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Bucky can barely hear the clinking together of hundreds of glasses of champagne, wine, or whatever over the sound of Sam’s laughter. He’s not laughing at him, or even near him, really. But it catches him all the same. It never used to, but then again he has been trying to reel in these feelings of his for months now.
They didn’t stop after that first mission back, nor in Louisiana, or even for the two months they spent apart, before Sam ultimately called and Bucky reluctantly picked up.
So here he was, watching Sam’s back as he stood with people in dark tuxedos and luxury dresses, with Sam donning his own maroon red suit. The color looked good on him, even though Bucky preferred the deep green one. Too bad the American flag didn’t have any green on it.
Sam was supposed to be giving a speech, a big Captain-America-speech tonight for some non profit either for healthcare or highschool education, but he couldn’t remember which.
They had just finished their most recent mission earlier that day, rounding up a whole group dedicated to trying to wake up the volcano at Yellowstone with a kind of knock-off infinity stone. Weird day.
But they managed to fly back to D.C. just in time for this, honestly quite boring, dinner party.
Since their mission was over, Bucky did not necessarily have to be here, but Sam insisted. Of course he did. Couldn’t let the guy sulk back to his lonely apartment and fall asleep on the floor again. At least he got a decent suit out of it.
He tunes back into his surroundings just in time to see Sam begin his speech.
“...for allowing me to be here tonight. As most of you can probably relate, I have had my fair share of problems with getting the proper healthcare for…” he speaks into the microphone.
Bucky wants to pay attention, he really does. But he has been watching Sam be Captain America all day, and it’s starting to get to him. He even has the shield up there with him. It just sits there, propped up against a ginormous check that Sam is supposed to give to whoever is running this thing. And the thing is, he does a great job being Cap. But for one selfish moment, he wants him just to be Sam Wilson.
There are a few cameras pointed towards him on the stage, with a group of reporters surrounding the front. Supposedly this is important enough to put on TV, so it’s recording live for hopefully just Sam’s speech.
Suddenly, he spots a glint of something metallic to his right. A tall man trying to appear shorter is slowly making his way towards the front of the stage. His eyes are trained on Sam, and Bucky moves without thinking. He recognizes the shaggy blonde hair from earlier this morning, it’s a straggler of the group from the volcano thing.
He immediately wishes he brought a gun. But then again, shooting a man in the middle of a live-on-camera Captain America speech is not ideal, as Bucky would put it. And a stupid, terrible idea, as Sam would put it.
The man doesn’t see him move in closer, and now they’re practically at the front. Sam keeps his speech going without hesitation. The shield taunts him from afar. The man appears to be seething in rage, and when he reaches in his pocket, Bucky launches forward, sticking his vibranium arm out in front of him. Clasping the gun barrel in his hand and forcing it downwards, it goes off sharply, and screams echo throughout the room. He twists the hand holding the gun into a shape he knows is painful, and punches the man in the face. He becomes loose in Bucky’s grasp.
As he goes down, another man shanks his arm towards Bucky’s, making a large clanking sound. It appears to be a thick metal blade attached to his forearm. Bucky is incredibly glad he got a Wakandan-made Vibranium arm and not–whatever this guy’s arm is supposed to be.
Before he can properly deflect, the gun-wielder regains his senses and kicks into Bucky’s back. It hurts more than he expected it to, and then he feels the blade jab at his shoulder. It cuts through his suit, but not through to his skin, so he shakes free easily.
Most of the room has now dispersed, likely from Sam’s insistent directions.
He wasn’t expecting there to be more than just the one guy. Hell, he wasn’t even expecting the first guy.
Then, the shield makes its appearance, striking another person who was running up through the back of the crowd. it bounces back into Sam’s hands easily. The woman flops to the ground as Bucky gets whiplash from watching.
A shot goes off and Bucky turns his body to cover Sam reflexively. His eyes immediately blink towards Sam. When his eyes spell fear, he becomes increasingly aware that the shot was directed at Bucky himself. He grabs at his side to feel the damage and it only stings. Just a graze, then. And not much blood thankfully.
Just as he is distracted, the blade reappears at his neck, but Bucky can’t be bothered to do anything about it at the moment. It connects, he blinks for a long second, the shield flies just past his face, and then the blade falls loose to the ground. Sam is at his side now, somehow already dragging the man with the blade arm up against the wall.
Bucky steps back to where the bullet came from and grabs the man by the shirt. He doesn’t have time to look him in the eye before he finally crunches the gun into pieces and hurls the man across the room. He thuds to the ground next to the woman.
Sam gazes over the cameras, which are likely still rolling. He steps forward to be sure that he is fully out of frame, and his eyes are furious.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” It’s not amusing or playful. Sam really is angry at him this time. Looking right at him, he gives his best apathetic face in return.
“What? You got him.” He defends, the passiveness in his voice hopefully masking everything else. Sam just stares straight back at him. And with the shield at Sam’s waist and Bucky’s shredded suit hanging around his shoulders, he just can’t take it anymore. He looks away and Sam scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief.
“Whatever, man. Let’s cleanup and get out of here.”
___
As they finally approach the front door to the safehouse, Sam starts padding his pockets, before Bucky’s attempted apology.
“Sam, listen–” but before he can say anything else, Sam interrupts.
“No, I don’t think I will listen to whatever you have to say. You know why?” He points his finger accusingly. It takes everything Bucky has to not cower in shame. Instead he just bites his tongue and holds tighter onto his sides. The compression will give him enough pain to get through this conversation.
“You throw yourself into harm's way every time, every mission, and for what? I know you think you’re indestructible, but all you’ve really got is that arm.” And yeah, it hurts when Sam does that. But it also hurts when he turns to the side, so he can’t really blame it all on the guy trying to keep him alive. Sam’s right, and Bucky knows this. But when has he ever made things easy for himself?
“It was easier to just take a couple of hits,” he swallows, as Sam drops the bag at his feet and steps over it, getting much closer to Bucky than expected.
“A couple of hits? Buck, you got shot and almost got stabbed what– three times?” Sam hisses back at him, not even trying to find his keys anymore.
“Well I’m the one who’s got the serum, right? So it’s better for me to take it than you. Besides, we can’t have Captain America getting shot on live television.” He tries joking, for once, but it backfires when Sam shoves him up against the wall.
Bucky’s back shoots up in pain, but he masks it almost entirely with a straight face. The only thing to get out was a grunt, which he can blame on the surprise of Sam’s anger. He is usually never this outward, never this forward. Whenever Bucky gets on Sam’s nerves, he is usually just passive aggressive, maybe tells a mean truth or two. But this is new.
“What is up with you?” His voice is half-laced with something Bucky can not quite trace. It almost feels like he’s pleading with him.
“I’ve always been like this.” Bucky grunts out, not in enough pain to admit to anything.
“Not like this.” And Bucky thinks maybe , just maybe Sam can see through the fog. Through mask after mask of calm indifference. Though Bucky knows he doesn’t hide it that well. Or at all, if he’s being truly honest.
After another minute of the two of them breathing heavy up against the wall, Sam lets go. He goes back to the door and braces his shoulder. Bucky has to stop himself from offering to take his spot. Crouching lightly, Sam slams himself into the door and it opens easily.
Sam enters, leaving Bucky alone slumped against the hallway wall.
“I’m taking a shower,” is all Sam says to him for the rest of the night.
Bucky takes the night to dress his wounds by himself, just like he used to. It brings a weird sort of nostalgia that he has a difficult time naming.
Sam holes himself up in the bedroom, leaving Bucky to the couch. He is not really up to complaining about this, since he likely would not have slept on the bed anyways. Mattresses are too soft for him these days.
___
The next morning, after everything has settled and they are no longer walking on eggshells around one another, Bucky eyes his opportunity. He wants to try, he really does. Hates to admit it even to himself, but Sam is all he has now. All he really wants, too.
“I really am sorry, Sam” he swallows, hoping that the tension between them can hold off for the moment.
Sam just looks at him for a long time, seemingly searching for the lie in such a short statement. He doesn’t seem to find anything, because his mouth quirks up into a small smile.
“Just quit throwing yourself at the people trying to kill you and there won’t be a problem.” Sam stares at him intently, and Bucky refuses to look away from him. He bites the inside of his mouth and nods just enough for it to register.
“And I’m sorry too. Shouldn't have shoved you up against the wall like that. An old man like you, I’m surprised I didn’t snap your spine.”
“Hey don’t worry, I can take it.” He lets a smile creep up and tilts his head upward, trying to will away the flush of his neck.
“Right. And how did it feel getting shot, almost stabbed, and then walking ten blocks to the safehouse?”
“I actually did get stabbed,” he says under his breath.
“What?”
“Well,” Bucky resigns, regretting his correction, “There was the first guy whose shot I blocked with the vibranium arm. And then the second guy, the one with a blade for an arm, shot me in the side.”
“Yes I remember all that, I was literally right behind you with an entire vibranium shield when it happened.”
Ignoring Sam, Bucky continues, “And then the woman threw her knife at me on the way out. Didn’t even realize it was stuck in my calf until we were already three blocks away.”
“Man, that is exactly what I am talking about.” And he sounds–not angry or annoyed. It’s something else, something Bucky can’t exactly pinpoint. So he just responds nonchalantly as usual.
“It’s not that big of a deal. Look, I’m practically already healed.”
“But how did this even happen? You’ve never been so… sloppy.”
Bucky’s face pinches. Sam laughs at it and it pinches more.
“Sorry, sorry. You just– never used to let that shit happen. I can tell that you’ve been less careful lately too. Taking more hits than you need to.” He does not add on the deafening question that drenches every word directed at Bucky.
And Bucky doesn’t really have a good response to that. A mildly annoying deflection, though, he has.
“I guess I’ve been preoccupied.”
“What– do you have a girlfriend I don’t know about?” Bucky can’t help but scoff at the accusation. He doesn’t answer out of principle, and also because Sam already knows the answer.
“I’m worried about you, man. You know you can talk to me about any of it, right? I’m literally certified for this kind of thing.”
Bucky’s eyes roam the room, wondering if he’s looking as drained as he feels. This whole conversation proves that he looks even worse than that.
“I mean it, man. We’re… we’re partners now. Will you just at least tell me if there is anything I can do to help you out?” And just like that, Sam’s tone goes back to caring. Bucky can’t stand it in more ways than one.
Fuck it. Why not bare your soul to the guy you both hate and love? Well, much more love than hate nowadays.
“When I first got out of it– well not when I first got out of it– but when I was in Wakanda, I was worried that I was wasting the extra time that I got. I overdid it, had myself tracking every minute of every day.” He states simply, out of the blue to some, but not for Bucky. This is a fairly normal progression for him.
“Why would you do that to yourself?” Sam asks carefully, in a way where he’s not yet sure on whether he is supposed to joke around or not. Most of their conversations were like this now: Bucky talking over himself in ways that never fully made sense to Sam. But he would much rather have this than the one word responses he got back when they first met. This was a hundred times more preferable, even if he was somehow more confusing. More or less, Sam could figure out the general idea of what he said.
“I just felt like if I didn’t use every minute of every day doing something that I couldn’t do before, then I was wasting it. But there wasn’t really much I could do anyways.” The two of them sit in the silence of the admission, Bucky on the edge of the couch and Sam across from him in the barely sturdy wicker chair.
“I would stay awake for nights on end. Too scared to sleep.”
“Nightmares,” Sam breathes out, naming the obvious culprit. Bucky just has to nod once for Sam to know that he’s right.
“But it was also like I couldn’t stand the idea of losing that time. I wouldn’t even do anything. Just sat there and wondered if when I woke up it would be the same year as when I went to bed.”
Bucky remembers those dire nights with an unpleasant tinge. Shrouded in the darkness of the Wakandan night sky, he would ponder whether or not the few people he cared for would be alive when he woke up. Whether or not the world would still be the same. Whether or not he was still free from Hydra… from those words. So he waited it out. Stayed awake until the circles under his eyes became permanent fixtures. The serum helped, and he managed to stay awake for a week a few times before passing out in his bed or on the floor. He never really minded either option.
“Your loud-ass neighbors still giving you trouble?” Sam juts in so calmly that Bucky startles, completely forgetting the last thing he said.
He scoffs and rolls his eyes, remembering the angry text messages he sent to Sam asking if he can blow up the building just one time.
But it stops him. His sleeping habits ebb and flow most of the time, and he was in an especially exhausting spell of obsessing over the cryo chamber right before their mission. Since he has been sleeping in the room over from Sam he has been able to let himself sleep a bit easier. He tries not to make note of it but he fails harshly, feeling heat steam from his neck.
“Oh come on, I finally got you to open up and you wanna stop it at that? At least finish what you were gonna say. I’ve got nowhere else to be.” He jokes, and because Bucky can think of a hundred other places Sam could possibly be, he decides to instead bask in the affection of it all.
Sam really does care about him, and it is surreal. He wants to know about his problems even though he knows that there is no way to solve them. But he tries . He tries so hard to be a good person, to do the right thing. And once Sam decided that Bucky was good, he held onto that belief and carried it all the way from D.C. to Bucharest to Louisiana. Bucky would be angry with himself if he wasn’t in love with a man like Sam Wilson.
“It’s kind of weird, y’know? Like…” he resigns, glancing up at Sam who stares right back at him. He does not realize his prolonged silence until Sam clicks his tongue at him.
“Go on. What’s it like?” Sam coaxes, leaning forward in the chair. The wicker material creaks and strains and for a moment Bucky is afraid it will snap. He looks away once more to stare out the dark window before leaving his eyes to rest on Sam’s own.
Sighing as he continues, “I used to always know what I was supposed to do. Back before the war, I took care of my family, Steve included. Then I became a soldier. It was easy enough for me to follow orders. Then…” he stops, taking a slightly shuddering breath.
“Then I was the Winter Soldier.” The Vibranium arm involuntarily flexes at that, like it was waiting to hear its name.
“I didn’t have to think, I mean–I wasn’t even allowed to. When Steve got me out of it, I was scared out of my mind for a while.”
He begins refusing to make eye contact with Sam, but can feel his presence shift in the chair across from him. It’s too much, but he also can’t just stop the conversation now. Well, he could, he definitely could, but he chooses to keep going anyways. His therapist is going to eat this shit up.
“I had no idea who I was, and what I was supposed to do next. I had no mission.”
“So what are you saying? You were confused?”
“I’m saying I feel exactly how I did back in Bucharest.”
Sam focuses his eyes on him, and although he can not see it, he sure can feel it.
“Terrified? Or more like a feeling of freedom?” His confusion is emphasized by Bucky’s own. Sam seems to have brought a shovel to the immovable mass that is Bucky’s psyche. What fun.
“A mix of all of them, I guess?” Bucky rakes his hands over his face in frustration. “God what’s the fucking word?”
Sam does not respond immediately, trying himself to figure out the specific word Bucky is looking for. There are few people in the world who would be able to exactly relate to his experiences, so he figures that there is no use in googling it.
Bucky begins running a few contenders through his head: empty… melancholy… bitter…
“Bittersweet! I think that’s it. And–and lost.”
Ah, Sam gets it now.
“Ok, so you’ve been feeling that way because you want to be told what to do, since you don’t know if what you’re doing is the right thing. But that means you also kind of miss being… programmed.” Bucky’s shoulders rise and he bites his lip at the statement. It is baffling what Sam can derive from Bucky’s words and it hits him especially hard right now.
“Did you forget that this literally used to be my job?”
Ignoring him, Bucky shakes his head.
“Shuri knows I’m beyond grateful to her for fixing my mind and all,” he points to his temple, “but a part of me wishes they could’ve, I don’t know, told me what I’m supposed to be doing. What decisions to make. I never really had that option before.”
Sam takes a deep breath, and exhales, before gazing around at the scenery. The sun has since set but the trees are not quite yet dull. He continues to sit in the stillness of the air, of this conversation.
“Basically I’m saying that I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
“That… is a lot. And I’m sorry that you’ve been holding that inside you for so long.”
“Yeah well, who else was I gonna tell?” The words feel scratchy coming up his throat, like he did not expect them to actually come out.
They both picture the same face, each from a slightly different time.
“Well your therapist, for one,” Sam grumbles, so low that he is pretty sure Bucky barely hears it.
He looks at Bucky’s somber face and takes it in. It is similar enough to what some other vets have talked to him about before, even a feeling he has experienced himself. He knows precisely what to say, and partially hates himself for it.
"Now I’m not sure if this would improve your current state of mind,” which is his best attempt at placating, “But you should know that the majority of people out there also have no idea what they’re doing. I’m not saying that you are feeling it in the same way that other people are, but you are not alone in that feeling. And we can find you a better therapist –one that should have been able to tell you that months ago.”
At that, Bucky chuckles. It’s wet with the words that are stuck in his throat, and he hates it, but it resembles a laugh nonetheless.
Sam begins to speak with a smile on his face, “Maybe we can even find you a Veteran’s club around here. Just talking about it is the hardest step–” yet Bucky interrupts him with a bark of laughter. It isn’t one of happiness but of exhaustion.
Bucky looks up at him with wet eyes and feels the acknowledgement wash over him. It’s freeing, for sure. But it’s also confining, like now he isn’t sure what the next step is. And isn’t that the root of the problem.
“I don’t want to go to some program, Sam.”
“Alright…” His face falls minutely, but it was enough for Bucky to notice.
“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He throws his head down in his hands as his hands instinctively grab at his hair. A bad habit gained from his days on the run, his therapist recommended he cut his hair exactly for this reason. Well, this and others.
“Don’t be sorry until you tell me what you’re apologizing for, man.” He goes to remove the Vibranium arm from the side of Bucky’s head. Stopping at the base of the shoulder joint from his back, he presses a few fingers into the skin there. Bucky jolts and Sam attempts to ease the arm out of his hair.
“Easy, let’s get you out of there.” Once he prodded lightly at the shoulder joint, the arm went as slack as it can go while still being attached to Bucky’s body. The flesh arm recedes as well, instead combing lightly through his short hair.
Gazing into Sam’s eyes, Bucky can feel everything, all of his emotions hitting him at once. It feels like he’s falling apart and being sewn back together all at once. But all Sam does is calmly ask his next question.
“What do you want?” Sam asks, solemnly, and with the most care put into his words that he can muster. Bucky can’t take it.
He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head a few times for good measure. The tears falling on his face are hot but no warmer than his skin. When he cracks open his eyes Sam is still looking at him. Too fondly, too caring, too full of love that he doesn’t deserve.
But Bucky trusts him. Trusts him enough to believe in what Sam tells him. And maybe this whole thing was its own kind of confession. There is no one else left in the world who he would be willing to talk to about this.
Before he can overthink this one thing, he grabs Sam’s collar with both his hands and clashes his face into Sam’s. It’s messy, and too hard, but Sam takes it like a champ, smoothing out the wrinkles in Bucky’s eyes. They only really get one good kiss in before Bucky pulls back away harshly, this time staring deeply into Sam’s eyes. They seem to understand him more than his own.
“I want you, Sam,” He breathes out, barely audible in the otherwise still room. Sam is teetering on the edge of his wicker chair, with Bucky still gripping hard into the front of Sam’s shirt. Surely there will be wrinkles in it tomorrow, but he can not seem to care at the moment. All he wants is for Sam to respond.
“Please.”
Sam looks at him so softly when he says it, which makes Bucky more anxious, and so he starts saying more sappy things. If only to keep Sam right where he is.
“You can’t make me feel better about myself, no one would be able to do that in a hundred years. But you make me want to try .”
And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? How can Sam refuse? Especially when Bucky is asking so nicely.
“Oh I can give you what you want.” Sam leans back in, gently removing Bucky’s hands from his collar and pushing him down onto the couch.
Bucky’s eyes slip closed as soon as Sam’s lips reach his own. They are soft not in texture nor feeling, but in familiarity. He lets himself sink into the couch with Sam’s weight on top of him. It isn’t making him feel claustrophobic or trapped like it might have when they first met. And when he kisses him with kindness like this, with just enough fervor so as not to make him feel like a broken thing, Bucky can feel the rest of the tension in his own face release.
Neither of them are eager to stop, but Bucky’s jaw hasn’t worked this much since the 40s, and so they part with their hands clasped together. Sam glances at him in understanding and lays his head onto Bucky’s chest, almost in the crook of his shoulder.
They stay there for a long while, Bucky’s breath now in check and Sam tracing mindless patterns around his forearm.
“Hey,” Sam asks softly, almost a whisper.
“Hm,” which is all Bucky can respond with at the given moment.
“Don’t think we are never gonna talk about what you said. You better bring it up again before I’m forced to do it.”
And so Bucky barks out a laugh, one that isn’t wet or scratchy or filled with shame. Because how else is he supposed to react to such care? He can read between the lines, you know.
“Will this happen the next time too? Because if so, I’ve got a couple of things on my mind.” He replies dryly.
“Oh I bet you do.”