Archive of Our Own

“People think that intimacy is about sex. But intimacy is about truth. When you realize you can tell someone your truth, when you can show yourself to them, when you stand in front of them bare and their response is 'you're safe with me'—that's intimacy.”

—Taylor Jenkins Reid, The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

This feeling Bucky had didn't come overnight. It wasn't a flip of a switch or a sudden plunge into drowning waters.

 It overcame her slowly.

 Every late night she spent awake soothing Bob because he had another nightmare—sneaking out of the tower in that odd kind of hour which wasn't quite early morning nor the bowls of midnight for strawberry milkshakes around the corner—ate at her. Even if she wasn't up with Bob, it was Yelena in the bathroom puking her guts out; Bucky pulling her hair back because the younger woman had a few drops too much to drink. Or Bucky was up with Ava, trying her best to help the woman cope with her chronic pain; no matter how much she bit back, Bucky knew somewhere, deep down, the comfort was appreciated. 

Sometimes, she’d even gotten up at the crack of dawn to spar with an overly restless Walker, despite his grumblings about some super-sermoned chick being stronger than him. Once in a while, she'd cook overly complex Russian meals with Alexei when the older man was guilt ridden and antsy, in desperate need to just do something helpful. Not to forget the meetings with Val and Mel, doing her best to argue her way into better treatment for her team.

Bucky wore many hats, balanced many rolls: a friend, a guardian, a leader, an Avenger, the Winter Soldier, a congressperson, a consoler, a nurse, a cook, a fucking hero somehow, a person who had their shit together!

For the past six months, Bucky gave her job(s) everything she had. She must, that was her true role on the team: to be and do everything for the five idiots she, somehow, loved.

(That feeling, too, came slowly. It snuck up on her. Carved out its place in her heart until she realized, far too late, that she cared about them more than almost anything.)

Her mother had taught her, when she was very young, that when she had a family of her own it was her soul duty to give herself up for them. Of course, Ma had meant the whole husband and 2.5 kids thing. She meant giving up her interest in science and fantasy novels for ironing and child baring. Not a metal arm and five former assassins. Still, the same rules applied. 

That was the way of a woman, she was taught. You live to give yourself over to something that needs you more.

That, similarly, was the way of a soldier. Just in a different kind of light.

(All Bucky had ever done was give herself over to something: taking care of Steve when they were young, fighting for the army, serving HYDRA, destroying HYDRA, finding her mind for Steve when she was free, learning how to be a person for Sam without Steve, learning how to be with Sam, learning how to lose Sam for the good of her team.)

None of it was easy, though. Oftentimes, it was not comfortable. Did not come naturally. That instinct Becca had always spoken of when she had her baby—it was lost on Bucky. She mimicked it anyway. Pushed through the bad nights, the good ones. The discomfort, the fear of doing it wrong. They needed her to.

They were her family now.

So she gave them everything she had left to give.

It had been six months. Six months of missions and training and sleepless nights. Team meetings, press events, and all the little things in-between.

It wore on her, like the edges of a rock tumbling around in a river bed. Eroding. 

The New Avengers tried to help her, of course. Give back a bit of what she gave them. 

Bob knit her a throw blanket—blue yarn, her favorite color—that she slept with every night, though she wouldn't dare admit it. He’d been so sheepish when he presented the gift. It had taken everything in her not to cry in front of him, it was so sweet.

Yelena checked in often, offered an ear and a shoulder to cry on: Bucky turned her down almost every time. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk, it was just…she didn’t want to put another thing on Yelena’s plate. Much like Bucky, she was giving the team her all as well. She didn’t want to be another burden.

Ava and she played cards sometimes, other times they read in silence. The company was appreciated, all the same. They had started an unspoken book club, of sorts. Bucky would finish a book and leave it on the coffee table for Ava to read next. Currently, she was on Ready Player One. She thought her friend would enjoy it greatly when the time came for her to read it as well.

Walker did his best to tone down his vaguely sexist comments towards her, even apologized a handful of times. He didn't need to, though, she felt. It was nothing compared to what they had said to her in the army. She and Peggy were the only two women—other than the nurses, lovely people from the bits Bucky could remember—on the army base. The harassment was a constant headache, but they looked out for each other. Bucky understood why Steve liked the other woman so much: she threw a good punch. Even if some of Walker’s comments occasionally brought back those not-so-pleasant memories, it wasn’t his fault. He was trying. It was fine.

Alexei left food at her door—Blini was her favorite so far—and stopped calling her Lady Soldier, which was appreciated. (Though, the occasional Winter did come out. Still, it was a far better nickname in comparison.)

They all pitched in and gave Bucky many things in return for her efforts. It was kind. Really, Bucky should've been grateful—and it wasn't that she didn't appreciate their company or gifts. In fact, she cherished them a great deal. Truly.

But there was something wrong with Bucky. 

No matter what they tried, it was never enough to fill the draining well inside her heart. She hated herself for it, just a bit. Why couldn't she just keep it together—feel how she should've felt: fulfilled, grateful, happy? Why couldn't she be the woman her mother raised her to be? The kind able to give and give and give and give—

Yes, maybe she was broken. Maybe this feeling she was looking for was just another thing HYDRA ripped out of her. 

Maybe this was just another sign that she was a shell of who she used to be. Who she was supposed to become.

Maybe she was lacking in a lot of ways, compared to who she was supposed to be.

The night Bucky realized she was drowning was nothing special. She dragged herself back to her room on the far side of the tower after a long three day mission across Europe. Seven time zones, three days. Two dead. Fourteen arrested.  Eighty eight saved. Just her Ava and Yelena. And a small arsenal of guns, of course.

“Girls trip!” Yelena had called out, much to Bucky and Ava's dismay, when the order came in. Walker and Alexei weren’t exactly built for a stealth mission like this. And Bob, well, they tried to keep Bob out of the field and away from Val’s greedy little fingers as much as possible.

So it had just been the three of them, their weapons, and a shitty plane that crapped out three fourths of the way through the mission.

Apparently, to Yelena, “girls trip” meant camping out in abandoned warehouses, sneaking into half government owned holding grounds, and getting in a shoot out under a flipped Jeep, but, sure. Yeah. Girls trip.

It was over fast enough though, in Bucky's opinion. Went well enough in the grand scheme of things. 

Still, the moment the quinjet touched ground, all Bucky could think about was her bed. Should she have started her mission report? Checked in with Val, giving her a status update? Email the few news channels on their side with a statement? Make sure Bob took his meds and Alexei didn't take Bob's meds?

Yes.

She should've done all those things. But instead she practically ran to her room, not giving the rest of her team so much as a second glance. She knew that made her a piece of shit. You don't have to remind her.

Even then, Bucky couldn't help but feel guilty about the sigh of relief that escaped her the moment her bedroom’s lock clicked shut. Her head throbbed, her arm hurt, every minor scrap and cut littering her body stung... Maybe seeing the medic before locking herself away would’ve been wise. She just didn’t have the mental energy to have a panic attack when her stupid, fucked up head consfused the nice nurse just trying to draw blood for a handsy HYRDA doctor. 

Bucky could never have peace, though, could she?

The slight tap of knuckles meeting glass echoed from the small balcony connected to her room the moment she was alone.

Sam Wilson—Capitan fucking America—was on her balcony, knocking at her window, in jeans and a T-shirt with her wingpack strapped to her back.

Bucky’s feet carried her over to the other woman before her brain could protest. Every step ached. She ignored it.

“Sam?” she hissed, sliding the door open just enough to peak her head through.

“Hi, Buck,” the other woman responded. Her hands fidgeted behind her back, rubbing the exposed part of her goosepimple littered forearm anxiously. Sam never was this antsy, not even when Torres got shot out of the sky did she fidget like this.

“What the hell are you—”

“Can I come in?”

Bucky’s heart twinged. Yes, she wanted to shout. You don’t even have to ask, she wanted to tell her. But Sam did have to ask nowadays. They hadn’t spoken in six months—not since that four minute phone call they shared the night the New Avengers were announced. Not since Sam had yelled into the phone, tears pricking Bucky’s eyes.

“Get the fuck outta my life, Barnes,” Sam had gritted out. 

“As if I wanted to be a part of it in the first place,” Bucky had yelled back. It was a lie, they both knew, and a poor one at that. Still, the words cut something deep. Fractured something that was once sacred.

“I just don’t get why you insist on being the Winter Soldier. Time and time again, you crawl back to that fucking title. You're more than that—”

“I am the Winter Soldier, Sam.”

“Don’t remind me.”

Since then, there had only been press conferences of Captain America blatantly belittling the New Avengers as a sign that Sam remembered Bucky’s existence. Bucky didn’t watch the videos herself, she was just going off of what Mel told her about them.

And so, Bucky had assumed everything that they built between back then was ash by now.

(Even if, on the good nights, her dreams were filled with soft lips brushing her scars. Of late night dinners in their DC apartment, pizza or ramen, and a bad movie. Holding each other when a nightmare crept up on them. Hands on hips, dancing slowly to jazz as it neared three in the morning. Laughter and gap teeth and the slightest trace of freckles.)

Bucky did not say anything, she just opened the door a little wider, and moved to the side. Sam was quick to follow. 

“Bucky, I—”

"Wait, just wait.”

She hurried over to her laptop, quickly flipping it open to access the tower's network. Her ID code was a long series of too many numbers she’d forced herself to memorize. Yelena had shown her how to use it to turn off the cameras and mics in their rooms that Val thought they didn't know about. A few minutes of clicking later, the small light flashing on the security cameras in her room went dark. The mics too—one buried in the cushion of a small love seat in the corner, another hidden in the bottom of a flower vase on the desk—were off.

"Okay,” Bucky declared, shoving her laptop to the side. "Talk.”

Sam sat in Bucky's desk chair, it was some fancy expensive thing Valentina had bought too many of, for Bucky’s taste, at least, and sprinkled them all over the tower. Everyone hated them, they were stiff and uncomfortable, impossible to break in. Most of the time, Bucky just did her paperwork in bed or in the living room with Yelena. Sam looked out of place in the chair, in the tower really. Her wings were tucked away, though still strapped to her back. Her shirt rode up a bit as she sat, exposing a sweet sliver of her stomach. Not enough to show the pricing in her belly button that only a handful of people on the planet knew about, but enough to make Bucky feel like Sam was such a tease.

“Are you okay, Buck?" Her tone was not teasing now, but concerned. Genuine. 

The question hit Bucky like a bag of bricks. It broke her from her thoughts, and snapped her eyes away from that sliver of skin. Surely, Captain America didn't fly into enemy territory at 11:00 at night, just to check that her ex…ex girlfriend was okay.

(Ex? Had they broken up? Bucky assumed as much. Radio silence for months, it was a logical conclusion. But neither of them had said the words. Still, it wasn't like Bucky had seen anyone since. Who could compare to Sam Wilson, anyway?)

"Im fine,” was Bucky’s knee jerk reaction.

“You're lying.”

“You didn't come over here just to check in, Sam—" 

Sam stared at the floor, Bucky sat not even three feet away from her on the edge of the bed. “I saw the news," the Captain muttered.

“What?”

Bucky didn’t stop her as Sam moved forward. Sat next to Bucky on the edge of her bed. Knees brushing. “I saw the news,” Sam repeated, eyes still looking everywhere but at Bucky. “I've been avoiding it since… Every time I looked it was just New Avengers this and Void that. So I stopped watching. But, em, a few hours ago—God. AJ sent me a damn TikTok. I mean, when did Sara even let the boys get social media, you know?” She let out a sigh. Her right leg bounced up and down, making the mattress shake slightly. “I was scrolling and a clip popped up of you and Nat’s sister, that Ghost girl.”

“Yelena and Ava,” Bucky informed her. Don’t pretend you don’t know their names went unsaid.

“Yeah them. You were talking to some press on the way out of Rome, you just zoned out.” Sam’s hand found Bucky’s knee. A light squeeze. “There was this look in your eyes.”

She couldn't help the sheepish tug of a smile pulling at her lips. “A look in my eyes, eh?”

“Yeah.” Like everything else, Sam was slow as she brought her hand to Bucky’s cheek. Her thumb brushing the purple bags under her eyes. “Suken, distant. Tired.”

Bucky leaned into the touch, it was like warm sunshine against her skin. Intoxicating and only leaving her craving more. “So what, just strapped on the wings and flew over here?” she joked, her voice raw, a hollow whisper.

“More or less.” Her fingers brushed the small cut on her lips. The slowly forming bruise on her chin. “When was the last time you slept through the night?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Six months.”

“Jesus, Buck.”

“It’s fine—I’m…I’m helping the team.”

“When was the last time you let someone help you?”

(All the time! They tried so hard with her. And yet…yet it never felt like it made a difference. Nothing they did made her feel full.)

Bucky hesitated. The words just rolled just off her tongue. “I don’t know.”

With anyone else, she would’ve hated how soft her voice became. But with Sam it felt like the memorized steps to her favorite dance. There was an ease and a comfort to letting her sharp edges round around the other woman. A trust she didn’t feel with anyone else. 

“You’re all bruised up. Rough fight?”

“Not the worst.”

The hand cupping Bucky’s cheek slid down to her neck, her collar bone. They were littered with calluses from throwing the shield. Rough hands treating her like a cherished good.

“Let me take care of you, yeah? Patch you up a bit.”

It was unnecessary. Objectively speaking. All she needed was a shower and the sermon would've taken care of every sore mussel, light cut, and aching bruise. That wasn’t the point, though. Bucky knew that much.

“Sam—”

“Like old times.”

Like those blissful years between the Flag Smashers and the Void. Bucky running for congress. Sam killing it as Cap. Flying down to see Sara. Their DC apartment. Anniversary dinners. 

Bucky found herself leaning closer to Sam. Close enough to feel each other's radiating body heat without ever touching. “You shouldn’t even be here,” Bucky reminded her, though she didn’t pull away.

“Please, baby, let me take care of you,” Sam whispered in Bucky’s ear; her hot breath against her skin sending shivers down her spine. “I’ll be gone by morning. No one will know.”

And when Sam’s voice was just as gentle, just as sweet, how was she to say no?

“Okay.”

****

Bucky’s room was a sea of miscellaneous things. She had a bookshelf of battered paperbacks, most with water damage from Ava dropping them in the bath as she read. There were a few knicknacks, as well: a rock or two from Bob, a drawing from some fanmail Mel had delivered, and a bracelet from AJ. A few filled notebooks loomed near the bottom, the hardcovers bent from frequent use. Though, if anyone flipped through them, they would be near indecipherable. 

One picture laid on the night stand. One of Bucky and Steve when they were young. It had taken forever to get that museum to hand it over to her, but in the end it was her property. They were smiling, eyes bright, though the ink was faded. So young, with no idea what laid before them.

Bucky didn’t often think about the state of her room. Not many people came in there to make her think about it. But Sam Wilson sat next to her on the edge of her mattress—god, she hadn't even made the bed—and that would always send her mind swimming.

Sam’s hands were not forceful as she interlocked their fingers. It was an invitation, not a demand. She stood slowly, tugging at their entwined hands, inviting Bucky to move with her. And Bucky was quick to follow. As always.

She led them to the bathroom, another thing connected to Bucky's room. There were two light switches, one connected to the bulb inside the shower and one for the rest of the small room. Sam only turned on the one inside the shower, giving the room a dim warm glow.

“Let’s get you clean, then get you to bed. Let the serum take care of the rest. Is that okay?” Sam asked as she slipped her hand out of Bucky's.

“Yeah." 

Sam fiddled with the nobs in the bathtub for a moment before the rush of warm water filling the tub consumed the room. Bucky could already feel the hug of steam enveloping her skin, it was nice to say the least.

The overhead fan was turned on. Those lavender bath salts Bucky saved for special occasions were added to the water, as well as a few soapy drops of bubble mix.

Sam turned back to Bucky as the tub filled. Her hands found her waist, pulling her close once more.

“Do you want help taking off the gear?” Sam asked.

And Bucky found herself nodding in response.

(Maybe it was just an excuse to feel Sam’s fingers brushing against her skin once more, maybe it wasn’t.)

Sam's hands ran from her hips down her thighs as she unclipped two thigh holsters and their respective guns. Both were placed on the bathroom counter. Three knives slipped out of their sheets, and a few other miscellaneous weapons scattered here and there. Bucky found herself going limp as Sam explored over her clothes, every touch thought out and slow.

“Why would they cut your chest plate so low?" Sam muttered as she unbuckled the straps.

"Val said cleavage sold the image more. I pick my battles.”

The chest piece was placed, too, on the counter.

“So what, just leave your entire heart exposed?" 

Bucky couldn't help the quiet laugh that fell out of her lips. 

Her jacket came next, Sam's fingers lingered over the red star on the sleeve. Pressing into it like if she rubbed it hard enough it would go away. The jacket collapsed to the floor. Sam untucked her undershirt, pulling it over her head. 

The pants were next, unzipped slowly. She stood only in her sports bra and boxer shorts. 

Bucky felt completely vulnerable in front of the other woman. No weapons on her person, no armor between them.

They were supposed to be rivals by now, weren’t they? But rivals didn’t touch each other this gently, right?

Sam unclipped her own wing pack. Pulled her braided hair back into a low poney tail. 

Her hands were loft as she turned Bucky around so they were no longer facing each other. Once again she leaned in as close as she could get from behind and whispered, “Can I touch you?”

(She always asked permission, a thing no one had done for Bucky for seventy years. Every soft touch and careful caress was only done with permission. Bucky relished in it. That assurance. That autonomy.)

And Bucky felt herself give up control entirely for the first time in six months. She hummed in response, falling back into the woman's touch. It was a quiet yes, but a yes all the same to them.

“That's it, sweetheart. Just relax for me. I've got you." 

Soft kisses littered her neck, tracing a line from just under her ear to her collar bone. Somewhere along the way Sam stopped where one of Bucky's veins stuck out and she sucked on the sensitive skin. Bucky's knees were weak as a slight whimper overcame her. Can I touch you had a lot of meanings, and Bucky was up for almost every one of them, just then. At that, Sam smiled into her skin, and let her teeth nip the other woman just a bit. There would definitely be a mark in the morning. How the hell was she going to explain that? Still, part of her didn't care as Sam broke contact to slide off her underwear and tugged her sports bra over her head. 

The bathtub was full by now. Bucky's muscles were completely limp as Sam guided her into the piping hot water. Sam leaned next to the tub and stuffed a folded wash cloth behind Bucky’s head. A splash of water wetted Bucky's hair.

“How's that, baby? Good?" 

“Real good, Sammy. Real good." 

And just like that, the months of radio science and the disagreements and the politics were lost on them. They were no longer Captain America and the Winter Soldier, they were just Buck and Sammy. In love. Partners. Together.

For once, Bucky didn’t feel guilty. It wasn’t like when the others fumbled over themselves trying to do something nice for Bucky. This was easier. This came more naturally. 

Warmth engulfed Bucky entirely. And it wasn't just the steaming, lavender scented water. It was the girl lathering shampoo in her palms, humming something distantly under her breath. There was still the big issue of the New Avengers between them, but for now it was forgotten. For now, all was well.

Sam's fingers ran through Bucky's hair tenderly. Her nails scraped her scalp in small circles. Bucky's eyes fluttered shut. Lost in the sensation.

“You cut your hair.”

“Val made me. Said shorter hair was more with the brand.”

HYDRA had always made her keep her hair short. They cut it with large half-rusted scissors every time they took her out of cryo. More often than not, the scissors just ended up ripping out her hair from the root then actually cutting it. The sermon, though, always made it grow back. Only to be chopped off again.

Since she got her freedom, she hated getting it cut and much preferred growing it out. Longer hair made her feel like a bit more human, just a bit more like herself. But Val said it had to go, so it went.

Now her hair fell just below her ear. Curling slightly at the ends, though that made it seem only shorter. 

“I’m sorry.”

“Dosen’ ma’er. Worse thing’ve happened.”

"That doesn't make it right.”

Sam washed the shampoo out of Bucky’s hair with the low drizzle of the shower head. She didn’t even realize the other woman had turned it on until the sensation of water running through her hair appeared. At the same time, Sam ran her fingers through the short locks a few more times until every knot, greasy streak, and foamy shampoo trace was gone. 

Time passed, a feeling lost to Bucky. At some point, the shower head was turned off, she didn’t know when. All she knew was the feeling of Sam’s hands in her hair and the warmth in her gut because of it.

****

“Water’s starting to get cold, Buck,” said after a long while.

Bucky purred like a cat, pressing herself further into Sam’s touch. “Oh, is it? Hadn’t noticed.”

“Come on, sleepy head.”

Bucky hummed as Sam helped lift her from the bubbly waters. Every mussel in Bucky’s body let out a relaxed sigh. The tub let out a low rumble as it drained. Sam threw a thick gray towel around Bucky’s shoulders, letting the other woman dry herself off. Wordlessly, Sam left to go find her (ex?) girlfriend a change of clothes.

(Surely, this isn’t something Sam would’ve done if they were broken up, right?)

Bucky ran the towel through her hair and called out, “How’s Alpine?” 

The big unfortunate circumstance of moving into the tower with the New Avengers was the very strict no pets policy. Yelena had tried to bring her dog in on the first day, and Val almost had the poor thing shot. Now, Fanny lived with Yelena’s mother in Russia. Alpine, though, still lived with Sam. (And Bucky definitely didn’t log back into their DC apartment’s security system once or twice to check in on her precious baby. She definitely didn’t do that. Yeah. Definitely.)

“She’s good, Buck,” Sam answered from the other room. “Just misses her Ma, that’s all.”

She’s not the only one she half expected Sam to add.

“Hm. And Figaro?”

“Still my little Angel.”

“Still stealing socks?”

“It’s good to have hobbies.”

The sides of Bucky’s mouth hurt as she was smiling so wide.

Things were just better with the other woman there. With every other relationship she’d had—platonic or romantic—she was always giving things up. And sure, she still did that for Sam. But with her, she also felt like she gained so much. As if Sam was the only person in the world who knew how to fill Bucky’s heart more than she took from it.

Sam returned to the bathroom with a soft pair of wide leg, black sweatpants and a dark blue sweater. She gave Bucky some privacy to change into them by returning back to the main room to throw the dirty clothes in the bin for Bucky. The gesture made that warm feeling in her gut stir even more.

Bucky hung the towel once she was dressed and trekked back into the room to find Sam lounging on her—now made—bed. Her shoes were knocked off, her shirt ridding up. The small glint of her stomach pricing. Sam laid over the covers, arm around the pillows of the spot next to her.

The comforter was warm as Bucky climbed in next to Sam. Slipping under the covers. The duvet separated their bodies. They were pressed together, curling into each other’s sides, yet never actually touching all the same.

“You’re so tense, Buck,” Sam asked as she relaxed at her side. Arms brushing her shoulders. So warm, strong. 

“Hm.”

“Roll over.”

“What?”

“Just roll over, trust me. I mean we won’t do anything you’re unforgettable with, but—”

Bucky turned over, head resting on her folded arms, slightly burying herself in her pillows. Of course, she trusted Sam. Tonight was a night to remember such things. 

“Is it alright if I massage you a bit?” Sammy asked.

Bucky nodded, again. Almost lost for words. Then, it occurred to her that since she was enveloped in the pillows, Sam probably couldn’t see that, so she added “Yeah, sweetheart. Go ahead.”

One thing they had discovered during their relationship was that Sam loved touching Bucky just as much as Bucky loved being touched by Sam. Once, Sam’d called the other woman “touch starved” while her head was between her legs—very much a mood killer—and later that day, Bucky’s therapist had the audacity to agree. Still, that led to nights just laying on top of each other while watching a movie or making sure to hold each other's hand every time the cameras were off. Sam had called their discovery of loving touch a “break through” in their relationship (her therapist agreed with this, too) but Bucky had just thought of it as nice.

Maybe that’s the thing the New Avengers were missing when it came to taking care of Bucky, no one touched her. No friendly pats on the shoulder, no hugs, no elbow squeezes. Maybe she’d work up the nerve to talk about it. Maybe.

Maybe they could dog like on the couch and watch a bad reality tv show together. 

Sam gently threw back the covers, drawing up the back of Bucky’s sweater to get a fresh canvas of bare skin. 

“Do you want the arm on, or off?”

It was known to cause her nerve pain from time to time, but today was a good day. Somehow. And she didn’t want taking it off to slow Sam down. She wanted her hands on her as fast as possible.

“On, please.”

“Alright, baby. Whatever you want.”

She started lightly at her lower back. She kneaded around her spine in small circles, working her way up centimeter by centimeter. Bucky melted at the contact, burying her head in the pillow as deeply as she could. Every muscle the other woman so much as brushed relaxed under her finger tips.

Bucky’s head was fuzzy, lost in a sea of complete and utter pleasure. It was only then that she realized, this was the feeling of being above water—that first gulp of air after getting lost in drowning waters.

“How are you so good at this?” Bucky muttered, biting back an embarrassing wine as Sam’s hands stilled for half a second.

Sam hummed. “What? Message?”

“The whole taking care of people thing? How does it not burn you out?”

She thrust her thumbs deeper into Bucky’s middle back. The circles were getting more aggressive. Harder. “Where’s this coming from?”

How could Bucky hold a conversation like this?

“I…I love my team, I do.” She moaned, a light little thing. She swore she could feel Sam smirking from on top of her. “But everything I do for them just wears me down. I know something's wrong with me, I just—”

“Bucky, that’s just human. Nothing’s wrong with you.”

Sam’s hands stopped.

Half of Bucky wanted to scream, the other half, though, just half-rolled over to meet the other woman's eye.“No, my mother always said that a woman gives and gives and gives for her family, and—”

“Honey, that’s just your fried ‘40’s brain talking.” Her hand reached out, cupping Bucky’s cheek. “Women do what they can nowadays—everyone, really, just does that they can. Giving every piece of yourself to someone, anyone, is an impossible task. You shouldn't expect that of yourself, no one should expect that from you—if they asked you to—”

“They didn’t. But how do you take care of people and not let it break you?”

“Honey, I take care of myself first. The energy I have left over, that’s what I put out to the world. Not the other way around.”

“How do you have so much energy left?”

Sam paused, hesitating. “Diffrent people need different things, Buck. Comparison is the killer of joy, and all that. How much energy it takes for me to feel good may be less than you. And that’s okay. That’s normal, healthy. I’m sure your team would understand if you took a step back to focus more on you, yeah?”

“Yeah. probably.”

“Have you brought any of this up to your therapist before?”

“No. It’s hard, sometimes. I was always taught not to talk about any of this stuff.”

“But that doesn't make it go away.”

“No, it doesn't. Thanks, Sammy.”

“Any time, baby. Roll back over, okay? I’m not nearly done.”

Bucky nodded, doing so. Sam picked up right where she left off. Bucky quickly became lost in the feeling once more. When Sam’s magical hands worked their way over to her vibranium shoulder, kneading around the angry scar tissue with soft circles, Bucky was completely euphoric. 

Small feelings of arousal coiled in Bucky’s gut begged Sam’s hands to wander a bit lower, but she pushed those to the side. She didn’t know if tonight was the night for such things. She was still testing the waters.

And when Sam’s hands came to still, drawing back from her skin as every mussel was taken care of. Bucky rolled over. The other woman was straddling around her thighs, now. Bucky reached up, tilting her chin down.

“I love you,” Bucky told her for the first time in six months. “And I’m not just saying that because of the shit you can do with your hands. I really do love you. I thought I knew love before I became this, but I didn’t. Not really. And I let you go, for months. I don’t wanna do that again, Sammy.”

 A stray tear rolled down Bucky’s cheek.

“I love you too, baby.” Sam leaned down, kissing away the tears on Bucky’s cheek. “Let’s figure it out, just not right now.”

“Coffee?”

“I can be in the city next Thursday.”

“The old place?”

“Nice o’clock. Don’t you dare be late.”

“It’s a date.”

Sam grinned. “Yeah, Buck, a date.”

In the end, Bucky didn’t know whose lips moved first. All she knew, was when they kissed…it was homecoming. 

Sam broke them apart for a moment, asking “Can I—”

“Yes,” Bucky snapped, rushing to have her lips on hers again.

Bucky curled her hand around the back of her neck, desperate to press their bodies together as much as possible. As their clothes fell to the floor piece by piece, she wanted nothing but to feel her bare flesh against hers. 

Her relationship with Sam was full of firsts for Bucky. But the big one was Sam Wilson was the first person to make love to Bucky. Not fuck, or have sex with, or screw. But make love. Every girl she’d fooled around with during the war—even the one boy—was not making love. The lovers she’d taken during the war when she thought she’d had days left to live, they did not make love. The HYRDA pigs that decided she wasn’t human enough to say to no was definitely not making love. But Sam? The way her lips softly brushed hers, the way she asked before doing anything, the whines slipping out of her, and the way her head would roll back as she climaxed. That was making love.

That was being treated like a cared for thing.

That was pleasure.

That was love.

That was Sam Wilson for you.

Their hands explored each other's bodies like they knew every nook and cranny perfectly. Bucky could still remember the night Sam had asked her to lay down so she could memorize every scare and freckle. Not treating her with pity or sorrow, but just making her feel beautiful for the first time since before the war.

In the end, when her hair was unrolly and her lips were swollen, Bucky collapsed back into the bed, briefly wondering if it was worth it to take another shower.

Sam laid next to her, her bare and naked body a god damn master piece in Bucky’s eyes. Hard mussels, shallow curves, a stomach piercing that made her head spin, and slightly scared skin. Nothing like Bucky’s, but enough so that it showed she lived through something real. Something that hurt. Something she survived.

Bucky had pressed kisses to every single one of them. 

Her arms curled around her, drawing the other woman close under the sheets. 

“Go to sleep, baby. You’ve had a long day.”

Bucky’s head was tucked under Sam’s arm, as she used the other woman like a body pillow. Normally she would’ve cringed at the action, but the scent of lavender still clung to her skin and there was still a bit of bubbly foam in her ear. She was too relaxed to care, for now.

“You won’t be here when I wake up, will you?”

Sam did not answer. She simply stroked her fingers through Bucky’s wet hair, holding her close. For those last few moments, Bucky pretended she wasn’t going to wake up to a cold bed. She pretended she didn’t dread the lonely feeling that would wash over her the moment she realized the other woman was gone. 

That night was a night of pretending.

One last night of them acting like they were still on the same side.

Sure, they'd meet for coffee. Try to talk things out. Bucky wasn't entirely convinced they could, though, and that fact haunted her. 

But Bucky and Sam were like magnets, you see. Something always found a way to draw them back together. Be it Steve or the Blip or the Flag Smashers or their own stubbornness, for the past ten years their lives were intertwined. 

So when Bucky did wake up alone, though she dreaded that fact, some part of her knew that wouldn’t be their last night. When she’d shower alone—scrubbing away the lipstick from where there had been bruises—she’d feel just a bit fuller. Livelier.

Because Bucky knew that she just couldn’t stay away from Sam Wilson for very long.

And Sam Wilson just couldn’t stay away from her either.