And you've been on this for years, right. I just figured you might want to be in the room.”
“Oh, so we're cool now, is that it,” Sam mutters, but he puts his mug down next to Bucky's, follows them out.
None of the options are good: that's real clear. When Bucky gets into the room it's to find that Steve is accompanied by Natasha, looking tired and drawn. Shit, everyone looks tired, but she makes Bucky uncomfortable. Layers of memory, digging deep down, and in his head she's a girl of twelve. Small and rangy, freckles standing out across her nose, learning how to snap a grown man's neck.
“Oh, you recognize me now?” she murmurs, low enough not to be overheard, and Bucky shrugs uneasily. Recognition is a complicated thing, for people like them.
“Nat,” Sam says, sounding at least half pleased to see her. “When did you get here?”
“Just now. Took a while, apparently I'm wanted by the government.”
“Welcome to the club,” Sam tells her. “Look, not that I resent seeing you, but it's been a long few days and I'm pretty sure there's a bed here with my name on it. What's so urgent, Steve?”
“Natasha thinks she's got a fix for Bucky,” Steve says, hope clear in his voice.
“When you say fix,” Bucky says, and takes a deep breath, regrets it when his ribs twinge again. “I’m already getting my memories back, you know that. It’s slow but it’s— I don’t— I mean, I’m not gonna lie, it’d be nice to have everything back in place, but I don’t see how that’ll solve the real problem here. Won’t get that shit out of my head.”
“That’s where I come in,” Natasha says. Bored, picking at her nails; Bucky can see right through the front, just as he suspects he’s meant to. “When everything went to shit in Berlin I made sure I came out with the book.”
“The red book,” Bucky says. Swallows hard. His chest is tight; it’s harder to breathe, suddenly. Harder. “The trigger words. Zemo—”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “Zemo.”
The plan, such as it is, sounds like horseshit. Bucky thinks maybe he's overreacting, but then Sam makes a discontented sound, kicks a toe against the table leg and tilts back his chair. “So, let me get this right, the theory is,” he says, sounding tired, maybe, or frustrated, edgy in some way, “if someone deliberately triggers ol’ staring problem here, it’ll reduce the effectiveness of the command brainwashing bit by bit until it’s no longer operational. That’s about the size of it, right?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Steve says. “That’s the plan.” He’s hopeful: Bucky can hear it in his voice. He frowns. Looks again at Natasha.
“You think it’ll work?”
“I mean,” she shrugs, “nobody knows for sure. It might? It’s how it worked for me, but you know better than most of us that we’re probably not the same on that front. It'll hurt, I won't lie, but that's no big deal, right?”
Bucky can deal with pain. That ain’t the problem here. He can feel it, hope clawing its way up under his breastbone; it’s almost more exhausting than the resignation.
“I dunno,” he says. Takes a breath. “Let me sleep on it, okay?”
“Buck—” Steve starts, and Bucky frowns.
“Just—give me a minute, okay? We're not fucking going anywhere for a minute, Steve, give it a rest.”
“Yeah,” Steve says, visibly restraining himself. “Okay, Bucky. Sure.”
He finds himself in the hallway after, taking a deep breath like it’ll calm him down. It doesn’t work. He's tired, he's exhausted, he thought he'd have time to rest. Full of low-level simmering annoyance, which is dumb, it's so dumb, like ugh, the kind of irritation he'd have when traffic is bad or his coffee spilled on his shirt, his arm is gone and his head aches and here they are in Wakanda waiting to mess with his brain again, again, forever. It never ends. He's so done with it all. He feels petulant with tiredness, restless under his skin.
There’s the scrape of a footstep, someone deliberately signalling their presence. Bucky looks up. Makes eye contact with Sam, and can tell Sam's feeling just the same way.
“You're bored,” he murmurs, low. Hears how gravelly it comes out, exactly the smoke-filled tone he used to use to achieve a very particular purpose. “Wanna do something dumb?”
“Like what?” Sam asks, flat. Bucky grins, just a little, sharp.
“I can think of a few things,” he says, and steps closer, watches how Sam doesn't step away. They're in each other's space, and Bucky knows goddamn better than this, knows he put himself away in Bucharest for a reason, but fuck, he's tired and he's pissed off and he's reckless, and so is Sam, energy bouncing between them. “For instance,” Bucky says, waits a beat. “I'm pretty dumb,” and hears Sam's breathing speed up.
“I don't trust you,” Sam says. His eyes are sharp. “Just because I fought the government for you doesn’t mean I trust you.”
“You shouldn't,” Bucky agrees, and they stare at each other for another moment, and another, and then Bucky’s backing Sam straight up against the wall, slamming his mouth against Sam’s, Sam’s hands painfully tight in his hair. Bucky’s got his thigh in between Sam’s legs, and Sam is sinking his teeth into Bucky’s lower lip, and it’s been all of thirty seconds but they’re both breathing hard.
“Seriously,” Sam gets out, mouthing sharp and wetly hot kisses down the side of Bucky’s neck, “I don’t.”
“I know,” Bucky says. “I was serious too. You shouldn’t.”
“Just so we’re clear,” Sam murmurs, and then, “oh, fuck, yes,” as Bucky lifts him up one-handed, shoves his hips in against Sam’s for balance.
They are. They’re clear. Bucky’s glad Sam doesn’t trust him. Nobody should trust him, that's how people get hurt. He can still feel the muscle-memory of throwing Sam across the room, his body nothing more than an obstacle for the Soldier to clear. Bucky touches Sam a little more carefully just thinking about it, and then Sam bites Bucky's earlobe, arches up against him, wraps his thighs around Bucky's hips.
“You know I might hurt you,” Bucky says, hears the roughness in his voice. “I won't— I'd never mean to, but—”
“Yeah,” Sam says, “I know, we're clear, now are we gonna fuck or not?”
They are. They’re gonna fuck, and it's gonna be glorious. Is glorious. Sam pushes and pushes, gives back as good as he gets like he knows how Bucky is wanting everything harder faster more, and it's not until he comes messy all over the sheets that he turns boneless, pleading, gasping for breath.
Sam leaves after. Disappears off into the compound to find a bed of his own, and Bucky can't exactly blame him; the dark circles under his eyes say a lot about the kind of sleep he might have gotten in the Raft even if they're ignoring the bruises.
Bucky's pretty tired too, come to that, but even so he doesn’t really sleep. He could technically keep himself awake another few days before he really needs it, although it’s a lot harder without the goddamn meth Hydra used to pump into him like it was vitamins. Even so, he's simultaneously exhausted and wired, shivering a little with worn-down energy. He just lies in bed, eyes closed and then open and then closed again when it makes no difference either way. Feels the phantom twitch of metal fingers, the grenade of Hydra programming sitting unpinned behind his eyes.
He gets up early. There’s no sunlight, not down here in the middle of the compound, but he thinks it’s just about sunrise. Maybe a little before. Too early to be up, and he tries to be quiet. The walls are thick, anyway, solid enough that the noise of him in the kitchen probably won’t disturb anyone else. He finds the coffee pot. Gets it brewing. Looks in the fridge, takes out a carton of eggs and oh sweet Jesus butter, real butter.
Everything is more difficult one-handed. He cracks the eggs into a bowl and has to pick out bits of shell. Never learned to do it with just one hand the way Steve did all deft flourish. When he pours the eggs into the pan, he angles himself as if he can grab the handle to swirl them neatly into the foaming butter. All this muscle-memory he’s never even considered before.
Sam shows up in the doorway when the eggs are nearly done, rubbing sleep out of his eyes and looking more beautiful than he’s got any right to be, this early in the morning. Bucky tips his head in greeting, nods at the coffee machine just finishing.
“There’s coffee, if you want some.”
“Thanks,” Sam says, automatic. Pours himself a mug, adds one sugar. No milk. Bucky files that away for the future. They take their coffee the same way.
After a few mouthfuls, Sam looks more awake. Glances at Bucky stirring the eggs. “What are you—”
“Made breakfast,” Bucky says with a shrug. “What, you thought I kept myself going on the power of my own brooding, those last two years?” Sam laughs and it’s short and surprised like maybe he did think that, yeah. It’s a nice sound. Bucky wouldn’t mind hearing it again.
When the toast is done, Sam butters it without a word. Watches Bucky tip half the eggs from the pan onto one plate, but the tilt-and-scrape motion he’d have used without a second thought a week ago, a year ago, seventy years ago, it’s impossible to achieve with only one hand.
“Fuck,” he sighs, quiet under his breath, and Sam touches two fingers to the inside of his wrist.
“Can I…” he says, and picks up the wooden spoon. Works with Bucky to scrape the rest of the eggs out of the pan. It’s oddly intimate, Bucky thinks suddenly, watching Sam’s hand move in unison with his. They fucked last night. Why is this what’s intimate. But it is, Sam’s face over breakfast is, it’s all soft and quiet and breathless and Bucky suddenly finds himself wanting in a way he hasn’t let himself since about 1943.
Sam clears his throat. “Last night was a mistake,” he says, and Bucky shrugs.
“It doesn't have to be.” He doesn’t feel like it was a mistake, at least; Sam was the first real thing in his life for about seventy years, but he guesses that’s kinda heavy to lay on the guy. It was just a reaction, anyway, boredom and exhausted restless energy simmering over for the both of them. Doesn’t make it a mistake.
“Yeah?” Sam says. Raises one eyebrow. “Okay, man. Just, y’know, checking. We’re cool?”
“I am if you are,” Bucky says. Sam nods, once. Lets his breath out, slow and measured.
So that's the first time; Bucky assumes, in the moment, it'll be the only time. Natasha's plan sucks, and Christ, Bucky is tired.
“I’m going back into cryo,” he says two days later, and Sam nods just the same way; exhales without saying a word.
The second time, they’re still in Wakanda.
Steve’s off somewhere with Natasha being all sneaky and undercover, and apparently it’s been long enough since he got an eyeful of Bucky being peaceful and settled and non-murderous that he’s sent Sam to check in on him instead just to make sure Bucky hasn’t taken off somewhere or regressed into post-Soviet assassining to pass the time. When Sam sees Bucky again, after over a goddamn year, the very first thing that comes out of his mouth is, “nice hair, man.”
It’s delivered with a raised eyebrow, the twist of his mouth making clear that it’s not exactly a compliment. Bucky rolls his eyes. Runs his fingers through his hair, fluffs it out.
“Yeah, it’s good, right? Shuri’s been teaching me about shea butter and coconut oil. Makes it pretty nice.” That’s a bald-faced lie; Shuri’s got too much to do to teach Bucky about haircare, and it’d been one of the Dora—Xoliswa, from the River Tribe—who’d looked him up and down, fresh out of cryo and just as much of a mess as ever, made a face and dragged him off to learn the joys of grooming. But Sam doesn’t know that, and it’s too easy to wind him up. Bucky’s only human, after all.
“Oh, that’s just wrong,” Sam mutters, predictable, “giving away secrets like that,” and Bucky rolls his eyes again, tilts his head.
“You ain’t exactly looking your freshest, anyway.”
“Yeah, yeah, everyone’s got a smart comment. Go yuck it up with Rhodes, every time he sees me it's the same damn thing. While you’ve been lying around in Wakanda I’ve been running around doing black ops with Steve, and let me tell you, those motels on the road aren’t five-star situations.”
“What, they don’t have razors when you’re on the run?”
“Oh my god,” Sam says, glaring tiredly. “I cannot believe you are giving me shit about this. You. You know what you looked like when we found you in fucking Bucharest, Barnes.”
“I was recovering from seventy years of brainwashing,” Bucky says mildly, “I dunno what your excuse is.” Grins, showing his teeth. “Come on, come put your shit down, I’ll introduce you to my goats.”
“Goats,” Sam repeats, hollow.
“Yeah, I got like five of them. Well, I’m taking care of them for the village, anyway. They’re all little shits, you’ll love ‘em, it’s just like being friends with Steve.”
That makes Sam laugh, loud and a little surprised. He sighs, shifting the backpack slung over one shoulder. “Yeah,” he says, “okay, let’s go meet your damn goats.”
Sam does look tired, Bucky thinks, feeling maybe a little guilty; he hasn’t exactly been lying around in the lap of luxury since he came off ice, but he hasn’t been out on their missions either, has only heard about them second-hand every time Steve shows up or calls T’Challa for an update.
“You been sleeping properly?” he asks, and Sam just shrugs.
“Can’t complain. Well, I mean, I can, I’m an internationally-wanted undercover superhero who’s still running missions to take down Hydra and every other cut-rate villain starting shit out there, but who’s counting. Where should I put my stuff, man?”
“Oh,” Bucky says, gestures at the floor inside their hut. “Wherever, I mean, it’s not exactly huge. You’re gonna be bunking with me.”
“Oh, great,” Sam says, “sharing a tent with the hundred-year-old man who tends goats and sometimes tries to murder me,” but he’s smiling as he says it, dumping his backpack on the spare bedroll. “Come on, then, show me your damn goats.”
“We can get something to eat,” Bucky offers. “If you’re hungry.”
“Goats first, food later,” Sam tells him, and to his credit, he actually gets on with them all pretty well, strokes their ears and lets them sniff his hands. Bucky sits down cross-legged, lets the littlest kid clamber into his lap and use the crook of his arm as a ladder to climb up to his shoulder.
“She’s eating your hair,” Sam says, snickering, and she is, it’s true, so Bucky pulls the strand of hair out of her mouth, offers her a handful of grass to nibble instead. “Shea butter and coconut oil, huh?” Sam continues. “Nah, man, your new product is goat spit, that’s disgusting.”
Bucky glances up at him. His least-favorite goat, the asshole of the herd, looks like he’s winding up for his patented asshole move, about to headbutt Sam in the thigh. Bucky should really say something.
“You love my hair,” he says instead, and watches in satisfaction as Sam gets taken down by a solid eighty pounds of goat with a bad attitude. “Watch out,” he says, belated, cackling at Sam's expression, and Sam scowls at him.
“I could murder you and tell Steve you dropped under the radar again,” he says, “don't think I won't,” and Bucky sets down the kid, pushes himself one-armed to his feet.
“Let's go eat,” he offers, “you can meet Shuri.”
“I've met Shuri, thank you,” Sam snaps, getting up. “You aren’t special, you little shit.”
“Did you know you have goat poop on your butt,” Shuri says, deadpan, ten minutes later, and Bucky dissolves into delighted laughter.
“I hate you,” Sam mutters, resigned, “God, I hate you,” and Bucky goes warm all over.
Sam's clearly holding that grudge right through that evening, until they’re lying side by side on their bedrolls, and then he rolls onto his side, props himself up on one elbow and glares at Bucky in the low light.
“You gonna make a move, or do I still have to do everything around here?”
“Oh,” Bucky says, taken aback; “I thought, maybe—that it might have been a one-time thing.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Sam says, “I still regret everything about knowing you, but… it wasn’t terrible, the first time. You’re not that bad in bed.”
“Oh, not that bad? Jeez, faint praise. You need me to do better this time?”
“I mean, it couldn't hurt. Are you gonna kiss me or not, man?”
Yes, Bucky is gonna kiss him; as soon as he gets started it's hard to hold back. He's getting used to people getting close, making physical contact—Xoliswa tousling his hair, Shuri punching him in the shoulder like he's just another one of her annoying older brothers—but Sam's touch makes Bucky needy for it, breathless and wanting.
“Don’t think this makes us cool,” Sam says afterwards, drowsy, tracing slow patterns with his fingertips over Bucky’s bare ribs.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, “yeah, okay,” and waits for Sam to roll away into his own sleeping mat.
The next time Bucky sees Sam, Sam’s expression makes it real clear he still hasn’t forgiven Bucky for the goats. It’s kind of unfair, Bucky thinks, here they are at the end of the world and Sam’s still holding a grudge just because he got knocked into a bit of goat crap.
“You kicked me off a helicarrier too,” Sam says when Bucky gets a chance to mention this. “And you still owe me a new car.”
“You gotta take that up with the Winter Soldier,” Bucky tells him, shooting a four-legged alien dog thing in what he’s just gonna assume is its face.
“That’s you, fucko. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.”
“Didn’t you hear? They’re calling me the White Wolf now. I’m reinventing myself.”
“Reinvent that stupid haircut,” Sam mutters, comms crackling; Bucky takes down three more of the aliens, blows his hair out of his face. If he’s being honest, it’s kind of getting in the way, not that he’s gonna admit that to Sam in a thousand years.
They don’t even get to fool around before they’re dying, which Bucky is gonna go ahead and take as a personal slight; Sam's not that bad in bed either. Hell, he's better than not bad, even if it's been a long fucking time since Bucky's had anything else to compare it against. It's the tenderness that undoes him; Sam’ll do shit like pin him down, bite his lower lip, and then just as it's all building to a crescendo, buzzing under Bucky's skin and driving him crazy, there'll be this soft little exhalation of breath that undoes him entirely.
The third time it happens, they’re at a fucking funeral. It figures, that the first thing they gotta do after saving the world a-fucking-gain is go to the funeral of someone with an extremely complicated shared history. Bucky thinks about skipping it, but it doesn't seem right; everyone else is gonna be there, and Steve's already making weird sad expressions at Bucky every third minute, so. He digs out some somber clothes, squashes down his instinct to flee. Ties his hair back, and then frowns at his reflection, tugs the elastic band out and shakes it loose. You think I should cut it? he wants to ask, but he's not sure who'd give him real advice, and anyway, it's kind of frivolous to think about his hair when he should just be glad he's not dead anymore.
He drags a comb through his hair, brushes his teeth and makes one last face in the mirror. Unlocks the bathroom door, steps into the hall where Sam is using the hallway mirror to knot his tie.
“What the hell is that,” Sam says, squinting at his reflection hovering over Sam's shoulder. “Show a little respect, Jesus.”
“This is the most respectful outfit I have,” Bucky protests, looking down at his black jeans, black bomber jacket. “Sorry I didn't have time to go suit shopping while I was trying to get over brainwashing and then fight aliens. Also, the guy cut my arm off, even if he did save the world, so—”
“Fine, fine,” Sam says, clearly regretting ever saying anything. “At least you brushed your hair, I guess.”
Sam's suit looks just fine, Bucky thinks, begrudging admiration tinted with—what, maybe a little guilt? It's—okay, look, he's got eyes, Sam's everything looks just fine, even if it does feel kind of disrespectful to be eyeing someone up at a funeral. Memorial service. Whatever. Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets, thinks hard not about the attractiveness of one Sam Wilson in—or out—of a nicely tailored suit, or about the time Stark kicked him in the face. Focuses instead about what Steve said to him, the carefully couched phrasing that Bucky's pretty sure nevertheless comes out to Steve leaving them sometime soon and maybe for good. He feels conflicted about it, torn up in a way he doesn't really have the energy to figure out, but his face must do something weird and sad anyway because Sam puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder, leans in close without saying a word. It's—nice, Bucky thinks, it's nice, and maybe for now that's enough.
It should hardly even be a surprise, when they fall into bed afterwards, but Sam frowns at him afterwards.
“I don't want this to be a thing,” he says, pulling on his shirt. “I'm not—”
“Sweetheart, I'm a brainwashed assassin with trust issues,” Bucky says, “it couldn't be a thing if we tried.”
“You're not,” Sam says, unexpected. Touches Bucky's shoulder, and Bucky blinks.
“What?”
“Brainwashed,” Sam tells him. “You got that shit out of your head.”
“Guess I did,” Bucky agrees. “Still got the trust issues, sweetheart. Don't worry, Wilson. This ain't a thing.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, slowly, perhaps a little troubled. “Yeah, okay. Just so long as we're clear.”
“Yeah, we're clear,” Bucky says. “We're clear.” You're not ready, he thinks, and if you were, you'd deserve someone better than me. It hardly even stings. Sam Wilson is a good man. Doesn't need to be mixed up in all this. But he is, and the least Bucky can do is remember he deserves better.
I don't want this to be a thing, Sam said, and it's not a thing, but it's getting to be a pattern.
“That motherfucker,” Sam says a week later, “that—what kind of—who just leaves without saying anything? Now he's all old, and that's weird, right, like—you ever imagine Steve Rogers old?”
“We thought he was gonna die of rheumatic fever or something before he was thirty, so, no,” Bucky says. Sam snorts, shoves his shoulder against Bucky's.
“It must be weird for you, right?”
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “It… yeah.” It's not weird, it—he's mad about it, snarled up in guilt for being mad, and he doesn't even feel like he has a right to be. He left first; Steve's learned to do without him. He guesses he'll just have to figure out how to do it the same.
“And what am I supposed to do with this, huh?” Sam mutters, shoving the shield with his foot, and Bucky recognizes that Sam's just as mad. Maybe more. Seems fair; Bucky doesn't know a whole lot about Sam's past before Steve fell into it, but he knows enough, knows that Sam was out and then got back in when Steve asked and has been following him ever since. It's a familiar story.
“He gave it to you for a reason,” he says out loud. “Don't second-guess it. But it's up to you where you go from here.”
“Hmm,” Sam says, clearly unconvinced. “What about you? Where you gonna go from here?”
Bucky doesn't know, really; feels like too much pressure to make that decision. “I don't know,” he says, and then, more honest than he intends, “it’s a lot, right.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, “it’s a lot, yeah,” and throws back his drink, makes eye contact with Bucky. “You wanna—” he says, or maybe it's Bucky who says it, but either way the next minute they're back in Sam's room, stripping each other out of their clothes with a haste that feels close to desperation. Every time they fuck Bucky thinks he might have misremembered how good it was, right up until Sam's kissing him again, and then somehow it's good, better, it's—god, it's so good.
Sam reaches for Bucky when he rolls over to leave. “You can stay,” he says, easy like it’s no big deal, and Bucky hesitates a little.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, “sure,” and settles back into bed.
Sam sleeps sprawled on his belly, one foot kicked out so it hangs off the side of the bed, face turned away from Bucky. The sheet is pooled low across his back, and Bucky just looks at him for a minute, his smooth brown skin. The soft rise and fall of his shoulders. He has a scar on one shoulder blade, raised against his skin but brown like it's been healed for a while. Afghanistan, maybe, Bucky thinks, and traces it with his fingertips, listens to Sam sigh in his sleep.
Oh, he thinks, oh, that's what this is. Leans down and kisses Sam, careful so he doesn't wake him up. Just the brush of his lips over the nape of Sam's neck, and Sam sighs again, flings an arm out to drag Bucky in close.
“I'm going back to New York,” Bucky says two days later, and Sam doesn't try to stop him.
The fifth, and sixth, and seventh times—Bucky feels like he should stop counting now, it’s getting to the point where it’s weird to be counting—are all riding an undertone of aggression, both passive and outright. Sam’s mad, that’s clear; mad about fucking everything, Steve dumping the shield and fucking off into the sunset, the bank bullshit with Sarah and the boat, Bucky’s entire existence.
“You haven't been answering my texts,” Sam says, accusatory. “I go to all this effort to ask you how you're doing, you know, like a friend, and then you leave me on read.”
“Sorry,” Bucky says, insincere, and is hit by an immediate wave of guilt: Sam's out there flying missions, wrestling with the bullshit legacy Steve's dumped on him, and Bucky can't even text him back? “No, seriously, I am—it's just… I dunno. What am I even gonna tell you.”
“That you cut your hair? Big news, man.”
“It got in the way,” Bucky says. “You miss it, or something?”
“Like a hole in the head,” Sam mutters, but fifteen minutes later he's grumbling about how there's nothing to pull now when Bucky's mouth is on his dick. Just for that Bucky flips him over, works him open with his tongue instead, and they haven't gotten to do that before but by the end of it Sam's shivering all over, overstimulated and gasping at every slow drag of Bucky's dick in and out.
“Jesus,” he slurs against the pillow, “Bucky, holy shit, you feel—that's—god, just like that,” and Bucky can feel his orgasm building but he bites his lip hard enough to bruise, wills himself to hold on just long enough that Sam gives up on words entirely.
“You practise with the shield yet?” he asks afterwards, the kind of idle shit that passes for pillow talk with them, and Sam rubs his face, closes his eyes a minute.
“Nah,” he says. “I'm good with my wings.”
“You'll want to practice,” Bucky tells him. Reaches for the bottle of water on his bedside table, takes a long swallow before passing it to Sam. “I remember it being a real piece of work, it'll break your fingers catching it if you're not careful.”
“I don’t want it,” Sam says. “Doesn’t feel like it’s mine.”
Yeah, Bucky thinks, I get that, but when Sam gives it up, it still stings.
“I didn't abandon it,” Sam says: the third time they've had this argument, and the second time they've had it either while fucking or immediately after. “I donated it to the fucking Smithsonian. It's an item of national significance, it's the best place for it.”
I was in a museum exhibit once, Bucky wants to say. “If Steve wanted it in a goddamn museum,” he starts instead, the same thing he said last time, which is why he knows what Sam's response will be.
“If Steve wanted me to do something specific he should have thought about sticking around for it. It's not—I'm sick of explaining myself to you, Barnes, you can't act like just ‘cause you knew Steve since before he was Captain America you can tell me how to live my life.”
Barnes is a low blow given Sam's sweat is still drying on Bucky's skin, given the three breathless orgasms Bucky's wrung out of him in the last couple hours, but Bucky’ll let it slide if it means there's a chance they can go again.
“Look,” Sam says, visibly trying to be reasonable. “Maybe we should just… let it go, you know? Get some distance, give it a bit of time. It's not even really like we're friends.”
That's an even lower blow than Barnes, and a goddamn lie besides, but if what Sam is asking for is distance so they can figure out how to stop yelling at each other and then fucking, and then going right back to fighting about the shit they're never gonna resolve: honestly, he's got a point.
“Fine,” Bucky says, conceding. Hearing it come out sulky, but whatever, he can't help that. “Sounds good. You can go do whatever it is you do now with the Air Force, and I'll try to figure out what it is normal people do this century.”
“Try internet dating,” Sam suggests, and Bucky genuinely cannot tell if that's another mean jibe intended to cut him for real or just Sam making a joke at his expense, the kind of bickering they used to fall into without thinking once let alone however much overthinking Bucky's doing now.
“So,” he says, “that's it, then?”
“Well,” Sam mutters, hand sliding already down Bucky's boxers, “we could probably fuck again first, but, yeah.”
If Bucky could have just left it there it might have gone differently, but he just has to pick at the scab, open it up again as if there'll be any different outcome.
“I don't know why you're being such a coward about it,” he says, mean in a way he'll be ashamed of later, and the way Sam flinches makes Bucky regret it almost immediately but—well, he's never pretended to be the kind of person who'd deserve Sam for real.
“Hey, fuck you. I'm trying, okay? I'm—at least Steve told you he was leaving. That didn't come to you as a surprise. I never asked for it, and now I'm doing my best.”
“Are you?” Bucky counters, like an absolute asshole, and that's the thing that breaks it; Sam's already pulling away but that has him flinging back the covers, reaching for his clothes.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “I mean, really, man? I kind of thought we were getting somewhere, but you're genuinely more of an asshole now than you were fresh out of Bucharest.”
“You said you didn't want this to be a thing,” Bucky counters, as if that has a goddamn thing to do with what Sam's just said, and Sam turns away, pulls his shirt over his head.
“Yeah,” he says, “I did say that. Fine. See you never, Buck, let's just—whatever. Fuck you.”
“What, that's it? You're just gonna storm out and ignore me for the rest of time the same way you did with the shield? Just drop me off at the museum on the way, why not.”
“Fuck you,” Sam says again, tired this time. “Fuck you, man, don't put your abandonment issues on me. I'm not fucking Steve.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, because once he's started he might as well keep being the worst person in the room. “Yeah, that's clear.”
“Sorry to be such a disappointment to you,” Sam snaps. “Maybe you and Steve should have talked that through before he fucked off back to the fifties.”
“We didn't—”
“Whatever. Look, you left first, okay? You're the one who moved back to New York two fucking days after Steve handed me the shield and disappeared off into his geriatric new life. So I don't want to hear shit.”
Bucky didn't want to, is the thing; he would have stayed in DC or wherever else Sam might have been if he'd been given the choice, but the conditions of his pardon were clear and he's pretty sure he and Sam both know it. Maybe that's why he doesn't bother to argue the point, even as it feels unfair to have it flung back in his face. Sam's just angry, shit out of his control and nothing to do except grit through it, and Bucky's the same, worse, picking fights just so he can feel the burn of it in his chest. And if Bucky could have stayed then maybe that'd have changed things but maybe it wouldn't; it's not like they're really friends.
Bucky can't seem to let it go, that's the stupid thing. Maybe it'd be different if they hadn't given the shield to such a fucking asshole, but there it is, John fucking Walker on TV talking about how Steve is like a brother, and it all boils up in Bucky's head until he's yelling at Sam in a fucking airport hangar. Why is it always airports, Bucky wonders resentfully, why airports, and why does Sam get to bitch at him about walking back into his life when it was Sam who suggested—it wasn't Bucky who wanted to walk away from the whole thing, it's just, Sam knows about his parole or pardon or whatever the fuck they want to call it, right, he knows Bucky's not supposed to get into any kind of active combat situation, he knows all of that and he's the one who said, you left first.
It's been six weeks since he saw Sam—since they spent the whole fucking day in Bucky's bed, the only thing he's actually used it for, and even now if Bucky lies down on it for a minute he can smell the faint traces of Sam's skin, his cologne—and Bucky wants to touch him so bad all the bones in his hand hurt from how tightly he's holding his fist.
“Don't look at me like that,” Sam says, and Bucky rolls his eyes, figures he might as well pick a fight if he can't do the other thing.
It doesn't go anywhere except infuriating; Bucky thinks resentfully that Sam might actually be enjoying this, working Bucky up for no reason other than to annoy him, if it weren't for the clear fact that Sam's just as annoyed by Bucky right now. It shouldn't make Bucky feel pleased, but it does—this smug little burn down in his chest, knowing he's getting under Sam's skin—and then he's jumping out a fucking plane after Sam anyway, so obviously there's some brain damage sticking around in Bucky's brain which Shuri hasn't all the way healed.
They go to Munich, and argue all the way, and they’re still arguing while they’re fucking in the plane on the way home. It's inevitable, Bucky thinks; it's inevitable that even while they're still playing out the same bullshit fight they can't avoid it. He doesn't know if Sam ever sees other people, if he's even got time for it, but for Bucky it's like he just keeps getting drawn back into Sam's orbit every single time.
“God, you're like some asshole feral cat,” Sam says, “I swear to God all you do is glare and bitch and complain but here you fucking are, following me around as if you don't have a goddamn home of your own.” It'd be mean if it wasn't true, but anyway Bucky's already got Sam's fly undone and his hand shoved down Sam's pants so he's less inclined to argue about it than he usually might be.
“Yeah,” he says, “well, you wanna lift your weight here? Feels like I'm doing all the work, and I'd kind of like to get off this century.”
“Shut up,” Sam hisses, “or Torres will hear you,” and honestly Bucky couldn't give two shits about whether Torres might hear them so he just bites the tender skin under Sam's jaw a little harder, spits in his hand and takes Sam's dick in a grip he knows probably hurts. “Fuck,” Sam hisses again, and then, “fuck, fuck, god, don't stop, that—Barnes, I swear—”
“What?” Bucky says, and like an asshole he takes his hand away for a minute, waits for Sam to arch his hips back up into the touch. Did you miss this? he wants to say, and bites it back. “Come on, sweetheart, tell me what you want.”
“I'm not your fucking sweetheart,” Sam says. “We're not cool, okay? Just—would you just—”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, and goes to his knees so he can't say anything else and fuck it up more than he has already.
They're not cool, and it's not fixed, but any chance they've got goes up in smoke as soon as Bucky gets fucking arrested for breaching his parole conditions. Bucky's still not convinced Dr Raynor isn't a carefully constructed punishment rather than therapy, and the fact that she shows up at the worst possible moment is just another tick in his mental tally against her. Worse is the way she drags Sam in too, as if she's got any goddamn right, and even worse than that, the way she picks and picks at their raw edges until Bucky is goaded into saying something he'll immediately regret. Couples therapy, Christ, it's so bitterly ironic Bucky can taste it in the back of his throat. Sam's still mad, obviously: angry not just at this bullshit situation or the argument filling the space between them, but now at the way Bucky's kept more secrets, and then, under that, the kind of gut-punch anger that can only come from betrayal at the deepest level. Lies from your own government will do that to you, Bucky guesses; it's been so long since he's trusted any of them he can hardly remember what that's like.
If Bucky’s gonna interrogate his own emotions, he’s mad too, fucking furious at everything he can’t articulate, and that bubbles out in the worst ways: maybe he was wrong about you. It's petty and mean and the worst of it is it ain't even true; the jury might still be out on whether there's ever been enough in Bucky worth redeeming, but he only has to look at Sam Wilson to know that he's cut in Steve's cloth. Maybe if he wasn't then Bucky wouldn't be so fucking gone on him, but then, that's always been Bucky's dumb fucking luck.
“Man, fuck you,” Sam says after that abortive take at a therapy session, “fuck you.” Slams him against the wall soon as they're in Bucky's apartment, both hands hard on Bucky's shoulders, and presses in close. “What's your goddamn problem, huh?”
“You are,” Bucky says, and then, sick to his stomach and heart hammering, “no, you know what, it doesn't matter.”
“Fuck you,” Sam says, softer, and Bucky nods.
“Yeah,” he whispers, “fuck me, right,” and Sam does, right there up against the wall.
“Did you mean it?” Bucky says afterwards. “That we can just—once this is all over, we can just never…”
It's the third time Sam's raised it now, and honestly Bucky's beginning to wonder if there's something he's not getting about this whole thing. If Bucky stopped—if he let Sam go, let him go off and be the Falcon, live a life away from Bucky and all the associated bullshit—would Sam genuinely be happier after all? The thought of it makes something catch in Bucky's chest, something that aches like broken ribs.
“Did you?” Sam counters, and no, of course Bucky didn't mean it, but admitting that means admitting a whole lot more besides so he just lies there in lengthening silence until Sam sighs. “Yeah,” he says, “that’s what I thought, man,” and gets out of bed.
In Madripoor there’s basically no time but they find the time anyway. It shouldn't be possible, not with fucking Zemo around and doing his best to unsettle everything, watching them like a creep; Bucky doesn't know if Zemo knows but he sort of doesn't care either.
“You shouldn't have let him touch you,” Sam mutters, as if Zemo's hands on Bucky's face are anything like the biggest problem they've got right now.
“It doesn't matter,” Bucky says, shrugging. “He doesn't mean anything.”
“You sure? Looked to me like he got in your head pretty well. Not to mention the whole soldier thing.”
“Means to an end,” Bucky says, knowing already it's a lie. Knowing the consequences are coming even now. “Did it bother you?”
“What, you pretending to be his mindless killing machine? Yeah, it bothered me. Sharon getting hung out to dry? It fucking bothers me. The fuck are we even doing here, man?”
“Well, I was gonna suck your cock,” Bucky says. “But we can debate the ethics of engagement instead, I guess.”
“Nah,” Sam says, folding immediately, and Christ, it's selfish of Bucky to keep doing this when he's realized—what, that this is a thing after all? You're a brainwashed assassin with trust issues, he tells himself, it can't be a thing even if you wanted it to be, just—
It's not like it's the worst decision he's made or continues to make, anyway. Fucking Sam when it doesn't mean the same thing to both of them, when Sam's obviously not cool with Bucky's bullshit even as he's simultaneously just fine with Bucky's mouth on his dick, that's small fry compared to what Bucky's done about Zemo.
“You okay, man?” Sam asks, and Bucky doesn't trust himself to say anything. Just nods, looks away, but Sam's always too goddamn perceptive or maybe it's just visible in the muscle tic in Bucky's jaw, the minute tremble of his fingers. His shoulder still feels shocky, phantom pins and needles running all the way down to his fingertips even after he reattached the arm, and he doesn't know whether it's something to do with the actual connection or just knowing there's a kill-switch nobody told him was there.
“What is it?” Sam says again, and Bucky pours himself another whisky, throws it back and feels the burn in his throat.
“Ayo,” he says, tightly, and he never told Sam the whole of how she freed him but Sam knows enough to put the pieces together. Bast damn you, she'd hissed at him, and that's worse than the shock of the arm; he has to make it right. Doesn't know how. “Really wish we had that goddamn shield right now,” Bucky adds, topping up his glass, and Sam's jaw goes hard.
"I didn't ask you to break Zemo out," he snaps, "you did that yourself, man, don't put that on me."
"I'm not—nobody's saying it's on you," Bucky says, but Sam still looks mad. “Sam, no, I know. It's on me, okay? It's just—I didn't—”
“Whatever,” Sam says. Takes Bucky's drink, swallows it in one mouthful. His lips are full, wet with liquor, and Bucky's just so fucking tired of this shit that all he wants to do is push Sam back against the counter, kiss him slow until they stop falling into this shitty argument, this misunderstanding neither of them seem able to fix.
“It's not on you,” Bucky says again. “I'm not… Let's not, okay? But if I see Walker I can't promise I won't sucker punch him and just take the goddamn shield back.” That makes Sam laugh, just a little, and maybe there's a chance after all, Bucky thinks; maybe there's a way through this for them both.
Christ, it's like he shouldn't have said a damn thing; just had to go and fucking jinx it, and he's gonna be feeling Walker's arm snap under his hands for a long goddamn time.
“He just—” Sam says, eyes wide with shock, and Bucky nods.
“Yeah,” he agrees, feeling it himself; the transgression of it, sullying the shield like that, Walker's face, it's too much to bear. “Yeah,” he says again, and Sam shudders all over like he's still seeing the blood.
“I need,” he says, and starts stripping off his gear. “I need a shower, I just, god, I feel like I gotta get clean after that.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, a third time: a tin soldier caught on repeat. Shakes himself, peels off his jacket. “Me too. I dunno if this place has a second bathroom, but you go first, man.”
“No,” Sam says. Grabs Bucky's wrist. “Come on.”
“Oh,” Bucky says. Blinks like things might have changed between one second and the next, but when he opens his eyes Sam is still naked from the waist up and he's still pulling Bucky toward the shower. “Oh,” he says again. “Okay, sweetheart. Yeah.”
“Do you think Steve would ever…” Sam starts when they're in the shower, and Bucky can't help it, puts his fingers against Sam's lips to quiet him.
“No,” he says. “And you know what? It doesn't fucking matter what Steve would or wouldn't have done. You're it now.”
“Guess so,” Sam sighs, and then he's leaning in against Bucky, resting his face in the curve where Bucky's shoulder meets his neck. “How many fucking days have we been here? I feel like I haven't slept in way too long.”
Everything's a shitshow but they're still here in Zemo's house, his bullshit old-money mansion full of things like shortbread and fancy tea and good whisky, and for whatever that's worth they might as well get some rest before going back to deal with the inevitable next fuck up.
Bucky gets up early the next morning while Sam is still out to it, so dead asleep he doesn't stir when Bucky creeps out from under the covers. There's shortbread and whisky and strong Turkish coffee but nothing like real food, and after a moment of indecision Bucky grabs his wallet, steps out leaving the door latched.
The bakery just next door has bread, still crisp and warm from the morning oven, and a couple of streets away is a greengrocer that sells Bucky a quart of orange juice, half a dozen brown-shelled eggs. He's half-afraid that by the time he gets back Sam will have woken up and drawn the wrong conclusions about Bucky's absence, but when he opens the front door the house is still quiet and Sam's still asleep, one hand flung out across the bed palm up and fingers curled. Bucky can't help it; he bends down, kisses Sam's shoulder—that same long-healed scar that he never did find out where Sam got it—and tugs the blanket back up.
“Time is it,” Sam mumbles, stirring, and Bucky kisses him again, knowing he wouldn't dare if Sam was properly awake.
“Early,” he says. “You're good. Don't get up.”
“Coffee?” Sam asks, already turning back into his pillow, and Bucky makes a soft noise of agreement.
The eggs are almost done when Sam appears, sleep-creased and only half-awake. He pauses in the doorway like he's watching Bucky work for a minute, and Bucky glances up at him as he butters the toast.
“Eggs are ready,” he says. “And there's orange juice in the fridge. Coffee’s just about done, too.”
“You made breakfast,” Sam says, a question in his voice as he opens the fridge, takes out the quart of juice, and Bucky nods. Scrapes the scrambled eggs out onto each plate.
“Here,” he says, sliding one of the plates in front of Sam. “I'll pour us coffee.”
One sugar, he thinks, black, and eggs with butter, and when he looks back at Sam he knows Sam's remembering the same thing.
“Sam,” he says, when they're mostly done with breakfast, and Sam swallows his coffee, raises his eyebrows. “What are you gonna do with it now? The shield, I mean.” It's lying by the front door where Sam dropped it as soon as they got home, and although he tried to wipe it clean Bucky's pretty sure it's still bloodstained: a heavy-handed metaphor, the kind of thing Bucky would have rolled his eyes at in a pulp novel.
“This again?” Sam mutters. “I don't know, man. Can we just—I don't want to have this fight again, Buck, you know it's never gonna go the way we want it.”
“No,” Bucky says, “no, that's not what I—I didn't mean it like that. Just asking, that's all.”
“Just asking?” Sam says, sceptical, and Bucky nods. “Fuck, I don't know. I really don't. I'm not giving it back to them again, though. Guess I'll have to see what comes next.”
“Guess so,” Bucky agrees. Swallows the last of coffee, knowing what he wants to say, and knowing too that he'll only go half as far as he really wants to. “You're right. I was an asshole.”
“Was? Which time, man?
“Okay, I've been an asshole. About the shield, about Steve…”
“Just in general, I'd say,” Sam says, and Bucky kicks at his ankle under the table.
“I'm trying to apologize,” he says, “do you want to hear it or not?”
“Oh, this is supposed to be you saying you're sorry?”
“I'm trying, if you'd let me.”
“Shitty-ass apology,” Sam mutters, and Bucky takes a deep breath.
“I'm sorry,” he says. “For—I was lashing out. You didn't deserve it.”
“Well,” Sam says, and pauses, looks down at the mug in his hand.
“I’ve been an asshole,” Bucky says again. “You’re doing the best you can with a shitty hand. A shit-load better than I’d do. And there's more I'm not getting right, I know, but…”
“Bucky,” Sam says. Waits for Bucky to look up. “Yeah. I get it. We're good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We're cool, man.”
“Okay,” Bucky says. Exhales slowly. There's more he wants to say—did you mean it, do you want me to stop, to leave, to walk away and let you get the fuck on with your life—but maybe he's just afraid the answer will be yeah, I did. I meant every word. “Okay. Well, I should go.”
“The fuck are you going?” Sam asks, and Bucky shrugs.
“Zemo's out here somewhere. I should probably track him down.”
“You don't think he'll have gone to ground?”
“You know he's exactly the kind of asshole who'll be right there waiting to be found,” Bucky says, and Sam raises one eyebrow, smirks at him.
“Yeah,” he says, “can't imagine knowing someone like that. I'd probably better go catch up with Torres, figure out the fuck we're gonna do next. I'm probably gonna have to testify about Walker one way or the other.”
Bucky's got nothing to say on that front, so he pushes away from the table, stacks his cup and plate beside the sink. Should probably wash the dishes, but fuck it, Zemo's house, they can leave a mess.
“I'll, uh,” he starts, and Sam nods.
“Come find me when you're done, okay?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah, I'll do that.”
It's not hard to find Zemo, and even easier to find Sam: Bucky gets to Delacroix and everyone in town points him straight down to the marina.
“Brought you something,” he tells Sam, and then, yeah, he's not gonna lie, he flexes a little. What's the point of having a metal arm if he can't show it off, Bucky reasons to himself, knowing that's not the whole reason in the slightest.
While they're working on the boat Bucky feels Sam glancing at him, off and on, and about the third time it happens he wants to put down his spanner, take Sam by the waist and push him up somewhere to start something. Bucky knows by now how it could go, how they could fall together without really needing to say more than three words. But then he wouldn't say what does need to be said, and that's been the problem all along, so Bucky holds it back.
By the end of the day things feel better between them even if they haven't gone below deck and fucked it out. Good enough to crack open a beer together, anyway, and Bucky thinks maybe that's enough; more than he hoped for, even. But when they're done Sam tilts his head at him, sets his empty bottle aside. “You should come by the house,” he says, “we can eat, you can tell me about Ayo and how you fixed things,” so Bucky nods. Follows Sam into the truck.
The house is a lot to deal with—the patina of family, laid down over generations, and Sam's nephews both saucer-eyed at Bucky's metal arm—but Sarah fixes them both a plate, sends them out onto the back porch to sit and talk superhero shit away from the kids.
“So,” Sam says, passing him another beer. “Where next for you, man?”
“Fuck, I don't know,” Bucky sighs. Shrugs, popping the cap off his bottle. “I'd go back to Wakanda, look after the goats for a while, but apparently I'm not that welcome just yet.”
“We could get goats for you here,” Sam says slyly. Nudges Bucky with one shoulder. “Just set ‘em up in the backyard, you'd feel right at home. I mean, you'd probably have to grow your hair out again, right, they'd need something to chew on.”
“Someone to kick into the dirt,” Bucky says, nudging Sam right back. “Hey, look, not that you need it, but you've got my line, okay? I got pretty good at being Captain America’s wingman once. If you want back-up, you've got it. And if you want, you know, for me to fuck off and let you live your own life, then I can… I can do that too.”
“Man, we've just established you got nowhere else to start your goat farm,” Sam says, and Bucky laughs, heart thumping hard.
“I have to go back to New York,” he says after a moment, picking at the label of his beer bottle where it's damp and peeling away from the glass, and beside him Sam nods.
“Yeah, man, I know.”
“You don't,” Bucky starts. Takes a breath. “Last time I… you said I left like it was something I did on purpose.”
“Didn't you?”
“I thought you knew,” Bucky says. “Conditions of my pardon. I had to go.”
“What?”
“I'm not supposed to leave the greater New York area for longer than twenty-four hours at a time. And reporting every three days, so they can make sure I haven't absconded or regressed or whatever. You didn't know? I thought—”
“How was I supposed to know?”
“You didn't wonder why I got arrested?”
“Honestly,” Sam says, “I kind of assumed they were just making our lives harder for the sake of it.”
“Well,” Bucky says. Shrugs. “Now you know. And I'm gonna, you know, petition the government to get it changed, but I think they're kind of sore given I fucked off to three different countries and caused a huge mess in at least two of them, so I'm not holding my breath on that front.”
“Don't go tonight, at least,” Sam says, “just… you can sleep on the couch, okay?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, “okay,” and for a minute neither of them move. Bucky could let his knee drop, press his thigh against Sam's. Could put his beer down, turn his body just enough to make it an invitation. Could, if he wanted to, just lean over and kiss Sam the way he's done before, without it needing to mean anything, except fuck Bucky wants it to mean something.
“Anyway,” Sam adds, “it ain't like you're gonna find a hotel round here, so it's the couch or bust, you know?”
“Sam,” Bucky starts, and then doesn't know where to go from there. “Yeah,” he says instead, “the couch is fine. Thanks.”
“I'll get you a blanket,” Sam says, and Bucky swallows the last of his beer, follows Sam back inside.
Sam finds him a blanket from the linen cupboard; it's faded but soft against his fingertips, and Bucky feels a swell of weird melancholy about it. Someone's family, the accumulation of shit like this, blankets worn soft over time, Jesus. It's been a hundred years since he got to sleep under a roof like this. Sam's disappeared upstairs—ain't no spare pillows, I'll grab you one from my bed—and when he comes back down Bucky is still standing in semi-darkness holding that damn blanket and thinking about everything he wants out of life right now.
“Here,” Sam says, “sorry, I've slept on it a couple times, you'll have to deal with it,” and Bucky can't fucking stand it one more minute. Drops the blanket, takes Sam's face between his palms and kisses him like he wants to, like he's been wanting to, a kiss that's trying to say everything Bucky is still too fucking chickenshit to put into words.
“Oh, thank Christ,” Sam gets out once Bucky pulls away, “fuck, I thought you'd changed your mind or something.”
“I changed my mind,” Bucky says, outraged, “you’re the one who insisted this wasn't a thing,” and that makes Sam grin and let out a quiet little huff of laughter before he leans in for another kiss.
“I did say that, didn't I,” he agrees.
“And you said we weren't friends,” Bucky says, “and you called me a feral cat,” because apparently now that he's started toting up everything Sam's ever said about how they're not a thing, he's gonna make it a comprehensive list.
“You said you wished I would talk less, we've all said shit we didn't mean. You wanna argue about it, or you wanna come up to bed and fool around extremely quietly so we don't wake everyone up?”
Obviously Bucky wants to do the latter, even though being extremely quiet in bed gets difficult once Sam's mouth and hands and smooth warm skin are all involved.
“Quiet, I said,” Sam mutters at him, right in the middle of Bucky's first orgasm in weeks, and all Bucky can do is pull Sam down, let his moans be swallowed up by Sam's kisses.
“Don't go back to New York,” Sam says afterwards, as if it's that easy. “Stay here, okay?”
“I thought you knew,” Bucky says again, “about my pardon,” and it's not I thought you agreed with it but maybe Sam can hear what he's not saying, because he pinches Bucky's ribs, kisses the seam of his collarbone where his arm joins his shoulder.
“You're giving me way too much credit,” he says. “Man, you know the bank wouldn't give me a loan, the government took the shield and handed it right off to some unhinged white guy, you think I had the power to contribute to the terms of your pardon? I just—I thought you just wanted to move back to New York. That you didn't feel like staying.”
“I felt like staying,” Bucky says. “I feel like staying.”
“Then stay,” Sam says, as if it's that simple. “Fuck the government. I'm probably Captain America now. Just stay.”
“Yeah,” Bucky says, breathing out. “Yeah, okay.”
“But you can't stay in my bed tonight,” Sam tells him, “because Sarah will literally never let me hear the end of it. Sorry, man, you gotta sleep on the couch.”
“Oh,” Bucky says, faking a scowl, “right, I see how it is,” and even though the couch is lumpy, springs poking him in the small of the back, he sleeps right through, no nightmares or long stretches of lying awake in the dark and eyes stinging with tiredness. Wakes up smiling the next morning, and thinks: suppose that while you're sleeping, a miracle occurs.
The next time it happens, they're in Louisiana: a house down by the water, the shield hung up next to the door and Bucky's boots on the porch, and Bucky's really stopped keeping track for real this time. It could be the twentieth time or the hundredth, and all that matters is that when Sam reaches out, Bucky's right there: staying this time for good, and there's nowhere else he wants to be.