Archive of Our Own

i.

“Where is everyone?” Sam hears Bucky ask, even as Bucky makes eye contact with him where he’s busy taking photos with the locals.

It’s probably bad form for Sam to break away from the not insignificant line of eager children and adults both, but Bucky’s already heading towards him like Sam knew he would. What happens next, though, is wholly unexpected: Sam reaches a hand out to pull Bucky in close, Bucky reaches out to grasp it even as Sam turns his head to greet Mr. Arceneaux, and the next thing Sam knows he’s being reeled in towards Bucky for an honest-to-God hug, and is that his chin resting on Sam’s shoulder?

It’s…a good hug, Sam admits to himself. He can say that much even with half of his attention focused on Mr. Arceneaux. And it’s not like he hadn’t already known Bucky was a dispenser of fantastic hugs, seen him dole them out on exactly two occasions – to Wanda after Stark’s funeral, to Shuri after being de-iced in Wakanda, and they’d both looked like they’d melted right into Bucky’s arm(s). It’s just that it’s not something Sam and Bucky ever do. Hugging. Even with the past month now behind them, they’re more inclined to claps on the back, shoulders, arms, even a firm handshake.

The moment is over nearly as soon as it’s begun, though, and Sam means to say something or at least give Bucky shit for it, but when Sam looks over at him, he’s gazing round at the partygoers with such awe and wonder – like he’s just so damn happy to be a part of this moment – that Sam really doesn’t have it in him to even tease the guy. Tonight is technically an ode to Delacroix’s hometown hero, and yet in a small way, it’s also a celebration for Bucky, even if none of these people know of the demons he’s had to overcome to make it here today.

And then the townspeople are dragging Sam off for more photos, Sarah’s hugging him, AJ and Cass demand to see the shield again. Getting to revel in this moment with his family – his community – is really the best celebration he could’ve asked for.

By the time he’s walking off the pier with Bucky by his side, the hug is long forgotten. Or at least, it is until they’re back on Sarah’s porch away from prying eyes and Bucky’s arms engulf him when he least expects it. Metal and flesh both squeeze so tightly around his back that Sam exhales in surprise. Five seconds pass. Sam wraps his arms around Bucky, too. Ten, twenty. Bucky still won’t let go. The feeling of a warm body against his own is...nice. Bucky smells of pine and citrus, and Sam knows it’s because he’d used Sam’s body wash that morning. Thirty. Bucky buries his face in the crook of Sam’s shoulder and sighs like this is the only thing he’s ever wanted – like he might die without the contact.

A startling thought occurs to Sam: this is probably the most physical contact Bucky’s had since breaking free from HYDRA, which means it’s the most physical contact he’s probably had since the goddamn forties. That thought in itself is depressing enough, but then Sam starts to think about how long it’s been for himself. Definitely nothing after the Blip. The quick friendly hugs from Steve before then didn’t count. Natasha wasn’t the sort to do hugs, and neither was he particularly close with any of the other Avengers. Then the last time someone truly held him the way Bucky’s doing now would have been…

The weight of it hits him like a freight train.

It would have been Riley, fifteen goddamn years ago. Twenty, if he includes blipped years. He lets out a shuddering breath and leans further into Bucky’s hold. Bucky, who hasn’t a clue as to the kaleidoscope of thoughts currently assaulting Sam but still holds on tight. And maybe this hug right here and now is enough. It has to be because Sam’s in no state to let his thoughts wander into such thoroughly lonely territory tonight.

“Thanks for everything,” Bucky says softly, finally pulling away.

“No problem,” Sam says. He just barely manages to keep his voice from shaking.

After that, the hugs become their “thing.” It’s always Bucky who initiates them, and unlike the first two times, he doesn’t bother waiting for Sam to let his guard down anymore, just goes right in. They hug after missions – success or failure – a quick embrace before news crews, paparazzi, and bystanders can gather and ogle. They hug after particularly close calls, tight and harried like Bucky needs to make sure Sam is still with him in the flesh. And – Sam thinks he likes these the most – they hug when Bucky comes down to Delacroix on the weekends and Sam meets him at the airport, every weekend without fail. These ones are all-encompassing, much more like their hug on Sarah’s porch than any of the others. Like Bucky physically aches from the distance and time apart and Sam is the balm for his weary soul.

And if Bucky doesn’t know that Sam needs this just as much as he does, well, Sam isn’t going to tell him. Why ruin a good thing when the comfortable silence is enough for them both? So they don’t really ever talk about the hugs, the same way they never talk about Steve or getting dusted – and it’s fine. Really. Just two broken people with too much responsibility on their shoulders trying to make it through the day-to-day of this somewhat broken world.

Of course, Bucky has to almost ruin it one muggy summer evening when he says, “I’m not gonna walk out on you again,” more into the crook of Sam’s shoulder than to Sam himself.

“Huh?” Sam’s brain is mostly still loopy from the shot of serotonin that comes with the hugs.

“After Thanos,” Bucky says. “All you tried to do was reach out and I couldn’t even be fucked to send a text.”

“Jesus, Barnes.” The last name is meant to put some distance between them, but Sam doesn’t think it works. He wants to play it off – act like it was no big deal, except that’s not really the truth. It had hurt more than Sam cared to admit that his only living connection to the shield and Steve’s legacy had blown him off like it was nothing. Not that the kind of guidance Sam had needed at the time could have been found with Bucky, but having someone by his side would’ve undeniably eased the burden just a little bit.

He settles on, “That’s all in the past.”

Bucky shakes his head, misty-eyed. “I want you to know it’s not like that anymore,” he says emphatically. “I’m here for as long as you’ll have me.”

Sam’s heart goes aflutter and he resolutely ignores it.

“No need to get all sappy on me,” Sam says and slings an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. Distance, he thinks feebly. Bucky leans in to the touch. “Let’s head inside. The boys are gonna be mad if you keep them waiting much longer.”

Bucky grins, crooked but more genuine than not. They don’t talk about it, but everything is fine.

ii.

“There,” Bucky says, his flesh hand guiding Sam’s right one into position. “It’s all in the wrists.”

Bucky’s metal hand rests on his waist to steady him, and Sam shivers at the contact. It’s not anything sexual, or at least, Sam doesn’t think it is. He’s not even sure if Bucky realizes he’s doing it, fingers ghosting over Sam’s pulse point and lingering just a little too long. Could Bucky hear his heart beating?

Sam’s back is flush against Bucky’s chest, and it doesn’t escape his notice how he instinctively leans back to chase the warmth. How Bucky angles himself forward even more in response. It’s incredibly intimate in a way that’s wholly different from the kind of touch he’s used to. Had it been Riley behind him, there’d have been no question about it: Sam would’ve tipped his head back and Riley would’ve bent forward to neck at Sam’s throat, hot and desperate and chasing time that they’d both been right to think would be stolen from them too soon.

With Bucky, it feels different. Their lives are no less dangerous than his and Riley’s had been, sure, but Bucky is such a rock-solid and steady presence that Sam sometimes has to remind himself the guy isn’t indestructible. Something about the last couple of weeks in Louisiana has been groundbreaking for Bucky’s technique because he hits harder, faster, like he’s not afraid the Soldier will take over anymore, and he instinctively seems to know when Sam needs him to cover his six.

Sam is all the better for it. Training is grueling, but the harder Bucky comes at him – and in a word, it’s brutally hard once he’s figured out how to adjust his strength accordingly to not pulverize the non-enhanced; his new therapist in New Orleans has honestly done wonders for his recovery – the harder Sam is able to hit back. Sam thought he hit peak physical form during his days on the run with Steve, but the past can’t hold a candle to this.

The two of them slot together seamlessly in a way Sam never has with any of the other Avengers. Whether it’s Bucky getting in close with the bruising strength while Sam provides air support, or Sam with his fists and the shield and Bucky keeping a watchful sniper’s eye from afar, it just works.

And so with Bucky, it is different: they’ve got nothing but time. Sam just wishes he knew what to do with it. Wishes he knew what he wanted out of this nebulous thing he’s got going with Bucky. He’s aware it’s perhaps something more than friendship, not quite love or lust but still something born out of a deep yearning for the warmth of another body against his own.

Sam flicks the knife and it lands just to the right of the bullseye.

“Almost,” Bucky says softly.

Sam sighs, but there’s no heat behind it. “Still not sure why it’s so important for me to know how to throw knives.”

“It’s practical, Sam.”

“I’ve got the shield,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“And what if you’re in a situation without the suit? You can always carry a knife on you.”

“Or seven,” Sam quips.

“I’m sorry, was that a complaint?” Bucky says, dry as a bone. “Do I need to remind you about Memphis?”

“I had a gun!”

“Guns aren’t subtle! They cause panic.”

“Oh, and a big ass Gerber doesn’t?”

He supposes when it’s Bucky throwing the knives, silently embedding in their targets with unerring accuracy, it actually is subtle, but that’s neither here nor there.

“Whatever, man.”

“You’re getting better,” Bucky says, suddenly soft again.

Sam knows every little skill like this is just another thing to tip the scales in his favor, especially without the serum. And the thing is, he’s gotten much better under Bucky’s guidance. Can strike within inches of the bullseye compared to the first week when he barely managed to get on the board at all. But maybe, just maybe, no one has to be any the wiser if Sam starts to let his wrist slip at the last minute. The feeling of Bucky patiently rearranging his limbs, voice a low murmur in Sam’s ear, is soothing, that’s all. And if he messes up occasionally, that just means these little lessons will have to continue.

He thinks of all of the hugs and doesn’t think Bucky will begrudge him this one thing. Then again, this is Bucky and knives, so maybe he will.

“Just a bit more and you’ll get it,” Bucky assures him a week later. Sam’s honestly lost track of how many times they’ve done this dance now. A part of him feels ridiculous – he’s a grown man and fully capable of asking for what he wants, but maybe what he wants is the uncomplicated intimacy they’ve got going on without any of the messy introspection that comes with examining it any further.

Now that Sam’s voiced that part to himself, he can admit it’s definitely asinine. He’s pretty sure he knows Bucky well enough to say the man feels the same way though, and honestly? Sam feels like he’s mostly got his life together in pretty much every other regard that he’s allowed this one transgression, but he’s also got enough self-awareness to understand that he’ll have exactly zero allies should he ever voice any of this out loud. Sarah in particular would never let him hear the end of it.

“Wow,” Bucky says after Sam’s fifth consecutive miss for the day. “You keep hitting the same spot. It’s almost like you’re missing on purpose.”

Sam can see the moment the lightbulb turns on for Bucky, the way his lips part in a slight ‘o’ and his eyes blink slowly.

“Funny thing,” Sam says.

Bucky shrugs, quirks an eyebrow. “Must be a coincidence.”

Mutually assured destruction and all that. Just the thought of having to talk out and psychoanalyze the hugs is definitely enough to ensure Bucky never says anything about these training sessions. As far as coping methods go, there have got to be worse ways to deal with it. A wry smile even ghosts across Bucky’s lips. They’re totally fine.

iii.

They’re totally fine until they have to talk about it, and it's absolutely Bucky’s fault.

The wings are Sam’s greatest technical asset in the field. Having the capability of flight opened up so many possibilities that would have simply been unfeasible with a grounded team. Take, for instance, Bucky’s insistence that Sam drop him directly in the middle of the group of AIM soldiers they’re currently dealing with in Memphis. It’s always Memphis. Sam rolls his eyes when Bucky lands with his left fist, creating a miniature shockwave that rends up the asphalt and sends most of the troops flying.

“I can’t believe you think this is an action movie,” Sam says over his comm link.

“What,” Bucky grumbles. “It’s cool.” Then he’s back to his usual stoic and sarcastic self. In fact, Bucky seems to only have two modes of communication: soft and tender whenever they’re in Delacroix, or hugging, or training; and dry and snarky in any other scenario.

Lately, the snark is less incisive and cutting, both their words no longer heavy with deeper meaning, more friendly banter instead. It allows Sam to relax as his training takes over. An airborne shield pass here, a seamless one-two combo with Bucky there, and occasionally, as much as Sam hates it, Bucky needs his help landing safely.

“How the hell did you end up so high?” Sam yells over the wind. Bucky is safely, if a bit awkwardly, nestled in his arms; the bridal carry tragically remains the most practical and efficient way of carrying passengers, and not for want of them brainstorming literally any other solution either.

“I was chasing the scrawny-looking one with the hard drives,” Bucky yells back. “Then the hulky-looking one threw me out a window.” He at least looks fine save for a slightly battered ego.

After the first few times, Sam learns to adjust his fighting style accordingly. It reminds him more of his time in pararescue than anything he’s done with the Avengers, and it doesn’t necessarily feel great being thrown back to those days of wondering if he’s going to be fast enough to catch each falling body, but it’s part of the job description now. And it’s not like Bucky’s getting thrown around on purpose. He’s depending on Sam just as much as Sam’s depending on him, so Sam does what in hindsight immediately proves to be irresponsible and tamps down the fear as best he can.

He knows being carried is one of those things Bucky will never admit he actually enjoys – it’s evidently second only to the hugs if the way he always presses himself into Sam’s chest is any indication. Sam is also perfectly capable of admitting to himself that every successful maneuver eases the guilt of his only failed rescue, even if just a fraction.

Of course, that all goes to shit not a few minutes later. Sam can see Bucky running up the scaffolding of an abandoned factory, can see the goons trailing him to the very last railing. Enough of them to be a nuisance, but not enough that Bucky can’t engage them head-on, and – what the fuck is Bucky doing?

“I’m gonna need a lift!” he shouts before jumping without a single care in the world.

Sam can’t breathe. The other times, Bucky hadn’t been too far away and Sam was confident he could make it in time. Now, it’s like he’s back in the desert again, too far away and not fast enough as debris rained down around him. He kicks it into overdrive and thanks Shuri for the thruster upgrades.

Bucky is four hundred feet out from impact. Three hundred. Sam curses, pushes the wings harder. Two hundred, and all he sees is a mop of blonde hair where it should be brown, EXO wings where there should be a glistening vibranium arm. One hundred. They wind up barreling into the side of the factory at full-speed, Sam’s wings folded neatly around them their only cushion against the impact. It’s sloppy, but they come out of it mostly unscathed.

Bucky groans from underneath him, back against the wings.

By the time Sam rolls away, the adrenaline has already left him feeling hollow and jittery, and in its place the anger and shock begin to roll in.

“The fuck?” he says.

“What was that,” Bucky begins, but Sam cuts him off more harshly this time.

“What the fuck?”

“Sam, what-”

“You can’t just pull shit like that, Buck.” He’s vaguely aware that he’s shouting now, and Bucky already has his arms crossed defensively over his chest and that stupid kicked puppy look in his eyes that shouldn’t be as endearing as it usually is. “You could’ve died, and I...I…”

Fuck. His breathing’s gone shallow and his vision feels like it’s closing in.

“Breathe,” Bucky says firmly, a hand on his shoulder. “Take your time, and – dammit.” They’re interrupted by gunfire that ricochets off the scaffolding. Bucky shoves Sam behind him and blocks them neatly, metal against metal.

“Shit. The mission,” Sam says in a daze. There are barely any AIM troops left, but he’s in no state to fight right now, not on his own and certainly not with a partner depending on him.

“Stay here,” Bucky grunts. He unsheathes a knife from the utility belt he’d started wearing ever since...Sam honestly isn’t sure when it started, just that it was a few weeks after he’d begun his weekly visits to Delacroix and had found a new therapist in up in the city. “Can I borrow this?” he says, tapping gently on the shield that’s still strapped to the wing pack.

Sam nods. It’s really a sight to behold – Bucky with the shield on his arm, looking so damn reliable and heroic. A moment passes, and then Bucky’s gone. A ghost vanishing into the thick of battle.

Sam takes a deep breath, slumps against one of the concrete pillars so he’s out of the line of fire. Now that he can think about it more rationally, he knows Bucky wouldn’t have actually died – has seen him walk off a two-hundred foot fall like it was nothing. Another shuddering breath. Bucky isn’t Riley, Bucky isn’t Riley. He repeats it like a mantra. But Bucky had expected Sam to catch him, went completely off-script again and just assumed Sam would go along with him. Bucky isn’t Riley, but that doesn’t erase any of the panic, not in the moment at least.

He pulls his knees up to his chest. The sounds of gunfire are fainter now, accompanied by the unmistakable clanging of the shield.

The whole Rambo act is on Bucky, that much isn’t up for debate. Sam’s fears, though? It’s not exactly fair to pin those on Bucky since he had no idea of the trauma just waiting to be unearthed there. And then Sam had gone and fucked up the mission. Some Cap he was turning out to be.

“Hey,” Bucky says somewhere to his right, then, “Sorry, I was trying to make noise,” when Sam flinches. Because that’s a thing Bucky does – makes his presence known after he’d spooked Sam one too many times with that assassin’s gait and realized it was a genuine trigger for Sam acquired from years of battle and war. Because deep down he’s actually a considerate friend, and dammit, Sam knows in his heart that this whole situation isn’t really Bucky’s fault. It’s no one’s, really.

Bucky fastens the shield back to the wing pack with a pat, then plops down cross-legged in front of Sam.

“Sorry about running off before,” Bucky says solemnly. “I should’ve let you know what I was gonna do. Still working on that.” He gives a small shrug and a tiny grin, self-deprecating and all.

“Appreciate it,” Sam says with a sigh, “but it’s bigger than that, and not really your fault.”

Bucky’s stare is piercing, and Sam knows it’s his way of showing that he’s listening, but being the center of that kind of attention is...a lot.

“I...lost someone. A long time ago, when I was still learning how to use the wings.” Sam swallows, and Bucky scoots closer, putting a hand on Sam’s shoulder. Take your time, is what that touch conveys.

“It was a standard PJ rescue op, but I wasn’t fast enough. I watched him...well, you get the picture.”

“He was important,” Bucky says, and it’s not a question.

“A dear friend. Partner, I guess.” And so much more. He’ll let Bucky interpret that how he will.

“Sorry,” Bucky says softly.

“Not your fault.”

“I know, but…” Bucky shrugs.

Sam appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. “Steve pulled the same stunt, once. I guess technically, you were there, too, on the Helicarrier.” Bucky gives him a wry smile. “He told me he was gonna need a ride, and then the asshole just swan dives off the edge.”

“Sounds like him.”

“Sounds like you,” Sam says, but there’s no bite to it. “I think part of me realized then that I’d never really gotten over it. I mean, the grief of losing Riley took years. It’s...manageable most days at least, but the falling. Jesus.”

He swipes at his eyes and is mortified to feel how wet they are. Bucky wordlessly passes him a strip of black cloth, then says, “It’s clean!” with deep offense when Sam only stares at it.

“It gets washed every day,” Bucky says with a huff. “I use it to wipe down my arm.”

“Well, thanks,” Sam says, dry. He takes his time dabbing at his eyes before wordlessly passing the cloth back to Bucky.

“It’s not like I ever had to confront it again,” Sam says. “I quit the EXO-7 program pretty much right after. Steve was the first time I had to do an air rescue since then.” So, it’s becoming pretty damn clear to Sam that he’s never fully dealt with this particular trauma. “The second time was-”

“-Rhodes,” Bucky finishes. “Steve told me what happened.”

Sam’s not sure he’ll ever be able to scrub the image of Rhodey hitting the ground from his mind.

“I didn’t realize how much it affected you until now,” Bucky says, worry creasing his brow.

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Bucky says firmly. “If I’ve learned anything, it’s that it’s a normal response to trauma.”

“Still, you shouldn’t have to deal with my problems.”

“Bullshit,” Bucky says with surprising vehemence. “Look, you do what you gotta do to tackle your demons, but I’m your partner. It’s literally my job to know about your problems.”

Sam bites at his lip irritably because he can’t think of a good response to that. He’s used to being the dependable one. Steady. Having to lean so heavily on Bucky just feels wrong, even though he knows Bucky is absolutely right about this. He settles on “It’s impractical,” and sighs again. “I mean, falling is basically an occupational hazard for us. We can’t just avoid it because of me.”

God, his therapist is going to have a fucking field day when he hears about this.

“That’s what training’s for,” Bucky says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Every time you’ve caught me so far...I just assumed you were cool with it and I’m sorry about that. But now that I know, we’ll figure it out. Plan for it, figure out all the angles and heights and speeds so that none of it is a surprise when we’re out here.”

“I...ok.” It’s a surprisingly sound argument. He still doesn’t really understand how Bucky’s just cool with all of this, and it must show on his face because Bucky says, “You don’t exactly sound thrilled about it.”

“It’s just…alright, tell me if I’m out of line here, but you fell off that train in Austria. It’s what started everything for you. How are you just...fine with all the jumping you do?”

Bucky barks out a laugh, high and surprised.

“I’m serious! You jumped out of a moving plane without a chute.”

“Ah, that time. It’s stupid,” Bucky says. From the way his cheeks color, Sam believes it.

“Humor me,” Sam says, because he’s genuinely curious.

“You’d already flown off,” Bucky says. “I had just yelled at you about the shield - I know, I know, you don’t gotta remind me. Anyway, guess I didn’t wanna look weak after that.”

Sam snorts. It sounds exactly like something the Bucky he’d known two months ago would do.

“And it wasn’t terrifying?” It’s beyond Sam’s comprehension if he’s being honest.

“Believe it or not, falling a thousand feet to my supposed death wasn’t the most traumatic thing to happen to me,” Bucky says with a wan smile.

“Doesn’t really answer the question,” Sam points out.

“Maybe not, but it’s getting better.” It’s practically an admission in itself. “All those times you’ve caught me…I guess it helped me realize – and I’m not saying this to invalidate your fears or whatever-” Sam raises his eyebrows, “-but knowing I could trust you to catch me. That helped more than you know.”

“And tonight,” Bucky continues, “it never even crossed my mind that I’d hit the ground.”

“I nearly didn’t catch you in time,” Sam says, chagrined.

“I know, and I really am sorry about that,” Bucky says earnestly. “I won’t pull a stunt like that again.”

Sam hums. “It’s like you said, though. We’ll work through it.”

The grin Bucky flashes him is blinding.

It’s not perfect – nothing about the situation they’re in is – but as far as partners go, Bucky’s damn near the best one Sam could’ve asked for.

“C’mon, Torres is probably wondering where we are,” Bucky says as he stretches and helps Sam up.

***

They do, in fact, work through it as best they can.

It starts off small, Bucky climbing up one of the smaller cypress trees and jumping off from increasingly higher points when they don’t trigger a response in Sam. He falls at all sorts of angles and positions so that Sam can figure out how their bodies fit together, makes Sam move further away each time until they have a handle on the exact limits of Sam’s speed. This includes the time Sam gets a face-full of Bucky’s crotch and Bucky can’t stop howling with laughter. Sam makes him climb the damn tree with his hands and feet after that, and he retaliates by squirming as much as possible in Sam’s grip.

It’s kind of fascinating to watch Bucky vault up twenty feet at a time like every bit the grumpy cat he is. At some point, he takes his shirt off and wipes his glistening face with it; Sam forces himself not to stare even if the jeans Bucky’s wearing are tighter than usual. And Bucky is definitely showing off, if the theatrical, acrobatic leaps he makes are any indication.

Eventually, they graduate to Bucky launching himself off of Sarah Wilson’s roof like a damn torpedo, then Bucky manages to requisition Torres and a jet for the day.

They slow down when Sam starts to get clammy and says as much to Bucky. It’s a setback, but Sam feels like this process – planning and practice – is legitimately working. It shouldn’t surprise him as much as it does. He spent two whole years reading about Bucky in history books, biographies, reconciling that information with all the little anecdotes Steve told him that gave the man dimension. The kindness and the nurturing had always been the most noteworthy traits, it’s just that this is the first time Sam’s actually seen it on display.

And the planning – the fastidious attention to detail and drafting scheme after scheme – is something left out of both written and oral history entirely, but Sam can privately admit it’s a damn good trait to have in a partner.

(“Steve said you took all the stupid with you.”

“He would say that,” Bucky had said with a laugh, then more somber: “I don’t think he ever really figured out how to depend on other people, though.”

“He depended on the Avengers,” Sam had pointed out.

Bucky had only shrugged. “There are different kinds of dependence, I guess.”)

In the field, Bucky silently makes adjustments, thinks twice before running off on his own, avoids jumping if he doesn’t have to put Sam in that situation again. Sam is silently grateful.

“It’s nice,” Bucky says when they’re back in Delacroix and lounging in the grass without a care in the world.

“Hmm?”

“Flying with you.” Bucky won’t make eye contact with him, but the tips of his ears are slightly pink. “You give good rides.”

“Giving them’s not so bad,” Sam allows.

He smirks, directing his eyes skyward. In a roundabout way, being forced to acknowledge just how touch-starved they are isn’t so bad either. Neither is learning to lean on your partner from time-to-time.

iv.

Post-Memphis life is good to Sam. To both of them. They’ve got more downtime than ever, and Bucky uses it to spend a few weeks down in Delacroix, happier than he looked even in the faded pre-war histories produced about him. And Sam is - happy, yes. Also: anxious, thrown off-kilter by the burgeoning more-than-friendship between him and Bucky.

After Memphis, things don’t quite change. There are still the touches that linger far too long for just friends, and there’s still absolute radio silence when it comes to actually verbalizing wants and desires. But now there are also the looks between them – the way Bucky stares at him like he aches with how much he wants. Wants what Sam can’t possibly give him right now.

There are days when Sam wants, too, before he remembers the gaping chasm Riley left in his wake and all the catchpenny flings he’d tried to fill the void with. He can’t cheapen what he has with Bucky like that, isn’t even sure if that’s what he’s using Bucky for on a subconscious level. And Bucky might spend his weekends in Delacroix, but he’s got a life elsewhere and Sam can’t ask him to give that up, not when he’s finally figuring out where he fits in in this new world.

But the beauty of it is that nothing has to change. Sam is content with what he – they – have right now. Their partnership, his family life, the Cap gig – they’re enough. As far as he can tell, Bucky’s happy, too, even if he’s just popping down to Delacroix to train with Sam and say hi to the family.

Their training is interrupted for the day once AJ and Cass get home from school and see them sparring in the yard, making a beeline for Bucky.

“Uncle Bucky!”

“Hey!” Sam yells. “What about your uncle Sam?”

“We see you every day,” AJ says. They make a show of climbing on Bucky’s arm, and Bucky just lets them wrestle him to the ground. He makes a dramatic show of struggling against them before slumping in defeat. The boys love that shit, and Sam in turn loves Bucky for it.

Bucky whispers conspiratorially to them, flashes Sam a wink even as the boys fail to stifle their laughter. Sam’s not sure he’s been the cool uncle since they’d deemed Bucky worthy of uncle status.

“Best of three?” Bucky asks. He rotates his left arm so that the plates whirr and clack, entirely for the benefit of their audience. When they spar in front of AJ and Cass, it’s for show. They might see curated snippets of Captain America and the former Winter Soldier on the news, but they’re still far too young and innocent to be subjected to the violent reality of what taking down ‘bad guys’ actually entails, plus Sarah would actually murder them both if they had an real, no-holds-barred training session in front of her kids.

Sam nods, and Bucky as usual makes the first move. They can’t actually hurt each other here, but Bucky darts in way too close and Sam jumps back with a scowl, trying to figure out what Bucky’s game is. And the thing is, Bucky is faster than he has any right to be, so once he’s in close, it’s kind of difficult to shake him off without losing balance.

The jig is up when Bucky takes a swipe at Sam’s side and squeezes, forcing a legitimate squeal out of Sam.

Sam raises an eyebrow. “So that’s how it is, huh?”

“I was the oldest of five, not including Steve,” Bucky says, smirking. “And that was before I got Zola’s knock-off serum.”

Sam, who is very much the middle child of four and victim of Sarah circa 1975 to 1993, unfortunately understands Bucky’s words to be every bit the threat they’re intended to be. Of course, Sam’s faced the actual Winter Soldier head-on and won’t be deterred by something as puerile as I’m no longer the Winter Soldier, I’m James Bucky Barnes pulling sibling rank.

Bucky dispenses with the tip-toeing, takes advantage of Sam’s lapse in attention, and full-on tackles him. He’s reminded of romping through a field in Germany, except this time Bucky is actively scrambling for purchase, finds it easily when he clamps both of Sam’s wrists with his metal one and straddles his thighs with his own.

“That’s not fair,” Sam says. He tries to lift his arms, but is greeted with increased resistance and the telltale whirring of vibranium.

“You could give in before this gets really bad for you,” Bucky says smugly. Like he’s already won because he knows this is an easy way to get under Sam’s skin, and maybe it does get under his skin, but a smug Bucky is also...huh. Attractive? Irritating, definitely. Except self-assured and in control is new and undeniably a good look on him. Fucking fantastic. Sam ignores the thought as best he can.

He vaguely hears AJ shout, “Get up, Uncle Sam!” while Cass cheers Bucky on.

It’s a battle for the title of Cool Uncle, and he knows Bucky takes it very, very seriously. Well, so does Sam. He bucks up against Bucky, which, even though Sam’s bigger and heavier, does absolutely nothing to shift the balance in his favor.

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” says Bucky.

In hindsight, challenging a super soldier assassin turned merely highly competent super soldier uncle was never going to be a good idea. Bucky seems to have a blueprint of every single ticklish spot on Sam’s body and fully utilizes that knowledge to his advantage. His fingers scribble over Sam’s torso and underarms and Sam can’t even hide from it on account of his arms being held fast above his head.

Once Sam starts laughing, it’s like a switch is permanently flicked into the ‘on’ position. It doesn’t help that Bucky knows exactly where to knead and squeeze so that Sam can’t get a single word in edgewise while he taunts and goads. At some point, Bucky must decide it’s a better use of his metal arm to use it in the assault as well; Sam’s not sure whether he should be offended he’s not considered a threat or relieved he’s got some degree of mobility back.

But when he curls up to hide one part of his body, Bucky is all too happy to demonstrate to him how ticklish the remaining, wide-open bits are. Case in point: his shoulder blades, the small of his back, and is his butt seriously ticklish? Because he’s pretty sure Bucky just poked at his ass cheek and Sam let out a high-pitched squeal of laughter, like that’s a thing that actually happened.

By the time Sam yields, they’re both breathless and sweaty. The edges of his consciousness are fuzzy, dull, with Bucky’s fingers still resting on his chest, and the realization shouldn’t be all that shocking at this point, but dammit. He can already tell this is going to be another thing. Another touch that Sam chases without finding the words to ask for.

The second round goes better once Sam knows what to expect. The trick is to stay the hell out of Bucky’s range – you simply don’t win a grappling match with someone like that – and convince the boys to distract Bucky until there’s an opening, and maybe he has to admit that a little bit of sheer dumb luck is necessary, too, because Sam coincidentally discovers that the seam where metal meets flesh is just about Bucky’s only ticklish spot. It’s all a bit anticlimactic the way Bucky goes down without a fight, if Sam’s being honest.

“Oh, that’s awful,” Bucky says, panting. He doesn’t make an effort to dislodge Sam’s hand, though. Looks happy, even, like maybe he’s feeling the same way as Sam.

The third round isn’t even a competition. Bucky doesn’t stop until Sam has genuine tears of laughter streaming down his face, and maybe Sam doesn’t hate it as much as he ought to.

“Wow,” Bucky says afterwards. “This is a pretty crippling weakness.” Sam thwacks him on the chest, but there’s no heat behind it. Any sort of faux anger or annoyance he might think of summoning has been forcibly excised from his body by Bucky’s stupidly skilled fingers.

“I’m serious,” he continues, all earnest and serious. Sam has to hand it to him, his commitment to the bit is admirable. “Imagine your enemies using it to get valuable intel out of you.”

“You didn’t fare much better that second time,” Sam points out.

Bucky says, “Well, I guess we’ll just have to train it out of us, then.”

Sam freezes. He could interpret Bucky’s words for the joke they’re meant to be – or at least anyone not well-versed in Bucky’s body language could interpret them that way. But here’s the thing: Sam’s become something of an expert on Barnes’s body language and mannerisms, the different inflections of his voice over the past several years. He knows he could lean into the joke and Bucky would roll with it, but that’s not exactly what this is.

It’s both an invitation and permission.

And maybe it’s the endorphins and residual laughter speaking, but Sam decides he can indulge just this once. Decides that he’s tired of keeping up and constantly maintaining walls and barriers that Bucky’s frankly done a phenomenal job of slowly deconstructing anyway.

“Why not?” Sam says eventually. “You need the cool points with the boys more than I do.” It’s not really true, but Sam knows it’ll rile Bucky up.

“I don’t,” Bucky insists, oddly serious. “They learned about me in school today. Not...not just the Winter Soldier, but after.” His voice takes on a distinctly glassy tone.

“Buck…”

“AJ showed me the book they’re reading in class. Did you know they’re calling me a hero? For fighting in the war against Thanos, I mean.”

It says a lot about the state of the world that Sam had assumed the worst. Bucky deserves this, though, and Sam says as much to him.

“I don’t know about being a hero,” Bucky says quietly, “but when I’m out there with you, it feels like I can do some real good.”

Well, if that wasn’t an emotional kick to the balls. “You’d do it even if I wasn’t there,” Sam says, careful.

“That’s not what I mean. I’ll always try to do the right thing, but you?” Bucky flashes him a small, toothless smile. “You see things the way they really are.”

“What can I say? I’m a realist.”

“Shut up.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “I’m trying to compliment you here.”

“Will wonders never cease.”

“Anyway. You were the only one who bothered listening to what Karli had to say.”

“I’m pretty sure her followers listened to her.”

“You’re making this so difficult,” Bucky says with a huff, that trademark impetuousness shining through. He really does wear his heart on his sleeve.

“The rest of us were so caught up in just stopping the Flag Smashers, but you actually gave a damn about the issues.”

“I did the bare minimum,” Sam says, and it’s the truth. That it was a hell of a lot more than what Walker, Bucky, or countless government officials would have done doesn’t change that.

Bucky practically growls – clenches his fists and bites his lips like he does when he knows he’s losing an argument. “Look, I’m no good with words. I’m just saying, following your lead isn’t so bad.”

Sam sighs. “I appreciate it, man. I really do. The point I’m trying to make, though, is that I’m just a normal guy.”

“But-”

“No, I know. I just think it’s dangerous to put people on pedestals like that.” He can tell this part gets through to Bucky. “It’s bigger than me or Karli – millions of people saw that and committed to her ideals before they even knew who she was. I was just the messenger who the media finally listened to.”

Bucky deflates, shoulders visibly sagging, but when he looks at Sam, it’s with that same soft smile. “I get it,” he says. “All I’m saying is that I sure as shit feel better knowing that it’s you calling the shots with the Avengers.”

Shit. Sam hadn’t even thought about how being Cap meant he technically led the Avengers – or what’s left of them – now. Well, that’s not worth worrying over just yet. Someday soon, but not today.

“Thanks,” Sam says. “For what it’s worth, it’s easier knowing you’ve got my back.”

Bucky’s smile is all teeth this time, somehow more genuine than his toothless ones while also lacking the unsettling aura of the ones reserved for his therapist and the nastier amendees. An entirely new smile, then. Somehow, it feels fitting.

“Speaking of the Avengers,” Sam continues, “Cass’s social studies project is to do a presentation on one of them. Sarah asked if we could help him out.”

The way Bucky lights up is breathtaking. He expected it – Bucky treats any Wilson family matters he’s invited to partake in extremely seriously, and Sam (and by extension, Sarah) in turn makes an effort to include him in said matters as often as possible – but each time is like the first for Bucky all over again, on the pier in Delacroix soaking in the revelers and merrymakers with reverence. The wonder and awe never cease, and there’s not much Sam wouldn’t do to make sure Bucky knows he’s wanted here.

Bucky nearly ruins it when he says, “I’ll make sure he knows all of your most embarrassing secrets.” Nearly, but not quite.

They argue all the way back to the house, and later – in the coming days and weeks – if Sam instigates the tickle fights while the boys are watching them even though he has no hope of winning, well. He doesn’t spend too much time justifying it. He tells himself it’s for the benefit of AJ and Cass, but that’s only half of the truth.

v.

They’re in Michigan this time when Sam realizes he’s too far gone already.

“We could just share the bed,” Bucky ventures.

Sam’s eye twitches.

Dammit, Torres. He could definitely share the bed with Bucky, but Torres accidentally booked them a motel room with a single twin bed. Sam’s already over this mission. Seriously, what kind of motel has bedrooms with one twin bed? He’s well aware it means they’re going to be getting real up close and personal with each other if they want something resembling a comfortable night’s sleep.

Well. It could be far worse. At least they’re friends now. He tries to imagine this scenario in Baltimore all those months ago and thinks it would probably end up with one of them sleeping on the floor.

“Sure,” Sam says, resigned to a night of man cuddling before the work begins in earnest. At least it’ll be a nice contrast to the flurries currently falling outside.

He strips down to his briefs, slips on his sweats because he’s a gentleman like that, thank you very much, then rolls onto his side of the bed where he comes face-to-face with Bucky.

“Uh.” Sam blinks. Bucky blinks back at him. “You’re gonna turn around, right?” Sam asks. If they’re really being forced to share a bed, he refuses to be the little spoon.

“I’m taller,” Bucky says immediately.

“We’re the same height.”

“Nah, I’m definitely taller.”

“Why does that even matter?” Sam asks incredulously.

“Back in my day-”

Bucky cuts himself off with a scowl, but the damage is already done. Sam makes sure to flash the smirkiest smirk he can muster, which only causes Bucky’s glare to intensify. Such a boomer, this one.

“I’m just saying,” Bucky says in what is a remarkable display of calm. “Physically, it makes sense.”

“Alright, but you’re not even taller.”

Bucky just sighs, looking extremely put upon before rolling off the bed again and slipping his boots on.

“Where are you going?” Sam asks, amused. He rolls over so that he can perch at the foot of the bed. Bucky looks ridiculous in his combat boots and faded grey sweatpants that look suspiciously like – no, those are definitely Sam’s sweats.

“To find proof,” Bucky says, which honestly just sounds kind of ominous.

And then he’s gone and Sam is left alone with nothing but his thoughts and the dim light of the dingy wall sconces.

He mainly wants to be the big spoon because it’s cold, dammit. Sam’s a Louisiana boy at heart, and frankly there’s something just not right about these winter missions that send them to bum fuck nowhere up north. And look, he’s hugged Bucky like, hundreds of times at this point. The man radiates heat like a furnace. Sam just prefers to have a blanket at his back and that heat over his chest and legs. It’s warmer that way.

Beyond the thermal practicalities, he’s not really that invested in this argument, but once he realized this was yet another easy way to ruffle Bucky’s feathers, he couldn’t resist. Bucky, on the other hand, is fully capable of realizing when he’s being baited even if he’s shit at not taking said bait. He’s dead serious about being the big spoon, though, Sam’s sure of it, which makes this whole thing even weirder.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it further because Bucky makes his return known with a blast of frigid air, shakes his hair free of the stray snowflakes, and tosses a plastic bag at Sam.

“You can’t be serious,” Sam says when he peeks inside.

“I’m always serious. Come on, up.”

Sam squawks indignantly at being hauled bodily to his feet. Honestly, ridiculous.

“You can measure me first,” Bucky says, and obediently presses his back against one of the walls. He’s also definitely puffing his chest out, back ramrod straight. Sam’s eyeballs might permanently be stuck to the backs of his sockets before this mission even begins.

He sighs and pulls out the brand new tape measure. The black Sharpie gets unscrewed next. Like he said: ridiculous.

“I’m not including your hair,” Sam says. There’s at least an inch of his coif pointing in every direction from the storm outside.

“You won’t need to.”

Sam marks off the wall. Exactly six feet. Huh. He can’t remember the last time he had his own height checked.

“Your turn,” Bucky says breezily.

With Sam’s back to the wall, his eyes are level with Bucky’s. Because they’re the same damn height, the constant media photos of them side-by-side are basically evidence of that.

“Hmm.” Bucky hums skeptically, and does he really have to stand so close? He’s got the Sharpie in his right hand, but his left is essentially bracing the small of Sam’s back. He says, “It’s not looking good for you, Wilson.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Sam pretend-whines. “Just do your thing so we can go to sleep, will you?”

And so Bucky makes a show out of it, squints, gets in so close that Sam can feel Bucky’s breath on his face, and Sam doesn’t even realize the metal arm is moving until too-firm fingers are sliding right under his arm and he’s instinctively hunching over to block out the offending presence. Much to his chagrin, he’s not successful at suppressing the peal of laughter from his mouth. All this at the exact moment Bucky decides to mark off his height.

Bucky clicks his tongue. “Tape measure says you’re five-eight.”

“Are you fucking kidding?” This asshole. Sam honestly doesn’t know why he puts up with him, except then he gives off a mirthful, boisterous laugh. God, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He keeps forgetting that when Bucky’s not being an actual, ignorant dick, he’s really capable of being something approaching charming. And Sam – well, he’s not strong enough to stay mad, not that he was ever truly mad to begin with.

“Do it again, and no funny business this time,” Sam says. He grasps Bucky’s left hand in his right one to prevent a repeat of the last time, even though they both know what an uneven match that is. Bucky is generous enough to only respond with a raised eyebrow.

He’s not sure why he suddenly feels self-conscious. He even straightens his back out, checks his posture. Bucky smirks. What did his TT say about wrestling with a pig again?

“Well, look at that,” Bucky says.

Sam turns around and frowns at the marking. “We’re basically the same height.”

Bucky peers over his shoulder. “That’s not what the tape measure says.”

“You round up! That’s elementary school math, or did they never teach you that?”

Bucky’s smirk is positively shit-eating.

71.625 inches. Barnes is taller than him by three-eighths of a goddamn inch. He already knows Bucky’s never letting this go for as long as they live.

“Well, now that that’s settled…” Bucky stretches like a damn cat before sashaying over to the bed like he owns the place. He rolls over to the furthest edge, props his head up on his left arm, and waits expectantly.

Sam sighs. He could keep arguing, but absolutely Bucky won’t be letting him have peace until he gives in. Fine. He follows Bucky to bed, leaving a respectable inch of space between them. They’re facing the same way, so it’s kind of hard to get a read on what Bucky’s thinking, but he’s gone oddly quiet. No trace of the bravado from a moment ago.

Sam really can’t deal with this right now. Bucky had wanted them in this position and now he’s suddenly got cold feet. They have to be up at dawn to rendezvous with Torres, and Bucky’s already eaten into an hour of precious sleep with his shenanigans. Also, Sam’s freezing his fucking ass off what with the thin sheets the motel provided in the dead of winter. This, more than anything else, is what motivates him to break the silence.

“Bring it in,” Sam grumbles. He reaches behind him where Bucky entwines their fingers together. It’s a tentative touch which Sam deepens when he pulls Bucky towards him.

Just like that, the tension breaks. Bucky slides up flush against Sam’s back and oh, the sudden influx of warmth is so much better than he’d expected. It reminds him of summers in Delacroix when the morning sun bathes the sea and the cypress trees – home – like they’re the first ones privy to its embrace. Bucky’s right hand presses up against Sam’s chest, underneath his beating heart, and the contact is jarring in how grounding it is; they slot together like a couple of worn puzzle pieces on a rainy Sunday afternoon, or maybe something equally as cheesy.

“Alright,” Sam concedes. “This is good.” He’s perfectly secure enough in his own skin to admit that much to Bucky and receives a laugh in return, a tickle that ghosts over his ear.

“Told you,” Bucky says happily, more joy than conceit.

He’s got the metal arm beneath the pillows and it’s surprisingly not uncomfortable – pleasurable even, when Bucky snakes glimmering fingers downward and rests them on Sam’s collarbone, his thumb rubbing little circles there. Bless Wakanda technology, the left arm is as warm as his flesh and blood one. Sam sighs contentedly. He’s not sure the blanket is even necessary at this point.

Bucky tightens his hold, all shifting muscles and sinew that Sam can easily feel through the ratty tees they’re both wearing. It’s...new. And the thing about Sam’s need for touch not being sexual? Well, he wasn’t lying about it a month ago, but a month ago he hadn’t yet tumbled into bed with their bodies pressed together like sardines. The sheer physicality of it is overwhelming. On some level, it’s normal. Bucky’s in prime physical shape and Sam’s not blind, but it’s more than that, Sam thinks. A big part of it is that it’s Bucky holding him tight.

It’s just as important that the body behind him belongs to the man who fits in so easily – as he is – with Sam’s family; who has Sam’s six in the field and genuinely tries his best to understand Sam’s perspective on everything else in life; and who Sam wants to do the same for.

Later, Sam will recognize this as the point of no return. Where brittle walls begin their slow simmer of evaporation and boundaries shift. The thing about Bucky that both Steve and the history books actually do nail down to a T is that go-getter attitude, eager, earnest, and so, so conspicuous. Admittedly, it takes Sam a minute to realize it since the man has never focused that kind of intent so directly on him before.

A single night in Michigan, though, is apparently enough to give Bucky the idea that they can really do this. Sam’s not sure he can be the one to ask for it, but neither does he think he’s strong enough to not say yes, a thousand times yes if Bucky asks.

He falls asleep shortly after Bucky to dreams of what could be, and when he wakes up, there’s drool on the back of his neck.

“Mornin’,” Bucky rumbles when Sam turns around. He’s got a major case of bedhead and still rubbing the grit from his eyes when he sits up. Guh.

“Sleep alright?” Sam asks, trying his best to ignore how the soft light filtering in through the windows makes Bucky glow.

“Best night of sleep I’ve had in ages,” Bucky says softly without hesitation. Somehow, even when Bucky’s attention is dulled by sleep his gaze is piercing.

The night went the same for Sam even on the paltry five hours of shuteye they got and he says as much. No nightmares of falling or explosions or dust, just peace. That it happened in a bed with Bucky is not at all lost on him.

“I’ll get us some coffee,” Bucky says before forcing himself out of bed. Things to do, baddies to take down and all that.

Sam takes another minute to soak in the moment, the domesticity of it all, before he too rises. He could have all of this, maybe even permanently, if he wants.

***

The thing about being forced to share a bed with your co-worker turned partner turned something more because of a small clerical error on the part of your other co-worker is that the situation tended not to repeat itself very often, or rather, at all.

The other thing is that nothing is technically stopping your partner from replicating that situation all on his own. Bucky’s in charge of accommodations this time, and he doesn’t even deign to make up an excuse for the single queen bed in their hotel room.

Come nightfall, Sam willingly tucks himself into the curve of Bucky’s body, no questions asked.

***

“Would it really be so bad?” Bucky asks one evening as the Louisiana summer finally gives way to the more tolerable heat of October.

They’re in the rinky-dink New Orleans apartment Bucky finally confessed to renting out. Bucky hadn’t told him until last week and Sam’s honestly still kind of pissed about it.

One week ago...

(“I’m trying to follow your logic,” Sam says. “You were living in this place last weekend.”

Bucky nods.

“And you took an Uber to the airport.”

“Yeah?”

“And just...pretended like you flew in from New York.”

Bucky swallows. Sam’s eyes involuntarily track the tensing of his throat. “Look, I didn’t want to be clingy or whatever, okay?”

That’s - Sam takes a deep breath. He can already feel a headache coming on. Look, the Louis Armstrong Airport is a shit show on its best day, and it’s not close to Delacroix. “Why would I think you were being clingy, or whatever?”

Bucky scowls at the last part. “You ‘n Sarah have been putting me up every weekend, and I’m grateful,” he says. “I just figured that it was time to get my own place. It’s - I didn’t want it to seem like I was just following you around-”

“Buck-”

“-but New York hasn’t felt like home for a while now, and Louisiana felt like as good a place as any,” Bucky finishes. His cheeks are bright pink, and Sam deflates a little, most of his irritation leaving him like so many scattered birds in the wind.

“Come on, you’re practically family,” Sam says softly, and doesn’t miss the way Bucky’s blush deepens or the shy way he ducks his head. “I don’t know how many times we gotta tell you that before it sinks in.”

“That’s not the only thing, though,” Bucky says fiercely, but there’s definitely relief etched into his features now. “I just...seeing you and Sarah and the kids in that house. Maybe I want that for myself.”

You already have it, Sam wants to say, but he lets Bucky continue.

“It’d be nice to have a place of my own, have friends over and dote on them. That’s all.”

That signature blush is back again. Sam hadn’t realized. Kicks himself for not seeing sooner – that Bucky had aspirations of his own, that he’d tire of sleeping on Sam’s couch eventually. But Bucky chose to make New Orleans his new home base, so maybe it’s not that big a change after all. Sam tries to ignore the warm feeling blooming in his chest.

“You could’ve just told me,” Sam says finally. “We could’ve had a big housewarming and everything.”

“We?”

“Please, you just told me you couldn’t wait to have friends over,” Sam says, and then nudges Bucky’s shoulder with his own. “Nice place, though. Want any help fixing it up?”

The grin Bucky gives him is so radiant that he has to look away.)

In any case, Sam’s got a nasty cut on his cheek and Bucky’s got some wild bruising over his eye that even super healing hasn’t healed yet, so they collectively make the decision to hunker down at Bucky’s place until they’re presentable enough for Sarah and the boys.

They’re settled in for the evening when Sam realizes he hadn’t questioned sharing the bed even though there was a perfectly new couch in the living room.

“Would what be so bad?” Sam asks, remembering that Bucky actually asked him a question. Bucky’s sitting up against the headboard and Sam rolls over, following suit.

“Us. Together.” The response is so direct – and it shouldn’t surprise him when Bucky is the king of direct, but it does – that Sam is momentarily stunned into silence. Bucky’s looking at him expectantly, though.

Sam considers his next words carefully. Playing it off like he doesn’t know what Bucky means is a nonstarter, not to mention he’s pretty sure Bucky would genuinely be hurt. So, deniability is off the table.

“I’ve thought about it,” Sam says slowly.

“And?” Bucky hedges.

“It wouldn’t be the worst idea we’ve ever had,” Sam allows.

Bucky snorts, and he’s privately pleased to have eased the tension just a little bit; this conversation is going to be anything but easy. “‘Not the worst idea’, he says. You’re really talking me up, Wilson.”

“What can I say?”

But just as quickly as it broke, the tension is back, and once again Bucky takes the first step.

“You’re hesitating, though,” Bucky says, and then with shocking acumen, “is it because of Riley?”

That name. Sam takes a steadying breath. “If you asked me that a year ago, I might’ve said yes.”

“What changed?”

You, Sam thinks but doesn’t outright say. “We were both dumb kids fresh out of college and thought we were invincible. I mean, we were the best in the EXO-7 program, but we were still practically kids.

“For a long time, I thought that the superhero gig meant choosing between that life and a normal one.” Unspoken goes the fact that Steve had chosen between those exact things. “And then there’s the premature death that comes with the territory, right?”

Tony and Nat were still open wounds even after a whole year, and the ones who survived weren’t exactly paragons of functioning members of society. And yet…

“I thought that’s just how it had to be. But now, I’m not so sure,” Sam says, pensive. “Having a partner out there is...it’s real good, Buck.”

Bucky flashes him a weak smile.

“When I think about what Tony and that Parker kid and even Steve to some extent put themselves through every day, I think about how differently they’d have ended up if they didn’t go at it alone. I mean, shit, I’m still not sure Lang has his head screwed on right and he does alright when Hope’s with him.”

Scott does more than alright. Sam’s actually hung out with the guy a few times since the Blip, and he’s got it all: family, friends, a true home to return to at the end of the day. And the thing is, Sam’s realizing that maybe he’s managed to cultivate these things for himself, too. He’s got the entire community in Delacroix, Sarah, AJ and Cass, and he’s been spending more time than ever with them lately; and this thing with Bucky is so deeply intertwined with his life in Delacroix that if Sam really wants this, it’s not going to be a choice between one or the other.

And his mind hasn’t changed about Bucky as a field partner either. The man is so hypercompetent – even helps Sam realize his own potential, and vice versa – that Sam’s worry is minimal after the first few official missions they went on.

“I’m not sure I ever thanked you, by the way,” Sam says.

“For?”

“Just being there, I guess. It really made the transition less overwhelming.” Sam shrugs. “You honestly might be the most reliable guy I know.”

It says something that Bucky hasn’t got a quick quip to return. “You’ve helped me more than you could ever know,” Bucky says earnestly. “But I gotta be honest, all you’ve done so far is tell me why this would be a good idea.”

Sam sighs. This part. “I can’t lose this, Buck. I’d rather have you here as a friend, than somewhere out there knowing that we tried but fucked it all up.”

Losing Riley was one thing, but Sam’s not sure he’ll survive losing Bucky, too, the worst part being that Bucky would be alive and well, just forever out of reach. Shit, maybe his reservations are a little bit about Riley.

“Jesus,” Bucky says and actually laughs, which is – well. “I thought...I thought you were gonna say...but no.”

“You thought what?” Sam’s honestly a little dazed by the reaction, but Bucky just shakes his head.

“Listen, I’ve been working on stuff recently,” Bucky says sagely. “Amends, making peace with the Soldier. I used to wonder what the point of it all was.”

“Buck-”

“It’s not like that, Sam,” he says. “It was the right thing to do and I’d choose it every time, but I was just going through the motions, you know?”

Sam sort of does know. He might not fully understand the internal strife that comes with all the amends Bucky’s been making, but going through the motions like a hollowed out shell is something he knows all too well.

“None of it really mattered until I had something to come home to.”

Bucky was already looking at him – Sam’s not sure Bucky knows how to do anything but when he’s deep in conversation – but his gaze now feels like it could bore a hole straight through Sam’s heart.

“You’re it, Sam.” Bucky’s voice is a low rumble. “At the end of the day, you’re what I look forward to. You and Sarah and the boys.”

Sam's breath is shaky, heart fluttering furiously. He’d known his interest in Bucky was reciprocated, but this is deeper and honestly, he can say the same: knowing he’s got Bucky coming home with him when all is said and done is what makes it all worth it.

And as if Bucky hasn’t already gathered all the myriad pieces of Sam there are to gather, he says sheepishly, “I feel whole when I’m with you. Not even sure I understood it at first, but that’s how it is. I’m willing to give this a try if you are.”

Sam’s not sure when their positions flipped – when Bucky became the one who had such a complete read on Sam. He’s not sure he even needs to give an answer, what with the knowing way Bucky’s looking at him.

“We really did all this in reverse, huh?” Sam says instead.

“Hmm?”

“We’ve already laid in bed together. I’ve basically slept with your balls against my ass.”

Bucky laughs, bright and raucous and free. “Maybe we both took all the stupid with us.”

“Eh. Being lumped in with you isn’t so bad. And that was a yes, by the way.”

There’s no warning before Bucky leans over and kisses him. It’s by all intents and purposes chaste, even when Sam tries to deepen it and Bucky pulls away.

“Full disclosure,” Bucky says, solemn. “I don’t think I can do casual.”

“Well, since I was proposing we go on a bender.”

That gets a snort out of Bucky. Sam is the one to lean over this time, but Bucky stops him with a gentle hand on his chest. “Can we just…hold each other tonight?” he asks. Sam blinks. “We’ve got forever to do-” he gestures between their bodies, “-but this moment is only gonna happen once. It’s just a lot to process.” Bucky shrugs. “And maybe I wanna savor it.”

That’s really when it hits Sam – that this is actually happening. That the emotional high of this moment is so intense, all-encompassing that they’re just going to – lay here? Bodies wrapped together and relish in the victory. God, Sam’s so gone on this man. Has been this whole time apparently.

“I’d like that,” Sam says and lays down, pulls Bucky towards him and fits himself into the mold of Bucky’s body the way he knows they slot together. It feels like going home.

+i.

Sam’s not sure what he was expecting from a first time with Bucky, maybe audacity and some of that hallmark brashness he’s come to know, but this is anything but.

He kisses Sam slowly, and even when Sam parts his own lips to deepen it, the way Bucky’s tongue explores every crevice is downright languid. Sam slides a hand to the nape of Bucky’s neck, up to his scalp, runs fingers through slicked hair, and Bucky positively melts. They’re standing in Bucky’s new bedroom (which has naturally become their bedroom as of late), and Bucky’s knees bend like their strings have been cut. Sam would be able to process the ego boost better if Bucky’s tongue wasn’t so intent on surveying the inside of his cheeks and the roof of his mouth. Sam can barely breathe is the thing, not to mention Bucky’s vibranium arm is draped around Sam’s neck so he’s really dragging the both of them down.

“Buck. Bucky,” Sam says insistently when he finally manages to pull away for air.

“Huh?”

Sam just glances down at him. It says something about how unfocused Bucky is if he doesn’t realize he’s practically on his goddamn knees. That Sam is the cause it – well, that kind of power might get to a guy’s head eventually.

“Shit,” Bucky says breathlessly. “My bad.”

He slurps and wipes at the drool seeping out of the corner of his mouth. It’s sloppy, decidedly unsexy, but real and so very real human.

Bucky rises and kicks at his ankle. Not hard enough to hurt, but precise enough to send a twinge up Sam’s leg and force him to his knees. He loops his left arm around Sam’s torso and lifts him bodily, just the one arm exerting enough force to get the job done.

Sam shrieks indignantly. Before he knows what’s happening he’s being tossed like a sack of potatoes and his back sinks into plush down and cotton.

“The hell?”

Bucky follows shortly after, impels his hips into the gap between Sam’s legs, and peeks his head into Sam’s line of sight.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, and sounds like he means it. “I just – the bed seemed like a better idea.”

“No kidding,” Sam snorts. Such a very Bucky Barnes way of getting the job done. Sam starts sliding his jeans off and Bucky very nearly falls backwards in his haste to rip them off by the hems like they’ve personally offended him.

Now that Bucky’s perched above him, he’s got access to a whole lot more but he’s still slow, attentive. Like he’s cataloguing all the parts of Sam’s body he hasn’t been able to touch until now, observing how nerves, tendons, muscles react for later. His right hand slides up the inside of Sam’s left thigh and it’s – Sam’s breath hitches and everything goes a little fuzzy around the edges.

And holy hell, the grey blues of Bucky’s irises are mere slivers of color beside the black orbs that are his pupils, fully blown and dilated. He strokes Sam’s thigh again, squeezes more firmly, and he’s got the pressure and grip just right so that Sam’s needy little gasps are the only sounds punctuating the warm evening air.

Bucky’s other hand is a firm weight on his chest, sliding under Sam’s shirt, gently roaming up and down on its quest to find any expanse of skin that’ll pull another moan out of Sam.

Sam’s never had someone so utterly focused on his body like this before, on the minutiae that make him tick. It’s intoxicating to be the center of that kind of attention. Bucky’s attention. It’s nice. It’s real nice, but-

“Come on,” Sam says, ignoring how petulant his voice sounds. “You could stand to pick up the pace.” For as amazing as the hands roving over his body are, his dick has been painfully hard since Bucky’s tongue had been in his mouth.

“I didn’t want to push you too fast.”

Sam lets out a gross-sounding snort. So gallant, so gentlemanly.

“You can blow me. Or I can blow you,” Sam says. He’s not picky.

“If I’m being honest with you, what I really want is to eat your ass until you’re screaming my name.” Fucking hell. Bucky says it as casually as if he’s remarking on the weather or what’s on offer for dinner tonight from his meager pantry. It’s nearly enough to make him come right here and now.

“I’m not - I’m not saying no,” Sam says shakily, and Bucky’s answering smirk isn’t fair at all.

“Keep in mind I’m a bit out of practice,” Bucky says, a hint of modesty undercutting that smirk.

Well. “I’ve never actually done this,” Sam says. “Having someone’s tongue up in my business,” he adds rather inelegantly at Bucky’s puzzling look.

But Bucky’s response to that admission isn’t smugness or even surprise. His eyes shine brightly like a pair of old coins. “I’m gonna make this so good for you, Sam.” It’s said with the awe and reverence of a man who’s just happy to finally be able to share this one thing his weary bones have actually got relevant experience in.

Sam can’t argue with that, so off go his boxer briefs. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he wonders how of the two of them, Bucky’s the one with more experience here.

And then Bucky is gently bracing his left arm crosswise against Sam’s legs, easing them up and over Bucky’s shoulders. Gravity only serves to send all the blood in his legs rushing down to his groin.

Sam jumps at the first contact of wet heat above his hole.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. A tuft of hair peeks up between Sam’s legs until a pair of eyes are staring at him.

“S’okay,” Sam says. “Just different, is all. Good kind of different, though.”

That’s all the encouragement Bucky needs to continue. At first, Bucky’s content to tongue around his hole, dipping in occasionally and only just enough to break the rhythm. It’s unlike anything he’s experienced before. He’s sweaty, panting, and squirming as Bucky eases further in by degrees and he can’t fucking sit still. Every pulse of Bucky’s tongue sends a jolt straight to his cock, and the sensation. Jesus. It almost tickles, then Bucky rubs his scruff against the sensitive skin around his hole and it actually tickles. Sam jerks his hips suddenly and Bucky follows.

“Asshole.” Sam can barely get the words out without shaking.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, not sounding sorry at all. Now that he’s surfaced for air, Sam can see that his lips are swollen and red, wills his brain to sear that image into his retinas for all of time.

It’s the only reprieve Sam gets before Bucky dives back in in earnest. The pace he sets is ruthless. He suckles around Sam’s rim with the tip of his tongue, flicks it in and out of his hole, licks a stripe up and down his perineum, suddenly plunges his tongue deep before retreating like a ghost, and Sam is...look, it’s been a while for him. He’s normally pretty vocal in bed, but this is ridiculous. The moaning only serves to spur Bucky on, though.

There are moments where Bucky seems to still, slow as molasses, and the ghost of his breath along Sam’s taint almost pushes him over the edge. Sam swears it’s all deliberate.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Bucky does something with his goddamn teeth that has him seeing stars. He swipes at the tears pooling at the corners of his eyes all while Bucky keeps going. In and out, up and down, circling. He’s so close now. He reaches out his right hand to stroke himself to completion, but Bucky’s flesh and blood hand seemingly catches his out of thin air, head popping up momentarily again.

“Think you can come with just my tongue?” Bucky asks. His grip on Sam’s wrist is bruising.

Sam’s barely going to last five more seconds, tongue or no tongue, hand or no hand. He only nods silently, and a couple of barely there pulses of Bucky’s tongue send him over the edge with a scream.

Bucky lowers his legs, left arm finally making a reappearance, and only belatedly does Sam realize he held that ridiculous position this entire time like it was nothing. Praise be to super soldier strength. Bucky strokes him slowly through the aftershocks, licks a stripe od cum up his cock and to his belly. It’s completely and utterly unnecessary and also one of the hottest fucking things Sam’s ever seen in his life, which honestly is probably a pretty apt summary of Bucky as a whole.

As the high slowly recedes, Sam finally has a chance to process what just happened: he hadn’t lasted more than five minutes, hadn’t even known it was possible to come from a goddamn rimjob, yet here he was.

“‘A bit out of practice’, he says.”

“I wasn’t lying,” Bucky says. It’s easy to see how pleased he is with himself. “Give it a few more tries and you’ll see what practice looks like.” The accompanying grin is sharp as a wolf’s, and seriously Sam’s got enough spank bank material from tonight to last him through every lonely night for the rest of his life, not that he’s ever going to need any of it if the way Bucky’s staring at him is any indication. Old habits die hard, he supposes.

“You’re still in your clothes,” Sam says, chagrined.

“I was busy.”

Bucky strips off his jeans and his briefs are thoroughly soiled. Sam lets out a low whistle.

“Told you it’s been a while,” Bucky says with a shrug. “I can probably go again in a few minutes if - if you still wanted to blow me. Tiny refractory period and all.”

Sam was getting to know a lot about that tiny refractory period. Sam was beginning to love that tiny refractory period.

For now, they lounged on the bed. Sam truly hadn’t contemplated what the sex would be like before tonight. He’d had a vague understanding that this was always where they were heading, but the actual sex is mindblowing and somehow only the cherry on top of everything else.

***

The morning sun filters gently through the curtains as Sam blinks awake. It’s rare that he’s the first one up, but Bucky’s got his head sprawled across Sam’s chest, dead to the world. Sam’s loathe to disturb that peace, he really is, it’s just that today is an important one.

“Buck,” he whispers quietly. Can feel the sudden breath Bucky exhales before his heart rate quickly steadies.

“No,” Bucky says, voice is rough with sleep.

“Bucky.”

Sam slips a hand under Bucky’s arm and can feel the irritated grumble before Bucky warns, “Don’t.” Like a grumpy cat.

Sam laughs. “We gotta get up, Buck.”

Bucky tightens the arm draped around Sam’s chest in retaliation. Sam tries budging it, and nope. It’s tight as a vice.

“Sarah and the boys will be here in two hours.”

Bucky’s eyes fly open in panic. “Shit!” He looks at the unsavory stains on their bedsheets, at the mess of clothes and boxes strewn across the floor. “We need to clean.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“Shit, shit, shit.” Bucky’s already got his pants on, flutters around the room picking up sweaters and jeans before realizing he still needs to break down the empty furniture boxes, stops entirely with an overwhelmed look in his eyes.

“Go shower,” Sam says even though frazzled Bucky is honestly kind of cute. “I’ll get started on the cleaning.”

Bucky, who looks grateful to have his marching orders, disappears into the bathroom like an agitated hurricane. Sam can’t blame him: it’s the first time Sarah, AJ, and Cass are seeing the new place. First impressions, doting on guests, and all that. He sighs as he begins stripping the sheets from the mattress.

Everything is okay, after all. He and Bucky are okay.

Fin.