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Often Bucky awoke in frenzied panic, the screams of his victims pushing his eyelids open as blood-stained nightmares chased him back to reality. Not your victims. The Winter Soldier’s. You are James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. And it wasn't your fault.
Raynor had taught him the mantra, but it never quite worked, so he kept adding to it. Names. Memories. Truths until he felt human again. Not your victims. The Winter Soldier’s. You are James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Bucky Barnes. Bucky. Buck. And it wasn't your fault. Your dad's name is—was—George. He's gone now. Rebecca was your littlest sister. Everyone called her Becca. But not you. You called her Bex. Your ma hated it at first, until she realized you were Bex's favorite person, and you would always keep her safe. You weren’t around to always keep her safe. But Bex was strong. Scrappy. Resourceful enough to figure it out just fine on her own. Steve Rogers is...was your best friend. He's gone now, too. Everybody’s gone. Except...
Sam.
Samuel Thomas Wilson. Sam. Sammy. You lost your entire family; every friend you ever made; every pretty girl you ever charmed into one more dance. Every boy you secretly groped in a back alley, knowing it could never be much more. You lost them all. And yet, somehow you still managed to find the person who matters most.
Whether that was irony, tragedy, or an undeserved blessing, Bucky didn’t really know. But nothing-- no name, or memory, or truth—made him feel human like the image of Sam Wilson, head thrown back and laughing at a joke that probably wasn't too funny to begin with. Sam made it funny because Sam radiated joy. Sam made him feel real. Alive.
Sometimes Bucky awoke in a pit of despair, tears burning his eyelids open as melancholy chased him back to awareness. The distant sound of his mother humming some forgotten tune as she worked in the kitchen. Just there on the outskirts of his memory. And he'd search and search but never catch enough of it to remember what it was. How many old vinyls had he tore through, hoping to catch a snippet of a song he'd never hear again?
Or maybe it was Bex, little hand in his, ringlets of dark curls framing her eager cherub face as she leaned in to tell him a secret. But he never remembered what that secret was, or why it was so important that he keep it.
Dum Dum, loud and boisterous, repeating a bawdy joke whose punchline Bucky could never quite recall. A redhead named Dot, whose features constantly shifted save for those signature titian locks. A detail he only retained because Steve had told him. His dad pulling him aside for a man-to-man, the advice surely important but not enough to stick through all those decades of trauma, torture, and brainwashing.
Nothing much was.
Every recollection. Never full. Never complete. Always out of reach.
And occasionally, he would let himself mourn, rigid shoulders heaving with broken sobs, because they were all gone. His life stolen by Hydra along with his memories. His body turned into a weapon without his knowledge or consent as he stole the lives of others in service of the very ones who had stolen from him.
Other times he awoke seething in rage, for the very same reason he mourned. Because they were all gone. His ma. His father. Becca. Steve. Two other sisters mere footnotes in the dark recesses of his brain, any knowledge of them gleaned from brief mentions in a history book rather than any personal reminiscences. Hands clenched, heart pounding, unmitigated fury ripping his eyelids open as helpless, bitter regret chased him back to the present.
His first-year teacher. That boy on the docks. The first kiss that counted from a girl whose name and face he’d never recall. A broken arm from falling. Somehow. Somewhere. Not that it mattered since fate had swapped one arm for another. Then another after that. The prior a replacement arm that had maimed, destroyed, and slaughtered on command.
I am James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, his anguished mind would screech. They’re still gone, came the sullen, mocking rejoinder. Bucky Barnes. Bucky. Buck. He’d try again, mentally beating back the useless rage with two fists, one a gift from birth, the other a gift from Wakanda. All your memories are half-baked. You’re hollow and un-whole. And every single person is gone-
Except the one who matters most. The gentle reminder arrived just in time to deal negativity a death blow. At least until the next time. Some way, somehow, he’d found Sam. And Sam had stayed. Had given Bucky a family. A place full of other people who mattered. And now there was a team of misfits who mattered, too. And Bucky was not alone.
Whether he woke up anxious, sad, angry, or on rarer occasions, even-keeled—one thing was always certain. He never, under any circumstances, woke up warm. Whether this was a permanent adjustment his body had accepted to survive the continued cryo forced on it by Hydra or whether it was subconscious mental conditioning from those decades on ice, not even Shuri could say for sure, the coldness seeping into his very core, as much a part of him as the eyes Sam described as ‘steel blue’. No fire or heated blanket, no warm beverage before bed or shot of whiskey upon waking ever managed to ease that frigidness.
No. Bucky never woke up warm.
Except this morning.
The foreign sensation of not freezing from the inside out tickled his eyelids open as the cozy feeling chased him to the here. The now. A muscled arm thrown over his chest, a firm thigh draped over his hips, surrounding him in security. Sam’s familiar scent enveloped him. Spicy, sweet and earthy, hints of honey, saffron, and the woods of Delacroix.
“Mmm…grah,” Sam jabbered against the curve of his shoulder, that glorious thigh flexing then tightening around Bucky’s prone body. Bucky tried not to react; he really did. But he felt rested, safe, and so wonderfully warm that his body had no choice but to immediately tense at the unfamiliarity of it all.
Somewhere through the shadowy haze of lingering slumber, Sam clocked Bucky’s rigid frame. “Hmm?” he mumbled as he stirred to reluctant awareness. “Oh. Oh.” Sam went rigid as well, thigh doing a slow slide of shame off of Bucky’s torso. Bucky just barely resisted the urge to chase and tackle it with his own. “Shit, ‘m sorry.” His tone, heavy with sleep, took on a placating rumble as his brain awakened enough to realize how confusing this must be for Bucky. “Hey Buck. It’s okay. You’re safe.”
Bucky rolled his eyes even though Sam couldn’t see him. He emitted a cynical snort. “No shit. Of course, I’m safe. You’re here.” The safest place he could ever be was with Sam Wilson. He was a fool in a lot of ways, but he for fucking sure knew that. His lips flattened as he glanced down, saw his shirt, and realized he was still clothed. Of course he was clothed. Why would he be in bed with Sam without clothes? Get a grip, Barnes, geeze. But why the hell was he in bed with Sam? He combed the murky recesses of his memory and came up empty. “Wherever here is,” he allowed, desperately wishing he had an answer for that as he combed through what he did know. He’d been on assignment. DC. Yelena was there. Walker and Starr. Sam…he hadn’t seen Sam in weeks. And fuck, how he’d missed that man’s face. His witty comebacks and steady presence. And now, they were both somehow here. Together. In bed…and cuddly? Because waking up with the man’s thigh thrown over him and drool soaking through his t-shirt definitely counted as cuddling. Sharing a bed wasn’t exactly foreign territory for them, sure, but they never actually touched when they did it. Never, not once, had either of them drifted across the unspoken barrier drawn down the middle of the mattress. What happened last night to change everything?
He couldn’t remember. He should feel terrified because he couldn’t remember, but honestly, Bucky had awakened foggy and confused so many times at this point in his life that it never even affected him anymore. He supposed cryo had literally frozen him into complacency, because now he shrugged most everything off. Hell, he’d awakened five years after turning to dust and barely batted an eye as he raced back into battle, ready to do it all over again. Different shit, different day—it made no matter, really, shit was shit either way.
But he didn’t’ awaken warm. Not anymore. And it was kinda weirding him out a little. Probably because he liked it entirely too much, and he’d never even realized it was an option until Sam came at him with that solid, tree trunk of a thigh. How was he supposed to come back from this? And how was he supposed to bridge the awkwardness that had suddenly crept between them—Sam tucked safely way over there on his side of the bed, looking all bashful and like he might bolt any second because he’d dared to slip his thigh across Bucky. Never mind that Bucky had yet to complain about that…frankly he never would. Would just as soon have Sam haul it back on over, but whatever. Bucky knew that wouldn’t be happening anytime too soon. Or really ever. Best not to mention it just yet. Best to get them back on solid ground before Sam got it in his head to slink away and things turned weird with the unsaid. When in doubt, Bucky went the route that he knew would get the best reaction. “Wait. Did you go to bed in your outside clothes?” He smirked, yanking Sam’s shirt for emphasis, reminded of the first time they’d had to share a hotel room and Sam’s 10-minute rant when Bucky had laid down in his own damn double bed still in the jeans and tee he’d worn for the mission. As if whatever germs lingered on their clothing even compared to all the bodies that had slept in those cheap hotel beds doing who knows what.
“Don’t remind me. It’s all your fault. All this? Your fault. You’re a damn life-ruiner.”
“Ah Sweetheart. You say the sweetest things.” Wait…Sweetheart? Where had…why had the endearment rolled so easily off his tongue? He cleared his throat trying to play it off, though really…what the fuck was wrong with his brain right now? Sam picked at the blanket tossed over them, not meeting his gaze, probably wondering where it had come from too. Probably hating it. “My fault, huh? So, I made you get into bed in your outside clothes?”
“Well, I didn’t exactly pack an overnight bag when I came rushing over here.”
Bucky still wasn’t sure where here was, but he liked the thought of Sam rushing to him.
“Rush, rush, dammit,” Sam mumbled, but it was more to himself, not part of the conversation he was currently having with Bucky. He blew out an exasperated breath, scooting away another inch, so there was no danger of their bodies touching at all. Bucky stifled a pout. “You got hit with some toxin.” Frustration seeped into his weary tone. “You really don’t remember any of this?”
“No.” Bucky searched his memory, but nothing was there beyond the assignment. Maybe…maybe a little music? He closed his eyes, chasing a tune, much like he did when he thought of his mother humming some old song in the kitchen. It hovered, not strong enough to land and stick.
“Figures,” Sam groused. And he almost sounded a little wounded.
“What? What happened? Did…did I do something? Hurt somebody?” Hurt you? Bucky didn’t say the last bit, too terrified over the possibility to give it voice.
“No, no man. You’re good. I swear it.” Sam never lied. There was nobody Bucky trusted more. “You didn’t do anything you weren’t supposed to,” Sam continued dully, his smile so forced it came off more like a grimace. “I just…I just wish you remembered. Some of it at least. It would…be easier to explain is all. But you’re good. I promise you’re good.”
“And we’re good, too?” Bucky asked, his stomach all twisty though he wasn’t sure why. He couldn’t shake the feeling that Sam was purposely not saying something, smoothing out edges so they didn’t pierce Bucky.
Sam’s face fell at the anxiety Bucky hadn’t been able to conceal. “Bucky, yeah. Yeah. You don’t have to worry about that. Look, if I seem off…it’s just because you scared me a little. You called me, frantic, thinking you were going to die. And thankfully that was an exaggeration, but I…yeah, I don’t like hearing you like that. And I don’t like that some toxin hit you and made that happen.”
“I don’t…” Bucky continued to poke at the blank slate that was last night. Nothing. “I really don’t remember any of that.”
“That tracks with what Yelena said. There was this toxin. Almost got Starr, but you took the impact. Same thing that hit Walker a while back?”
Oh damn. No. He definitely knew the toxin Sam was referring to. “Shit. The one that made him do that dance from that Cocktail movie?” Bucky’s gaze widened in horror as it swiveled Sam’s way.
Sam blinked rapidly as he processed that. “Wait, what? Yelena left that part out of the story.”
“Probably too traumatized to tell it.”
Sam shook his head. “’Cuz it’s fucking traumatizing. Just keep all that to yourself. I don’t need that visual, ever.”
Bucky winced, knowing he looked pathetic, but not caring. Just the thought of humiliating himself in front of Yelena and Ava like that…freaking Walker….oh gawd, Sam…it was too much. “Did I do something like that?”
“You kept your clothes on if that’s what you’re asking. And stayed mostly in this room. Please tell me that Walker wasn’t in his…you know what, nope. Don’t want to know. Just. Keep your team’s shit within your team.” Sam cringed before shimmying his shoulders in a dramatic shiver. “I really don’t think you did anything too crazy. The toxin made you loopy. You stole Walker’s phone when he confiscated yours-”
“I stole his phone? I’m fuckin’ awesome,” Bucky said, beaming with pride over one-upping the dime-store Captain America—as dubbed by Ava.
“You called me, completely out of it. Rhodey had to pull some strings, but he found your location.”
Bucky chewed the inside of his jaw. “You were with Rhodey when I called?”
“Yeah. I thought you were dying. Rhodey’s gonna be pissed when he finds out you were just essentially a super-soldier’s version of day-drunk.”
“Sorry to disappoint Rhodey by not really being at death’s door,” Bucky scoffed.
Sam’s dark eyes narrowed from his pillow. Was it weird that they hadn’t gotten out of bed yet? It was probably a little weird—Bucky wasn’t going to mention it lest things change. “What do you have against Rhodes?”
“Nothing. The guy’s practically a saint,” Bucky bit out, trying to quell the twinge of jealousy as he forced his face into nonchalance. It was always there, in the back of his mind, that time Sharon had mistakenly said Rhodey and Sam were an item. Though she’d backtracked, the possibility had stuck with Bucky. Fuck…Sam really did deserve the best. Someone stable. Reliable. Good. A true hero, not someone just playing at it. Could he find a better match than Rhodey? He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell too much on the things that hurt…the things that would drive him a little crazy if he let them. “Thanks for uh…coming. I’m sorry it ended up being nothing but my overdramatic, drug-induced bullshit.”
“Nah, c’mon. I’m glad you called. I got here. Everything was good. Yelena and Starr had you situated. Walker, well he was being Walker. A lot of smoke, not much else, but I handled him.”
“Hmm.” Bucky gave a curt nod, his grin turning lopsided. He figured they’d chilled enough that Sam could handle a little bullshit, bickering the cog that turned their relationship. “None of that explains how you ended up on top of me though.”
“I…what?” Sam sputtered, affronted.
“When I woke up. You were on top of me.” Bucky drolled. It was fun to watch Sam flap around like the birdy he was. Bucky’s falcon.
Sam sprung up on his elbows, ready to go. “That is clearly not what happened at all. I got here. You were tired. We went to bed. You were on your side. I was on my side. Like always. You drifted over in the middle of the night. I was sleepy, so I went with it.”
“I drifted over?” Bucky asked mockingly, gesturing with his chin downward to where he was still clearly on his side. When he’d awakened, Sam had been over here, wrapped around him like an affectionate koala, the only weighted blanket Bucky would ever need. “You’re the one who had to move to neutral ground when we woke up this morning.”
“Okay. I know how it might’ve looked. But you’re just gonna hafta trust me on this. Yes, I was over on your side, but you must’ve moved and yanked me over there sometime in the night.”
“I yanked you to my side of the bed? Then on top of me and you didn’t wake up from it?”
“I was pretty freaking tired from all that dan…worrying about you. I conked out.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” Bucky said dryly.
“Yeah, it makes sense. Makes alotta sense. If I say it happened, it happened. You’re an unreliable narrator here.”
“Facts are facts, and the fact is, I was lying here minding my own and you were using me like a mattress. Just saying.”
“I wasn’t using you like a mattress. I swear you started this,” Sam mumbled mulishly. “You know what, we don’t have time for this. I’m going to let Yelena know-”
“Wait!” Bucky reached out, grabbing Sam’s forearm to halt him when he tried to scurry out of the bed. “Just wait. Can we…” he hesitated, not sure how to put what he wanted into words.
“Hey.” Sam’s voice softened along with his dark eyes. He relaxed back onto his pillow, his gaze never straying from Bucky’s. “What is it? You can tell me.”
Bucky blew out a frustrated breath. It was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But he never woke up warm, and this morning he had. And he wasn’t ready to let that go. “This is going to sound weird. But…Sam, I haven’t seen you for weeks. And as soon as we stumble out of this room, we gotta go back to it. Your side of the line and my side of the line. Back to work and separate teams and not knowing how each other is. And sometimes …sometimes, I’m just so tired of it. I’m over a hundred years old, and I know I got the serum, and I know when you factor in all the years in cryo I’m just in my thirties or some bullshit like that, but still. Sometimes I’m just so tired of it. All of it. And I want a normal life, but I don’t even know what normal would look like for me. So, can we just lay here, for a little longer? You’n me? Let the world handle its own shit for another hour or two? We’re already here. What can it hurt?”
“Yeah.” Sam gave a solemn nod. “We can do that. I got you.” He reached over, giving Bucky’s elbow a supportive squeeze before letting his hand fall back to his side. Bucky let his eyes drift shut. Sam on his side of the bed, close but not touching. Never touching. Until last night. They’d touched last night, and Bucky couldn’t remember. He wanted to remember. He never wanted to remember. Because something happened. Some wall came down, Bucky could feel it—a peace within that wasn’t there before. But it wasn’t anything he could have. Anything he could build a life on. The cruel, fickle hand of fate had made all his decisions for him, leaving him with the fallout, trying to piece together a life with all the rubble others had left behind. But this? This was good. Sam was good. And Bucky could afford to lay here and bask in Sam’s warmth a little while longer.