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With a grunt, Sam pivoted on his left foot and caught the shield as it rebounded back to him. The stitches on his side pulled and he hissed, doubled over as the sharp pain of it moved hot and sharp through the entire right half of his body. A wave of nausea made the sweat on his brow grow cold even under the heat of a Louisiana sun. He steadied himself, breathed slow and deep; one hand on his knee, the other clutching the edge of the shield. The muscles in his shoulder trembled, overtaxed, and strained.
He was tired and hurt and ached all over. Enough , his body told him.
Sam grit his teeth, fingers digging into the shield and stood upright. Again , his mind told him.
He tossed the shield, angled higher than the last throw so that he had to take a running leap to catch it on the rebound. He stumbled on the landing, winced through another wave of white-hot pain, and threw the shield again. Another spin, perfectly timed and he caught the shield.
Again. He flipped back, stitches stretching, and landed perfectly.
Again. Angled lower, he had to crouch to the ground to catch it that time.
Again. He stumbled on the release and the shield's trajectory banked further right than he intended.
“ENOUGH!”
The shield whirled towards Sam, only this time a vibranium hand whipped out to catch it. Bucky grabbed his arm and pulled him forward, wide-eyed and panicked. “What the fuck are you doing?” He shouted, dropping the shield, and reaching for Sam’s shirt. He lifted it to reveal the gauze taped to his right side, which was now bright red with fresh blood. Bucky didn’t waste a second, pulling him into the house—the shield and the bag of groceries Bucky had been carrying were left on the ground.
Now that the trance was broken, he could feel the alarm bells going off in his body; the aching joints, the tense set of his shoulders which meant he hadn’t been redirecting the shields weight properly on each throw, the strained muscles in his back, the scorching pain his side, the way the wound felt warm and slick. He’d assumed it was sweat and hadn’t stopped to check, despite the pain. His head throbbed, his eyes felt too big for the sockets and his mouth had gone dry.
Bucky made him sit at the dining table before pressing a cold bottle of water into his hand. “Drink,” he said—commanded, really—and Sam was too exhausted to put up any resistance. He didn’t realize how thirsty he was until the first sip, and then he was chugging along until the one-liter bottle was halfway done. He leaned forward to rest his head against the table and the old mahogany wood top felt cool against his brow. Distantly, he could hear Bucky’s voice and the heavy footfalls of his pacing from somewhere in the back of the house but lacking a super soldier’s sharp ear, he couldn’t quite make out the words. From the pattern of his speech Sam could guess that he was talking on the phone, but it was impossible to tell more than that.
As his breathing evened out and his heart rate settled back down to a resting rhythm, weariness settled over him like a warm blanket and he closed his eyes, slipping easily into the soft, quiet space between waking and dreams. How long he dozed he couldn’t say, but he startled awake to something wet and cold against his skin and lifted his head to find Bucky standing over him, pressing a cool cloth against his neck. The med kit they kept beneath the bathroom sink sat open on the dining table and some of the contents—gauze, disinfectant, waterproof bandaging—organized into neat little piles.
Bucky moved the cloth to press it against Sam’s face and Sam sighed in relief. “Doc gave me the okay to change the dressings, but we have an appointment tomorrow morning.” He sighed. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t pick up the shield until you’d been cleared for field duty again.”
We . Bucky was always like that, even before marriage. They were always a unit, always a team; what should we make for dinner? What color should we paint the dining room? No, we don’t need another cat.
Bucky’s tone gave no indication that he was still upset, but Sam knew him better than that. A few years back, something like this would have resulted in a weeklong argument complete with stonewalling and going to bed angry and no one ever really apologizing. Therapy and a desire to love each other softer taught them better over the years. Bucky's anger isn't as quick to flare up as it used to be, but it still wraps around him like a living thing and Sam can feel it pulsing between them like livewire. He knew that Bucky wasn't angry at him, not exactly, but at his decision. But anger was anger, and anger born of love and worry still burned just as hot.
He raised his arms without prompting when Bucky reached for his shirt, kept still when he peeled away the bloodied gauze and tape. Sam looked away as Bucky worked. He could tolerate the sight of blood if he had to, and in his line of work he often had to, but it still made him queasy and sick; made him go back to that day years ago where he knelt beside Riley’s broken body under the desert and tried to hold his head together as if he could save him, as if he weren’t already dead.
Bucky worked quickly and almost painlessly--Sam flinched only once and Bucky hissed sharp as if Sam's pain were his own. “You want to eat first, or shower?” Bucky asked when he was done.
“I’m not hungry.” The look he got in response made it clear that skipping a meal wasn’t going to be an option. It was amazing how no history book yet published had ever remarked on James Buchanan Barnes’ greatest superpower–mother henning people into submission. Sam sighed, decided against putting up an argument and said, “I’ll shower first.”
The pipes still rattled when the hot water started up–it was one of the few things Bucky hadn’t repaired or replaced when he bought the house for them, because (according to him), it added character .
Bucky washed him down carefully from head to toe. He paid special attention to his ass, which wasn’t surprising. Bucky Barnes being an ass man was quite possibly the least surprising thing about him. Sam steadied himself against the tiled wall when Bucky lifted one foot to wash, and then the other.
By the time they were out of the shower, Bucky’s anger was little more than a low simmer, and after he wrapped Sam in a dryer-warmed towel he pulled him close, pressing their foreheads together. “You promised me you wouldn’t get out of bed,” he said, and he sounded more hurt than accusatory.
Sam had spent the bulk of his life helping others find the words for their hurt, but he hadn’t really learned how to do it himself. Guiding others through their pain always felt easier than acknowledging his own. He learned to treat his own feelings as an afterthought at best, an inconvenience at worst--if he was helping someone else put out fires, he could ignore the flames licking at the edges of his own life. For a long time, it felt easier that way.
He's better about it, these days. Both because he wants to be for himself and because he wants to be for Bucky. So he quelled the part of him that wanted to deflect, wanted to make a joke, wanted to disengage and compartmentalize. He looked at Bucky and he told him the truth. "I was almost too slow," he said, and he hated the way his voice cracked around the edges. "Every moment counts in the field, you know that, and I almost--you nearly--I couldn't --"
Bucky’s expression softened as the realization set in, and he tightened his hold around him, tucked Sam’s face into the curve of his neck. “I’m here,” he told him. “I’m right here.”
He had replayed the mission a hundred times; he’d thrown the shield to cover Bucky from the bullet aimed at his head just in time, but the shock of it rattled him so badly, he dropped his guard and ended up taking a slug to his side. If he had been faster, he might have been able to spot the sniper sooner, but if he had been any slower… Taking time to rest, to heal, meant cutting into his training, which meant slowing him down. And he couldn’t afford to slow down.
He hadn’t been fast enough for Riley, or Rhodey, hadn’t been there at all for Natasha.
When he slept, he dreamed, and in his dreams he was too slow: he didn't notice the sniper in time, didn't hear the gun go off, didn't register its direction, didn't throw the shield in time and Bucky fell. In his dreams he holds a body; Riley, Bucky, Rhodey, Natasha.
But he wasn’t dreaming, he was awake and Bucky was there; the warmth of his skin, heart beating in his chest, breath filling up his lungs, alive and there with him still. Sam wanted to stay there, wanted to stay in that moment and pretend, if only for a little while, that they could live a life that didn’t force them to be heroes, to be martyrs; to live a soft, quiet life, a life that offered some guarantee that they might grow old together.
Sam pulled away a bit, enough to see Bucky’s face and see his same fears reflected. He’d been panicked when Sam took that hit, held him close and tried to stop the bleeding, screamed into the comms for the paramedics to hurry, begged Sam not to close his eyes, made him promise to keep breathing no matter what.
He had known the shield’s weight even before he lifted it, and knew exactly how much it demanded. And Steve knew he’d be willing to pay the price. Sometimes he wishes Steve doubted him more. Sometimes he wishes he never met Steve.
He never expected it to be easy, nothing in his life had ever been, but he couldn't have imagined it would be this hard. Maybe that's the worst part--there's no end in sight to the hardship. It’s not like climbing a mountain and knowing there will be a summit to stand atop triumphant if you can just keep going. It’s more like an uphill battle through treacherous terrain and the path goes on and on and on. But all Sam can do is what he’s always done–stay the course and keep going.
Sam kissed Bucky’s stubbled cheek and the arms around him tightened. They would have to separate at some point, but for now they could let it stretch on for just a few moments longer, safe in the knowledge that they were there, alive, and together.