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Chapter Text

Immediately everything was entirely too loud, and entirely too much. An assault to the senses. Bucky felt as though he was drowning, thrashing against the panic as it pulled at his too-sluggish limbs like the determined drag of white waves. He looked around wildly, clawing, fighting. Darkness swirled around him, twisting and tugging at the edges of his consciousness, ever-present and all-consuming.

Two hands pushed him roughly down onto his knees, holding him down. Panic festered and gave way to terror, his heart leaping to press against the cage of his ribs.

No.

No, please.

A breath against the hinge of his jaw, harsh and heartless. A word.

"Comply." It was hot, acrid. The word twisted Bucky's stomach into too many knots.

His heart skipped a beat before gaining in speed, hammering now against the bars confining it. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't speak. His voice died in his throat, unable to fight.

Utter, complete helplessness. Hopelessness. Drowning him in too-harsh waves that started to crash over him, burning him with their salty spray. He couldn't do anything. Not then, not now. He would never escape. Not this. He could bury things down, lock them up, and seal them behind reinforced walls that nobody would ever dare to scale.

But he could never truly hide. Not from this. He wanted nothing more than to call out for help. To beg for it to stop.

Like they would. Like that would help the dirty feeling clawing up his too-tense spine.

Nothing would help. Nobody would come for him. And maybe—

Maybe he deserved this.

Maybe this was his punishment for all of the horrific acts he had committed. Has committed. He had thoughtlessly murdered so many innocent people. Slaughtered dozens. Ripped apart families, friends.

He deserved anything that happened.

As long as nobody else was hurt, he could bear it. Just a little while longer, he could stand this.

He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw, willing himself to separate his mind from his body. It would stop. Eventually, all of this would stop. Even if it was when he finally died. It would stop.

His hands shook terribly. The weight pressing him down too-present. Too persistent to ignore. It made his lungs stutter as they fought for air, his breathing too short, too ragged.

He clenched his hands into fists, every muscle in his body pulled taut.

He wished it would stop.

Why wouldn't it stop?

'At least it wasn't someone else.' He thought weakly. 'At least this meant somebody else wouldn't be hurt.'

Why did it have to be him?

Why couldn't they have just left him on that snow-covered mountain? Why did they keep bringing him back every time his body threatened to finally stop?

Why couldn't they just let him—

Pain.

Pain, pain, pain...

Usually he would welcome the distraction, the reminder that he was still a man, and not just a monster. But he wanted nothing more than to fade away, cease. He didn't want to feel anything. He didn't want this.

Nausea settled uneasily within his stomach, followed closely by bile. He swallowed it down, clenching his jaw so hard he heard his teeth creak.

He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter, willing his mind to escape somewhere else. And it worked, but only partially. He only achieved a sort of out-of-body feeling, which proved to be true as he gazed down at himself.

He looked away, his body instinctively curling in on itself as he begged for it to stop. For him to stop.

He didn't even know his name.

Didn't want to know.

He just wanted him to stop.

But what he saw in the dark of the room stole away what little air he had managed to choke down: Sam.

Sam standing in the door, seeing.

Knowing.

Bucky shot up with a sharp gasp, his lungs screaming for a full breath of air that he couldn't conjure. He ran a hand through his sweat-soaked hair, tugging just enough to pull himself back. He sat there, muscles taut and aching, his mind racing as it fought to pick apart the tainted memory. His dog tags were painfully cold against his feverish skin, making him shift and pull at them.

He gasped for breath, his hands trembling as they clenched into tight fists. He pressed his back against the headboard of his too-soft bed, kicking his blanket away from where it had tangled around his legs.

Breathe.

That was all that his mind was screaming at him to do: survive, breathe, fight.

So he sat there on his marshmallow mattress, fighting for air and scrambling to gain back the control he had worked so hard for. The illusion of control, rather. He knew that he still had limits—he was being watched like a ticking bomb at all times; people waiting with bated breath for him to do something, anything to prove that he was still that cruel, heartless monster from before.

And maybe he deserved that.

He was split, stuck between believing every fearful speech or news article questioning his ability to rehabilitate within regular society, and wanting to scream that he wasn't who he was, he wasn't him.

The only reason he didn't follow through with the latter was the fear that nobody would listen.

Those crisp-suited criminals knew that, and they weaponized it. They knew he couldn't fight back, because it would only prove what was being said. So they just kept on, spouting nonsense that anyone with doubt would cling to.

That made him more frustrated than anything else. The fact that he couldn't fight back. It made him feel that hopelessness all over again, drowning him ever-deeper into this ugly pit of self-loathing.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, sighing heavily. His throat ached, leading him to wonder whether he had yelled or called out in his sleep. He hoped he hadn't. He felt bad enough about what his neighbors had to endure on a nightly basis, he didn't want to add that to the mix.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He tipped his head back against the headboard, tilting it just enough to look at his phone screen. His notifications informed him that Sam had texted him.

Six times.

Bucky felt guilt curl up and curdle, deep within his stomach. He turned away, choosing to ignore his friend for another day. His mind told him that it was better this way, but his heart twisted painfully within his chest. Longing strummed through his very being, alight and burning like an exposed nerve.

Still, he chose to shove it down, back where he kept it locked behind carefully-built concrete walls. Just like he had done for decades. Nothing good would ever come from his feelings towards that man, towards any man.

But especially that one.

What would Sam think if he knew? Would he be disgusted? Would he hate him?

Would he leave?

No, Bucky couldn't risk ruining the only relationship he had. He wouldn't be able to cope with losing Sam, he just wouldn't. His life would lose all meaning without its guiding light.

And, hell, maybe seeing him was made just that much more painful, but that little jab would be a gentle touch compared to the agony of losing Samuel Wilson.

It wasn't a question of if he could, anymore. If he could move on from that. It was a question of what he would do when that happened.

Because, just like every other dumpster-fire relationship Bucky has had, Sam was fated to leave him. Whether that was by choice or by chance, Bucky would never know.

He hated to think about it. It made his stomach lurch, giving him the vague sense that he was falling down, down, down, all over again.

He swallowed thickly, his throat constricting just enough to incite panic.

Still, he shoved it down and forced himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed, then pushed himself onto his feet. He wandered numbly around, cycling through his morning routine like it was second-nature:

Shower, get dressed, make himself look at least moderately alive, and attempt to force a meager breakfast of a protein bar down.

Before he knew it, he was behind his desk in his office, staring down a stack of paperwork like it had personally wronged him. Most of it was all of the new laws that had started to emerge once he came into Congress and started fighting for veteran's rights.

"Apparently," he thought bitterly, "giving back to those who sacrifice themselves for this country is wrong." He blew out a heated breath, feeling entirely too suffocated in his crisp suit and tie.

He opened the first file on his desk, sighing when he read yet another enraged claim from some generationally-wealthy man-child claiming that providing for veterans would be taking away from others.

"I don't have time for this," Bucky raged, his metal hand clenching against the edge of his desk.

"Excuse me, Congressman Barnes?" Came the kind-yet-timid voice of his aide, who had poked her head into his office.

"Yes, what is it?" He trained his voice into indifference, but there was an edge that made the poor lady shift her feet.

"I was informed to tell you that you have a missed call from Samuel Wilson. He asked me to tell you to respond—said it was urgent." She sounded unusually anxious, twisting her hands where they remained clasped in front of her.

Bucky sighed heavily, shaking his head with an incredulous scoff. "How urgent?" He leveled her with an impatient stare.

She tensed, just barely, but Bucky noticed. "He didn't specify." She answered carefully, looking concerned. "He told me not to take 'no' as an answer, though."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Of course he did." He muttered tiredly, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. "Fine, put him on. It better be urgent." She nodded curtly and quickly left, leaving Bucky to think.

Barely a moment later, the phone on his desk rang. Bucky sucked in a breath, and picked it up, pressing it to his ear. "Wilson?"

"About damn time. You know I've been callin' you all week, right? Or do you just like feelin' special?" Sam's voice burst from the phone, sharp as a knife but dulled by his audible worry. Still, just the sound of his voice eased that terrible ache throbbing within his ribs.

He missed him like hell.

Bucky blew a breath through his nose. "I was busy." He responded, sounding entirely too vacant.

"Yeah, well, so was I, but I find the time." Sam bit out.

"What did you need?" Bucky asked instead of offering a proper response.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe I was just checking in on my friend that I just so happen to care about."

"I'm fine." Bucky gruffed.

"Like hell you are," Sam scoffed.

Bucky scowled. "Yes, I am. How would you know?"

"Maybe if you had answered one of my calls and told me that, I would know. But apparently I don't get that luxury, and usually that means Frosty the Snowman is definitely not 'fine'." Sam retorted sourly.

Bucky shook his head, chuckling bitterly. "Like I said, I've been busy. Ever thought that I might not want to talk? Or, God forbid, I missed your call?" He knew it was rude, but he really didn't want to get vulnerable with the aftershock of last night's nightmare still burning within his mind.

"So I would just have to sit and wait for a response, confirming whether you're still a functioning adult—or even alive? And you never called me back, dumbass." Sam snapped.

"Why do you care so much about this?" Bucky groaned, massaging his aching temples.

"Gee, I dunno. Could it possibly be because I'm worried about my best friend when I'm away on a mission?" He asked, sarcastically. "Or that, wow, I care about you?"

That made Bucky pause.

"Y'know, you're really bad at this whole 'letting people in' thing. You're kinda missing some key details—here's a hint: they might be in the name." Sam snarked, most of his fire giving way to careful concern.

Bucky sighed.

Yeah, he knew.

"Are your nightmares gettin' any better?" That took Bucky by surprise. Still, his jaw clenched as he took a breath in through his nose.

"Yeah," he lied, even though he knew Sam would know the truth, "yeah, they are."

A beat of silence. Sam was most likely weighing his options of how to continue this conversation.

Bucky just wanted to be left alone again, even if Sam's voice brought him a kind of peace he hasn't felt in, well, a week.

"I'm coming back home tonight, but I'll probably be back pretty late." Sam said, softer now.

Bucky hummed. "That's good. So everything went okay?"

"If by 'okay' you mean having to drag Torres out of trouble for a week straight, then, yeah, I'd say so." Sam huffed a laugh, his smirk audible. "He's like you in that sense."

"I can handle myself just fine, thank you." Bucky's attempt at a joke was gruff, but most of his earlier tension was gone. As long as they kept up the banter, everything would go smoothly. As long as he didn't have to talk about the nightmare still clawing at the edge of his skull, he would be fine.

Sam laughed then, bright and strong. Bucky wished he could hear that wonderful sound all day, every day. "Sure you can, man. Remind me of all of the times I've had to save your ass, again?"

Bucky rolled his eyes, allowing himself to relax by just a fraction. "Whatever, Wilson."

"Hey," Sam's voice sobered again, "you do know you can talk to me, right? I'm always here if you need someone to listen." And the blatant care behind those words were what frayed the edges of Bucky's resolve, making him falter.

Bucky swallowed thickly.

"I don't want you fightin' this alone, Buck. I know it's eatin' you up, and I just wanna help in any way I can. Can you let me do that?"

Bucky chewed the soft skin of his lower lip, mulling his words over in him mind, where they twisted and appeared less genuine. He sighed.

He couldn't.

"Goodbye, Sam. Have a safe trip home."

A long pause.

"Bye, Buck." Sam's disappointment was palpable, but Bucky hung up before Sam could say anything else. His face fell into his hands, his elbows supported by the solid wood of his desk.

A new wave a fear crashed against the bars of his ribs, dull and taunting. He couldn't let anyone know him—he couldn't let Sam know him. He would be disgusted, revolted by what he saw.

So he locked himself up, carefully stitching a mask of indifference to his face as he straightened up and got back to work.

Still, his mind wandered, conflicting itself in its hopeful wishes and crushing realities.

Chapter Text

Bucky was tired. Dead tired. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't sleep. He stared through the dim moonlight up at the ceiling, shifting where he had settled himself on the hardwood floor of his living room. He tried to get comfortable, but he couldn't force his body to relax.

Every sound, every creak, made his mind jolt awake instantly, forcing him to stay alert.

He had tried his bed, but it had been much too soft for him to handle tonight. He shut his eyes with a groan, annoyance bleeding into the edges of his wary consciousness.

He just wanted to sleep—if only for a few moments, even if those moments were plagued by the ghosts of his memories that sprang to life in his hauntingly vivid dreams.

He glanced lazily up at the clock up on the wall, sighing once he read 2:45 AM through the gloom. He draped his arm over his eyes, which he squeezed shut to chase away the exhaustion burning behind them.

He could still feel the phantom burn of hands of him. It made him squirm—it made him feel entirely too dirty.

He hated how often he found himself in this moment: silently begging for respite he knows he won't find, at least not that night.

His too-refined hearing zeroed in on the cacophony of soft sounds crawling in through his just-barely-open window: late-night travelers, a dog barking in the distance, and the soft pattering of rain as it gently plastered itself to the windows and struck the pavement below.

He inhaled the acrid scent of damp concrete, as well as the lingering perfume of the city outside. It wasn't good, but it wasn't necessarily bad. It was familiar. That was what he craved: familiarity.

He felt his shoulders ease, only vaguely wondering when they had tensed. A dull ache ebbed through his shoulder port, causing his fingers to twitch where they lay at his sides.

A sudden, soft ding from his phone broke him from his stupor, making him tense as he checked the time again. Who would be texting him at this time? It was probably a wrong number.

Still, he begrudgingly sat up, and pulled his phone from where it had been charging on his too-small coffee table. He turned it on and blinked against the sudden too-bright assault to his corneas. Squinting, he saw that the text was from Sam.

What was he doing up at this hour? That was Bucky territory; Sam usually slept like a rock. That made his lips quirk up into a fond smirk, just by thinking about the man. He sat up straighter to read, anxiety crawling its way up his spine.

SAM: 'Just got back from that mission. figured you would be awake since you're a damn vampire'

Bucky laughed quietly to himself, his face cracking into a more complete smile.

BUCKY: 'Lucky for you I am. but if i'm a vampire you're definitely frankenstein'

He watched as those three dots appeared, and a warm feeling sluggishly spread its way through his chest like honey. Sam had thought to text him rather than just wait until morning, even after their hiccup earlier that day.

"Idiot," Bucky murmured to himself, even if the foreign fuzziness said otherwise.

SAM: 'You're definitely backwards mr. vibranium arm'

Bucky rolled his eyes.

BUCKY: 'Jokes on you frankenstein was the scientist. the crazy one'

SAM: 'Of course you would know, you were probably childhood buddies w/ the author'

BUCKY: 'Won't confirm nor deny that'

There was a pause then, as though Sam was carefully considering his next text. That made Bucky tense back up, curiosity giving way to intense worry. The impending question was a simple:

SAM: 'You been brooding, drama queen?'

Bucky huffed a breath out of his nose. Sam's unique little way of asking about him. Bucky was well aware, but found he couldn't bring himself to truly care.

BUCKY: 'More or less'

An even longer pause.

SAM: 'Wanna talk about it?'

Bucky looked away from his phone, chewing the soft skin of his inner bottom lip. Did he really want to have a half-assed heart-to-heart with Samuel Wilson at such an ungodly hour? He could always say no, or just ignore him like he usually did.

That always made him feel a certain kind of guilt no one else could bring about, though. He knew that Sam wouldn't take a second denial. And he found he felt a faint nagging to tell Sam all of his troubles—Sam had a way of doing that.

It was usually more effective face-to-face, but it was gradually becoming easier to relax with him in general. He warred between the decision to say yes or no.

He didn't want to say too much, but he also didn't want Sam to think he didn't trust him. Because he did, but the thought of opening up was still so terrifying, it made him nauseous.

His phone pinged.

SAM: 'Don't feel pressured. just know that i'm here to talk when you need me'

Bucky's chest erupted with a warmth that frightened him. Sam's unconditional care restored all of his faith in this cruel world, always. But the almost overwhelming wave of affection that seized him then, terrified him.

What was this feeling that had laid dormant within him for so long?

Decades—before the war, even, it seemed, was the last instance of this feeling. What really worried him was the fact he was well aware of exactly what was churning within his gut. He dared not put a name to it, though, because that would make it real.

He should just cut it off and let it fizzle out—bleed out, even if that wouldn't kill it. He just wanted it to be quieter.

He had tried desperately to snuff it out, violently grinding that pathetic flame with the toe of his boot. Nothing good could come from the affections of Bucky Barnes. He knew that. He was made painfully aware of that each and every time he reached out to someone.

He didn't want to scare him away, either. Sam was all he had left, and he couldn't stand the thought of him leaving, too.

Steve's face flashed in his mind, wrinkled and content.

Content without him.

His thoughts were scattered as an abrupt ringing sound erupted from his phone. He blinked, confused, before feeling his chest tighten once he realized that Sam was calling.

Shit.

He should have just said no.

He should have just ignored him like every other time.

But, even despite his mounting anxiety, he answered. He set Sam to speaker and blew out a breath through clenched teeth. Dread curled cold in his gut.

"You with me, Barnes?" Sam's bright-yet-concerned voice cut through the oppressive gloom that had begun to slowly suffocate him. A steady hand pulling him from the depths he feared would drown him—was beginning to hope would drown him. His relief was instantaneous, washing over him so abruptly he swore he got whiplash.

Bucky eased against the wall behind him. "Yeah," he murmured, wincing at how strained it sounded, even to his own ears. "Always."

"You sure? 'Cause I swear I could hear you spiraling from over here." Sam snarked, his voice thick with exhaustion. "You doin' okay? What's goin' on?" His teasing gave way to genuine concern.

"Just thinking." He forced his voice to sound at least somewhat alive.

"Really? That's dangerous for you." He could hear the slight smile behind those words before he quickly sobered. "Seriously though, talk to me. What's on your mind? Other than me, of course." There was rustling as Sam settled into bed.

Bucky huffed out a dry laugh, feeling a twist of that knife already buried hilt-deep in his gut. He knew that he was only teasing, but he had unknowingly hit the nail on the head. Not that Bucky would tell him that.

"Just... thinking about my past, I guess." Bucky offered vaguely, hoping, naïvely, that he wouldn't have to specify.

A soft hum from Sam. "What is it tonight? Or should I say this morning?"

Bucky shifted, swallowing a sigh. He had answered the call, he should know by now the prying that came with it. "What isn't it?"

"Buck." Sam warned.

"What?"

"You're deflecting again." He pointed out gently.

"And you're getting that tone, again." Bucky tried to snark, but it came out flat and worn.

"What tone?" He could almost hear Sam's scowl.

Bucky swallowed. "The overbearing shrink one."

Sam scoffed indignantly. "I'm sorry, is it a crime to care now?"

"About me? Yeah, I'd say it is." He regretted it the second it left his lips. He tipped his head back as he braced for the storm that was Sam Wilson.

"Buck..." Sam sounded downright wounded.

"Sam." He gruffed.

A long-suffering sigh. Bucky shut his eyes, imagining Sam massaging his temples. He always did that when he got frustrated. At least Bucky wouldn't have to see his face; he didn't think he could stand looking him in those calculating eyes.

They were always so disarming, like Sam could see right into his brain and was attempting to piece together his scattered shards of broken memories in order to better understand him.

God, he missed those eyes. And that smile.

"Is that what you were thinkin' about?" Sam asked, his patience proving to be more astonishing than Bucky had initially thought. But Bucky didn't like this, either. He hated how soft Sam sounded. It was always so much harder to open up about things casually rather than just deflect it with a self-deprecating jab.

Bucky squirmed, glancing out his window as though it might grant him release. "I didn't mean it like that."

"No, you did. That was one of your little comments you're always makin'." Sam pointed out wryly, sounding frustratingly downcast. "People do care about you, y'know. I care about you." His voice softened again, effectively tying knots in Bucky's stomach.

Bucky pushed a hand through his mussed hair, wild from his constant tossing and turning. "I–" he was going to say "I know," but that wouldn't sound convincing, even to himself. He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. I just—I'm just tired, Sam. I swear I didn't mean anything by it, it's just—"

"Trauma brain?" Sam offered, too quietly.

Bucky sucked in a breath, curling his flesh hand into a fist. "Yeah. Trauma brain. I get to thinking and..." He hated how his voice shook. "...It just swallows me up sometimes."

"What triggered it this time?" Sam asked, shifting around beneath his covers to roll onto his back.

Bucky pursed his lips, squeezing his eyes shut. He wished he had just let the ringing go to voicemail. "Sam—"

"I just wanna help you out here, Buck. I don't want you fighting this alone." There was that infallible determination; that fire. Bucky physically ached for it.

What started out as an oppressive weight squeezing within the confines of his ribs, bloomed into a sharp stone of emotion that forced itself into his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

He felt an overwhelming sense of loss then, like he had already lost Sam. His mind scrambled for control, automatically locking down in defense.

"Do we have to talk about this?" He croaked. Pathetic.

Sam paused. "No," he nearly whispered, "but I know it helps to get it off your chest. And not by cracking jokes about it." That was pointed. Bucky sucked in his lower lip, pinning it between his teeth.

"I was just..." He stopped, conflicted.

"Take your time, Buck. I'm right here." Why did he have to sound like that? Like Bucky was worth being awake at all hours of the night. Like he mattered, even despite the burning hatred Bucky felt toward himself.

"I was thinking about all of the people that I've hurt. And..." he swallowed thickly, "...Steve."

That name hung between them. Bucky scrambled to fill the silence.

"It's like every time I close my eyes, they're there. And when when I'm not asleep they're at the back of my mind, always. I just wish they would leave me alone." Bucky felt heat rise to his face as he inwardly cursed his over-sharing.

He couldn't stop once he started, though. "No rest for the wicked, right?" The attempt at a joke came out hollow.

"Hey, don't say that." Sam admonished, though not unkindly. "You sayin' that? Means you feel remorse—even if you shouldn't have to carry the amount of guilt you do. What happened then ain't your fault, Buck. You didn't have a choice."

Bucky's hands clenched into fists, squeezing so tightly he felt his nails pierce the rough skin of his palm. "But I still did it, didn't I?" He bit out, attempting to mask the wounded edge of his tone with aggression. He knew that Sam could still hear it, though. He always did. "I'm the one that hurt all of those people, Sam. I killed them without even—without even a second thought."

Silence.

"I stole their lives away. I didn't know next to anything about any of them: who they were, what their lives were like, or even whether they had someone, anyone, that would have been waiting back home. All I knew was names waiting to be crossed off of a list." His words shook, breaking at some points.

"Bucky," Sam's voice was like the crack of thunder, surprising Bucky out of his thoughts with its strength alone. "That wasn't you. None of that was you. You aren't the man they made you be."

"You don't know that," he mumbled, inwardly wincing at its insecurity.

"I do." There was that infallible faith Sam practically exuded, as though he believed what he was saying with every fibre of his being. Like he was challenging Bucky to object. "Because I've seen your guilt and I've seen all of the good you do, every day, for everyone around you. You aren't a curse, Barnes."

It took Bucky a moment to regain the composure to respond properly. "You don't understand, Wilson."

Sam's voice was softer when he spoke. "Maybe not completely, but I know what it's like to be haunted by your past. I also know that you really shouldn't give those thoughts power over what you decide to do. You can't let guilt dictate how you live your life."

There was a long stretch of silence then. Bucky let Sam's words wash over him, carefully trying to convince himself of each word, even while his racing mind yelled that they were just kind words with no real meaning. He was only spouting lies, useless nothings to get Bucky to suck it up and deal with it.

Shuffling from the other end. "C'mon, Buck, stay with me. Don't spiral." A measured pause. "What did you eat today?" There was quiet worry there. Odd. Count on Captain America to fuss over the little things.

"Today?" Bucky blew out a breath. "If this is some lame-ass excuse to brag about Sarah's cooking, Wilson, I will—"

"Nope, answer the question." Sam interjected, a tinge to his voice. "But it is heavenly, thanks for askin'."

Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face. "I don't know, maybe a protein bar? I'm fine, Wilson, seriously. I'm not even hungry."

Sam sighed, sounding incredibly annoyed. "You're supposed to have a couple thousand calories a day, dumbass. That super soldier physique won't maintain itself." A soft sound like a car humming. But that couldn't be right. "Go see if your depressing-ass fridge has anything in it other than beer and sadness, and eat it." That was a command, not a suggestion.

Bucky rolled his eyes, but stood anyway. He lumbered off to the fridge, his phone held out beside him all the while. He pulled it open and squinted against the blinding lights illuminating his barren fridge. The cold that kissed his face made him shiver involuntarily. It was then he realized there were no lights on in his apartment, save the slight glow from the flashing advertisements outside his rain-peppered windows.

Bucky winced when he was met with two bottles of beer and singular, rather sad looking container of mushed grapes. Definitely not. "Well, there's at least something other than beer." Bucky commented, listening as Sam blew out a tormented scoff.

"Is it edible?"

"...It was. Maybe two weeks ago."

"Jesus Christ. Any particular reason why you have legitimately nothing in your fridge?" Bucky could hear rain pattering.

"Guess it must've slipped my mind." Bucky supplied, unhelpfully. "Sometimes I don't think to check, I guess."

"You guess?" There was quiet rage there—the sound of feet on pavement. Where in the world was he?

"Do I gotta remind you to get groceries, too?" Puddles beneath boots.

"Where the hell are you?" Bucky asked instead of answering, pushing the fridge door closed.

"Not important. Which number are you?" Bucky's heart skipped in his chest. No.

"You are not outside my apartment right now." Bucky groaned in disbelief.

"Correction, I'm now in the lobby. Mind telling me your door number, or do I need to just sniff out who smells the angstiest?"

Bucky laughed, a hollow echo of his surprise. Sam Wilson, always full of surprises. "You're such a dick."

"You love me."

He did.

He did, and hearing those words, joking as they were, made his stomach twist.

"That's cute." It was too clipped, too empty. He felt too exposed.

God, what was he going to do with him?

Chapter Text

"Door number, Barnes." Sam repeated, his tone warning.

"And what if I don't want to tell you?" It was childish, he knew, but the warped reflection of himself in the refrigerator door had looked like a specter of death. The bags under his eyes stuck out like bruises against his pale face. His eyes held the illusion of being eternally haunted, too unfocused and glazed-over. Too absent.

Sam took his question with careful consideration.

"I'll figure it out anyways."

"Why?" The singular word was incredulous, in complete disbelief. Why didn't he ever let up? No, more like: why would he want to know? Why did he willingly drive over to his apartment, at the middle of the night, to check on him?

Why did he care?

"It's just pity," that dark little voice at the back of his mind insisted. "He doesn't actually care about you; he's probably just making sure you don't lose your shit and hurt someone like the loose cannon you are." The voice was nasty; a festering wound, rather, oozing with venom. "He probably—"

"Because you're my friend and I'm worried about you." Sam's voice interjected, a shred of sunlight piercing the clouds obscuring the sun.

"I think you should really just leave, Sam." Bucky leaned back against his kitchen island.

"And go where? Back home where I have no idea what's goin' on with you because you ignore all of my texts? Fuck no. If you really think I'm doin' that, your age is clearly starting to affect your common sense." Sam's voice was reinforced with steel, so self-assured and determined it physically hurt. "I'm not leaving you alone, Buck."

Bucky swallowed thickly. "You don't even want to be here—" he tried to retort but was swiftly cut off.

"Who said that? 'Cause I sure as hell didn't." Then, he softened. "Buck, if I didn't wanna be here, I would be in bed snoozin' like a baby."

"But—"

"Do you want company?"

Oh, God, yes. He craved it. He wanted nothing more than to allow himself to be swept away by Sam's sunshine demeanor. But there was a guilt there that soured that desire—a guilt that he would be inconveniencing him, that he might scare him away with the sheer force of his need to be around him.

He couldn't lose Sam, too.

"It depends on what you—"

"No," Sam interrupted for what must have been the hundredth time, his voice stern. "Do you want company? You're not wasting my time by needing me, and I'm not annoyed or angry about being needed. Just tell me straight, yes or no." Count on him to read Bucky's mind, even through a screen.

Bucky felt his face burn. "Fine, yes." He gruffed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "...I'm on the top floor. First door on the left."

"See? That wasn't so hard, now, was it?" Sam teased, his smirk audible in the lilt of his voice. Then there was the sigh of the elevator doors followed by the familiar ding of the top floor's button.

Bucky looked around himself, shoulders slumping at the sight of his barren apartment. There was still a pillow and blanket sprawled on the floor of his living room. He thought, rather conscientiously, that he should pick it up before Sam got here.

But another, far more exhausted part of himself simply said, "Sam would understand." Because he would. And that was almost stranger than this entire ordeal: Sam understood him.

Sam, even despite Bucky's desperate fight to keep himself hidden, knew him.

And, damn it, if that wasn't terrifying, Bucky didn't know what was.

"You still with me?" That bright voice was just barely tinged with concern. Bucky swallowed down the lump that had leapt to his throat, and all of his doubts along with it.

"Yeah," Bucky croaked, and winced at how raw it sounded.

"Good." Then Sam went on to walk Bucky through the entirety of his day, speaking with that infuriatingly-easy confidence that Bucky would never admit he loved.

Bucky just listened, still leaning against his kitchen island, occasionally offering acknowledging hums of interest. Then, there was the sound of the elevator dinging and the doors sliding open.

"Alright, first on the left..." Sam murmured to himself before hanging up. Not even a second later came the insistent knocks, which echoed through the quiet of Bucky's apartment in a way that was so right.

And maybe it was.

Maybe he would allow this man to disturb his suffocating silence whenever he wanted.

Bucky pushed off of the counter, his head growing hazy in a way that reminded him that he hadn't eaten much of anything that day. Not that he could stomach anything right now. It always got like this when he had that nightmare. Nausea pressed in persistently anytime he thought of eating or looked at himself for too long.

In moments like that, anything he forced down usually didn't stay down for very long.

Still, he powered through and went to unlock all of his locks before pulling the door open.

There, in the dim lights of the hall, was Sam, clad in his worn gray sleep shirt. He still had on an old pair of plaid pajama pants, having not bothered with changing out of them. It was a sight to behold: a bedraggled Captain America.

Sam frowned when he saw Bucky's face, most likely reading anything Bucky didn't want him to.

He stepped past Bucky into the apartment, so sure-footed you would think he owned the place. In his hand was a plastic bag. Of what, Bucky couldn't tell. Bucky shut the door, watching him soak in his sparse surroundings. Sam turned back to him, his concern loud in the way he scowled softly.

"Was it another nightmare?" He asked quietly, all teasing gone from his tone to accommodate his blazing care. Those dark, chocolate-brown eyes watched him, his every move and twitch. Reading. Understanding. Bucky sighed, looking away from that too-soft gaze.

He nodded, staring at the wall instead. "Not tonight, but yesterday night." He specified, hating how his voice shook just barely. Sam hummed, eyes trailing over him, not quite assessing.

"That bad, huh?" His voice was so soft it made Bucky's chest ache. There was no pity, no fear. Just an understanding he feared and craved.

"You could say that." It was hardly above a whisper.

"Wanna talk about it?" Sam crossed his arms over his chest. Not forceful, not expectant; just patient. And, fuck, he did. Bucky wanted nothing more than to pour himself out; to be heard and seen.

But the thought terrified him all the same. He didn't want Sam to look at him like he was some irreparable pile of glass, too delicate and too broken to be fixed.

He didn't want Sam to know about that. He didn't—

"Hey," Sam said, softly. "Get out of that head of yours. You don't have to tell me anything, alright? But I'm here to listen when you're ready." He tilted his head so he caught Bucky's gaze, urging him back to reality. Bucky sighed shakily, offering a jerky nod.

"Okay," then Sam was striding into his kitchen, setting the plastic bag of something onto his counter. "Let's get some real food in you."

Bucky mindlessly followed, intrigued and appalled. "You did not lug—what is that?" His voice was still unsteady, but Sam kindly ignored it.

"Gumbo, man. The good stuff." He popped the little container into the microwave to reheat it, looking entirely too pleased with himself. Once the rich broth's aroma began to waft through the apartment, Bucky's stomach growled and clenched painfully.

When was the last time he had eaten?

Sam smirked, triumphant. "Not hungry, huh?"

Bucky felt his face burn. "Oh, shut up." Sam snorted, shaking his head. The microwave beeped and Sam quickly took the cup out, retrieving a spoon from Bucky's silverware drawer. He handed the styrofoam cup over to him, watching closely.

"Now, you're gonna eat all of that. Every last drop. No questions, and no bitching. I will force-feed you if I have to, Barnes." It was light and humorous but tinted by a very real threat: you're going to eat.

Bucky hesitated. "What, are you going to feed me like a baby bird or something?" He shot back, staring into the cup. His stomach twisted at the thought of having to ingest something. This was definitely going to be difficult.

"If it comes down to it, yeah." Sam deadpanned, though his tone was softer. He must have read something in Bucky's face then. "Take it a little bit at a time if that helps."

Bucky nodded, still frozen with his spoon poised above the lip of the cup. His body physically ached for food, as waves of hunger rippled through him. But his mind kept reverting back to flashes of the memory he had revisited the night before, souring his appetite.

"Hey, you remember all those pranks we pulled together a while back?" Sam asked, still watching him closely. A distraction. Something to keep his mind quiet.

God bless him.

Bucky felt his lips twitch. "How could I forget? I thought Sarah was going to kill us." He huffed. He took a bite of the gumbo without thinking about it, easing at its warmth and spices.

"I used to do stuff like that all the time when we were kids, but I never did have a partner in crime." Sam grinned, noticing but choosing to only offer a quick look that said: good, right? "The betrayal on her face was priceless."

Bucky nodded. "She underestimated us, big-time." He kept willing himself to eat spoon-full after spoon-full, instead making it a subconscious rhythm. The broth was warm and rich and tasted like everything good in the world. But thinking about it made him falter.

"Underestimated you, you mean. You've mastered the art, my friend. The craft." He flashed Bucky a smile, nudging his shoulder with his own from where they sat side-by-side.

Bucky half-expected to freeze up, to revert back, just like he had earlier in the day.

He blearily recalled having to duck into an alleyway in order to catch his breath, a stray touch from a stranger having sent him over the edge. Bile had threatened to rise, but there was nothing to cough up. He had managed to calm himself after several minutes, but the experience had been jarring.

But it never happened. Sam watched him curiously, testing the waters. Bucky felt himself ease. Not significantly, but enough that Sam noticed. Triumph sparkled in those dark eyes.

"I've pulled a few pranks in my time, Wilson. You should've seen me in the thirties. I was a terror." Bucky offered, mischief bleeding into his tone.

Sam whistled. "A veteran. What did you even pull back then? Knock on the neighbor's door and run off?" Sam teased.

"Sometimes," Bucky muttered defensively. "I really only pranked my sister, Becca." He paused, his smirk fading.

"Yeah?" Sam urged, noticing his hesitation. Bucky swallowed thickly.

"Yeah. She always got me back, though. I always let her. And she was worse than I was." He blew out a weighty breath, caught somewhere between a laugh and a heavy sigh. He stared down at his now-empty cup. When had he eaten all of it?

"That sounds about right. Sisters never seem as tough as they are until they smack back." Sam smiled softly, taking and throwing away the styrofoam cup. He stuck the spoon into Bucky's dishwater, which was painfully empty. He settled in front of Bucky, leaning on his forearms against the other side of the kitchen island. "What was she like?" An offer he didn't have to take.

Bucky's expression flickered, his eyes still trained downwards. He pursed his lips, those blue eyes growing distant. He opened his mouth to respond, but found he couldn't think of anything to say, so he shut it again. He swallowed against the choking grief clawing up his throat.

Sam noticed, because of course he did. "Hey, man," he moved so Bucky's eyes caught his own, "you don't have to say nothing, I was just curious—" Bucky held up a hand, silencing him. He shook his head.

"No," Bucky rasped, his throst suddenly too dry. "No, it's fine." He cleared his throat while Sam wordlessly got him a glass of water, which he set on the counter before him. Bucky thanked him and took a sip, his grip too-tight against the glass.

Sam leaned against the counter in front of him again, watching with a mixture of patience and fondness.

"Becca is—was," his voice wavered at his correction, "the kindest, most caring person in the entire world." He stared down at his water glass, ignoring the burn behind his eyes. "She was the light of my life back then. My reason to keep fighting when the War got tough."

His lips twitched upward for a fraction of a second, though it didn't reach his eyes. "She was always my number one supporter. She used to brag about me to all of her friends. Always found a way to include me in everything she did, but if I teased her about it she'd get all embarrassed and ignore me for a while. But she always came around for me."

Sam graciously didn't react to the way his voice shook like it was struggling to remain stable.

"Yeah?" He smiled softly, leaning in just that little bit closer.

"Yeah." Bucky looked away, trying to hide the sheen of moisture swelling within his eyes.

"She sounds like a great kid, man. Real great kid. Clearly you did somethin' right." Sam moved to catch his gaze again, eyes impossibly warm.

Bucky huffed a breath wetly, shaking his head. "No, no I had nothing to do with it. She was always perfect. She made me better."

Sam nodded his understanding before straightening. "Alright," he drummed his fingers on the counter. "C'mon, up 'n attem." Bucky scowled, but stood up after Sam started shooing him out of his seat. "You're gonna go get some much-needed rest."

It was then that Bucky noticed the creeping light of dawn, already beginning to card its way through the old blinds covering his windows. "There isn't much of a point now, is there? It's morning," Bucky grouched.

"It's also your day off, meaning you can sleep however long you want. Off to bed with you," Sam replied, ushering him towards his bedroom. Bucky relented, with exhaustion being his main winning reason. Or at least that's what he told himself. He allowed himself to be gently pushed into bed, where he worked to settle himself on the too-soft mattress.

Bucky laid down, shifting until the malleable mattress didn't feel quite so all-consuming, and yanked his blanket over himself. He glanced over at Sam, who had been watching him attentively with an odd, unreadable expression. Sam caught the silent question in his eyes and smirked.

"I'll just be on the couch. Call if you need me, okay?" Sam informed him as he made for the door. Bucky's brows pinched anxiously for a moment, an unspoken worry clear on his face. "What? What is it?" Sam pressed, his smirk slipping.

Bucky blinked, replacing that sliver of vulnerability with indifference, instead endeavouring to look away as though he had forgotten. "Nothing, don't worry about it." Bucky murmured, distantly. "G'night Wilson."

Sam hesitated, looking him over. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah, it wasn't important." Bucky sounded almost embarrassed. Then, a realization dawned on Sam's kind face.

"Is it the nightmares?" Sam asked. He knew he was right as soon as he saw the fraction of a second Bucky tensed. "You do know that doesn't bother me, right? It's not like you can control it, and you should already know that I, of all people, would understand. Maybe not to the same degree, but, hey, it's there. It's human, Buck." Sam reassured, leaning against the doorframe. "Don't worry about that, I'll wake you up if it gets bad, okay?"

Bucky nodded, easing just slightly. But, still, there was that lingering self-consciousness that refused to leave him empty-minded. He didn't want Sam to have to listen to...that all night—or, rather, all morning, now.

He didn't want him to know how bad it was.

Still, he allowed his eyes to fall shut, their heaviness winning him over in the end. He heard Sam leave, leaving the door open so he could keep an eye out for any signs of distress. Bucky listened as he settled himself on his old, worn-down couch.

Sam was asleep before he was, though his breathing lulled him to sleep quicker than he thought it would. Usually falling asleep was an entire ordeal, but he supposed having someone to watch over him helped ease the deeply-seated paranoia prickling within his veins.

For once in his life, he felt safe and cared for.

Chapter Text

Before he knew it, he was being swallowed up completely by darkness. When the world finally settled, he found himself standing over a crumpled body. He stiffened, his jaw clenching as his pulse picked up.

It was a target. He didn't need any kind of deductive reasoning to figure that out. His hands were becoming sickeningly sticky, his grip white-knuckled around the twin blades clenched with them. He remembered this feeling.

He remembered that the Winter Soldier had slipped, just for a fraction of a second. His focus had slipped and he had been able to see that man—the very one before him now—as a person, rather than another name on his list.

But it had been too late. The job was already completed by then. So he had watched as that terror numbed into the complete absence of anything.

And somehow that was worse.

He wanted to go back to the numbness giving in provided him. He wanted to remind himself that he shouldn't care. He tried to tell himself that it was like war, that people had to die even if they might not have deserved it. But it wasn't.

Still, he felt that wrecked feeling crack and press against his ribs, because he had done it again. He had killed another innocent person.

He felt his hands start to shake as he clenched them even tighter. Nausea pressed hard against his sternum, so strongly that he felt his legs nearly give out from under him.

He recognized this man.

He recognized everyone he had killed.

He knew exactly who he was. He knew that he had been a HYDRA agent in the past, but had left after discovering their human experiments. He knew that this man had actively fought to terminate the program that had put Bucky through torture, agony, and memory-wiping over, and over, and over, again.

He knew that he had believed that Bucky was still him, that he had a chance to be himself again in the future.

This man had believed in him, and now he was dead.

Bucky had slaughtered the one man who had fought for him in decades.

He had proved everyone else's doubts in the process.

Bucky's knees buckled and he fell next to the man. Despair gripped him in its iron vice, stealing his breath away as it constricted around him, squeezing mercilessly.

"I'm sorry," he croaked, his voice just as wrecked as he felt. He bowed his head. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry... I didn't—I didn't want this to happen. I didn't want any of this to happen." He forced out around the painful thing lodged within his throat.

"But you still let it happen." The dead man's lips moved, but his eyes remained glazed.

Bucky's breath hitched. "I had no choice," he whispered, watching the man's face closely now. "Please, I'm sorry—"

"Excuses, excuses. When are you going to realize that this is all your fault? All of this happened because of you. What's the point in apologizing now? I'm already dead—we're all already dead. You can't reverse that with a few meaningless apologies." His voice was as cold as the cryo chamber, freezing Bucky from the inside out while striking him as scathing as it was spat his way.

"Please," Bucky begged, his voice breaking.

"This is what happens to everyone around you. This is what happens to people who believe in you." Bucky flinched, averting his gaze to blink away the burn in his eyes. But where he looked was of the watchful silhouettes of them. All of those he had thoughtlessly murdered.

The ones that haunted every moment of his life, when he was asleep and awake.

His heart leapt to his throat when he saw, at the center of them all, a broken and battered Sam. His usually bright eyes were now dead and burning with all of the hatred Bucky already felt churning within his gut. He was covered in blood.

His blood.

"I thought we were friends, Buck. How could you let this happen?" Sam asked, stepping forward. Bucky crumbled, his shoulders sagging in grief-stricken defeat.

"Sam—" His name was hardly even audible, sounding more like a wounded animal's cry.

"I thought you cared about me," he pressed, coldly.

"I do," he tried to say, but it came out as a ragged sob. It felt as though the pebble holding the dam together had finally popped free, giving way to the crashing waves of his pent-up grief.

"Then why did I die?"

Sam stirred at the faint sound of mumbling, exhaustion weighing heavy in his bones. He sat up and scrubbed a hand down his face, his mind still foggy with sleep. It wasn't until a sharp sound of distress came from the other room did Sam remember where he was.

Shit.

He was up in an instant, throwing his scavenged blanket off of himself as he stood and quickly made his way to Bucky's bedroom. He stepped inside, the late afternoon light filtering easily in so he could see clearly.

He winced when he caught sight of Bucky, who was pale where he twitched in his tangle of sheets. His face was pinched in distress, and Sam could hear his ragged breathing from where he stood.

Sam drew closer, concern bubbling up in his gut. Bucky's sharp breaths hitched just before his face fell into an expression of pure despair.

"No... please, I—I'm sorry..." Bucky whispered, his voice breaking. Sam swallowed thickly at that, his heart aching. He had to get him out of there.

Fast.

"Buck," Sam's own voice faltered before he could stop it. "C'mon, man. Wake up."

Bucky hid his face away from the ghost of Sam Wilson. His best friend. The man he cared for so much it hurt.

"You did this. It's because of you I'm dead." His voice boomed, slow and deliberate. Bucky swore he felt a piece of himself crack.

"Please, Sam, I—"

"I always knew this would happen. It was never a question of if, but when. There was never a chance you would get to have this—that you would ever be able to live a normal life. Especially not with me."

Whatever had cracked before, shattered now. It was like the air had been knocked right out of his lungs, and he couldn't seem to catch his breath.

Then, he heard it:

A faint, "Buck—Bucky!"

Sam's voice. But—

He woke with a start, shooting up to sit as he fought for air his lungs denied. He clawed at his chest, at the agony still raw and exposed there. Sam was at his side in an instant, all soft-yet-firm words and that serious face.

"C'mon, man, breathe. I'm right here with you; I've got you." Sam said, catching Bucky's wide, panicked gaze. "Just breathe with me, buddy." He slightly exaggerated his breathing, slowing so Bucky could replicate it.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath, but it was gone instantly. His shallow breaths stuttered before evening out slightly. He screwed his eyes shut and clenched his fists. Even through the lingering terror he felt an oppressive shame.

Sam shouldn't be seeing him like this. Sam shouldn't be here; he should be somewhere safer and much farther away from him. He didn't want him to know what he was reduced to in these moments. He—

"Hey, stay with me. Stay with me, Buck. I'm right here. Don't go there," Sam's voice cut through his thoughts, strong and so determined.

Bucky took a deep, shuddering breath, the first in too long. That weight in his chest eased off just slightly, but didn't leave.

It never did.

"That's it: in and out, Buck. Just like that." Sam encouraged, sounding relieved.

After a beat, Bucky cracked his eyes open again, immediately averting his gaze away from Sam's all-seeing one. His breathing became controlled again, replaced only by the lingering cocktail of shame and fear still swirling in his gut.

"You okay?" Sam asked, easing so he sat down on the edge of the bed. Bucky swallowed.

"Yeah," he croaked, inhaling shakily. He extracted his hands from where they had fisted themselves into a tight vice around his blanket. He tried to ignore how badly they shook as he pushed a hand through his hair.

Sam scoffed. "Because that's being 'okay'."

Bucky sighed heavily. Too heavily. "It was—" he paused, breathing in through his nose sharply. "It was just another stupid nightmare, Sam. Nothing new."

Sam stared very intently at him then, scowling a bit. "That doesn't mean it sucked any less. Plus, it sounded pretty bad." It was soft but firm.

Bucky glared half-heartedly at him. "Thanks for the insight, Wilson, but I regret to inform you that that's kind of the regular for me."

Sam didn't waver, he only watched him closely, noting every twitch and shaky breath. Bucky shifted, discomfort heating the back of his neck as he stared right back, annoyance hot in his gut.

"Would you stop with the staring?" He snapped, bristling. He hated this strange vulnerability still simmering beneath his skin. "Jesus..."

"Can I—" Sam hesitated, really hesitated. That was new. "Can I touch you?"

Bucky twitched, his expression flickering to something unreadable, yet almost pained. He scowled, tensing. "Why?" he murmured.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Don't make it weird. You just still seem pretty out of it."

"...Okay." His entire body locked up in terrified anticipation, his shoulders tensing so tightly his shoulder port groaned.

Sam tentatively reached out and rested his hand on Bucky's bare right shoulder, squeezing just enough to make him melt. Without a second thought, he tensed his upper body completely, holding his muscles even more tautly than before.

Sam raised a brow, feeling the shift beneath his hand. "Relax, Buck. You're good, I've got you." He murmured, watching him closely. Slowly, gradually, he felt Bucky begin to ease into his touch again. Before Bucky could stop himself, he leaned into it, chasing that warmth Sam exuded.

Sam was here. He was okay. He was alive.

Then, that hand came up to cradle the side of his neck, Sam's thumb brushing his cheekbone with a tenderness that tugged at the pit of sorrow still nestled behind his collarbone. Bucky swore he forgot how to breathe for a moment as his mind scrambled to catch up with what was happening.

Bucky almost couldn't believe it.

Samuel Wilson was cradling his face.

Samuel Wilson was watching him with a look so soft it hurt to look directly at him.

Samuel Wilson was touching him like he was something precious, something worth protecting.

When was the last time someone had held him like this? He honestly couldn't remember. Had he ever been held like this? He didn't know.

He felt heat rise up the back of his neck and spread across his face. He tried to look anywhere else but directly at Sam. He knew Sam could feel the way his pulse was hammering, as his palm pressed more solidly against his pulse-point.

Bucky tried to tell himself that it was the aftershock of the dream, but...

"You were saying my name when I walked in." Sam murmured carefully, his expression unreadable. It had taken him a moment to realize exactly what Bucky was mumbling when he walked in, but he had heard it. He kept his tone neutral, though there was a tinge Bucky couldn't name.

Bucky swallowed, and Sam felt it. "Sam, I don't—"

"No, Buck. I've never—" he paused, "I've never heard you sound like that before. Something happened. What was it?" Those careful eyes weakened his resolve, too-easily bypassing his defenses.

A long stretch of silence.

"You were dead." Bucky admitted, his voice breaking on the last word. He blinked to fight the sting in his eyes. "It was my fault. You were gone, just like—" his voice failed.

"I'm here now, Bucky. I'm right here, and I'll never leave you. I swear on everything, I will never, ever leave you." Sam's voice was so strong, so assured, it almost made him believe.

Almost.

Sam's other hand came up to cup the other side of his face, his eyes searching Bucky's for a sign, for any sign.

Bucky sucked in a sharp breath. He wanted so badly to believe him, but he just couldn't. "That's what they all say." Bucky whispered, his voice trembling right along with the rest of him. Sam felt those tremors beneath his sure palms.

He looked stricken, wilting at those words as he held him tighter. "Well, I'm not them. I'm not everybody else. I'm in this for the long-haul, man." He offered a tight smile.

"But, what if...?" His voice failed. Shame bubbled up in his gut, making him desperate. What if Sam got hurt because of him? What if he died? What if Bucky did something so unforgivable, he never saw him again?

What if he lost interest and left him behind?

"Stop that," Sam snapped, strong enough that even he looked surprised. "This is it. I'm with you 'till the end, Buck. You think you can get rid of me that easy? Hell no. You're stuck with me."

Bucky shook his head, huffing a quiet laugh. His eyes were getting embarrassingly dewy. Not that he would ever admit that. But something unspoken had passed between them at Sam's words; something neither of them dared to acknowledge.

Still, it fluttered there in the air between them, blinding and impossible to ignore. A shred of hope.

"Okay," was all Bucky said, barely more than a whisper. Sam's hands retreated, but his eyes didn't. As soon as that warmth left, the staggering desire to have it back was almost dizzying.

He suddenly felt too cold, too bare.

An abrupt ringing ripped through the fragile stillness, shattering the spell that had fallen over them. Sam quickly located his phone and answered, looking anxious once he saw the caller ID. Bucky could only watch.

"Yes?" A beat of silence where Sam scowled at whatever he was being told. "Another mission? I only just got back—" He stopped, a clear annoyance flashing across his features. "Yes, I can get him." He glanced towards Bucky briefly. "Fine. See you then. Alright, bye." Sam hung up, blowing out a breath.

"What was that about?" Bucky asked, sitting up straighter as he stretched his arms over his head, his metal one creaking under the strain. He massaged it, rolling his shoulder absentmindedly.

"They need me to go in for another mission. Said it was urgent." Sam explained shortly, standing up from his perch on the edge of the bed. He turned towards Bucky, jabbing a finger his way. "They asked me to bring you along."

Bucky blinked in surprise. "Me? Why? I don't go on missions anymore,"

Sam shrugged. "Yeah, well, they didn't specify much of anything, so... But, hey, maybe it'll be fun, huh? It'll be like the good ol' days: me and you chargin' after some mystery target." Sam grinned, folding his arms over his chest.

"But why us?"

"Didn't say. 'Just insisted we were the best pick for the job. Said it was more complicated than the usual in-and-out."

Bucky groaned, letting himself fall back across his bed. "It always has to be more complicated, doesn't it?" He sighed.

Sam snorted, lightly kicking Bucky's leg where it hung off the bed. "Seems like it. I think they just like keepin' us on our toes."

Bucky just grunted.

Sam snapped his fingers, looking at him significantly. "Our conversation is not over, though. We'll finish that later."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Aye-aye, Captain." He grumbled, laying an arm over his eyes.

Chapter Text

That was how, before Bucky could properly process what was happening, he found himself seated across from Sam aboard a private jet. They were both clad in relatively nice clothes, with Bucky paying close attention to wearing his leather gloves. He couldn't go getting recognized by random civilians with his very identifiable metal arm.

Sam pulled at the collar of his maroon button-up, shifting in his seat with an accosted sigh. Bucky vaguely thought the color looked rather good on him. Not that he would say that out loud, of course.

They were flying to the location of their mission, and had been sitting in tense silence for at least an hour or two. Before boarding Sam had received another call that had informed him exactly what they would be doing.

That had been two and a half hours ago, now.

Bucky had tried asking about it, but Sam had promptly excused himself to familiarize himself with the pilot. Odd.

He hated the silence. Silence gave his mind a chance to stretch its wary limbs and rear its ugly head. Thirty minutes ago he had started playing some music through his complimentary pair of earbuds he had been handed when he boarded, but it has done little to soothe his nerves.

So, here he sat tensely in his seat, hands clenched tightly around the arms of his chair, with Vera Lynn singing softly in his ears. He felt too stiff in his navy blue suit, and wanted nothing more than to get to where they needed to go and get this done as quickly as possible.

Whatever this was, anyway.

Sam kept tapping the arm of his chair, his gaze far-off and trained at the window Bucky refused to look out of. His brow was pinched in careful concentration, clearly lost in thought.

Whatever this mission was, it had managed to properly disrupt whatever semblance of peace they had stitched together within the past forty-eight hours.

Frustration rose hot in Bucky's sternum, causing him to sigh heavily. He just wished Sam would tell him already. He would have to know the mission eventually, and sooner was far more preferred than later.

He shut his eyes and tried to focus on the sweet, sombre music echoing through his ears. Tried to trust Sam's judgement, even despite his annoyance.

A few minutes later, a hand tapped his arm, and he peeked his eyes back open, pulling his earbuds from his ears. Sam was watching him with an odd expression, his eyes flicking over him in a calculating way.

"We'll be posted at the same resort as our target and his wife," Sam supplied, thankfully offering the explanation Bucky had been itching for. "But—"

"Jesus, of course there's a 'but'. Why must there always be a 'but'?" Bucky huffed, sinking in his seat.

Sam ignored him. "But it's a couples' exclusive resort."

Bucky blinked at him, his eyes squinted in confusion as he let that information sink in. He cringed. "Oh, please don't tell me I have to pretend to date a random undercover agent. I will do literally anything other than that." Sam's expression flickered.

"...And if you knew them?" He asked. Bucky didn't like the edge he heard there.

"Depends who it is, I guess." Bucky answered, slowly. Sam nodded, looking down to avoid Bucky's eyes. What was making him so nervous? Was it who he had to work with?

His confusion must have been evident, because Sam sighed heavily and fixed Bucky with a weighted stare. Bucky squirmed, discomfort twisting in his stomach. "Why?" He asked, suspicious.

"We were informed to work together, Barnes." Sam deadpanned.

"I'm aware of that. That's kind of why we're here to begin with." Bucky only felt more confused. Why was Sam still dancing around this? Why couldn't he just say who they were paired with?

Sam waited a beat, pursing his lips. "Jesus Christ, do I really have to spell it out for you?" Sam snipped, uncharacteristically defensive.

"Yes, please. I would appreciate that right about now." His patience was wearing thin.

Sam's shoulders stooped. "It's us, Bucky. There aren't any other agents. Just us." He watched Bucky's expression closely as he said this, bracing for whatever reaction might follow.

There was a beat of Bucky staring at him, utterly lost, as he pieced that information together. Sam cursed under his breath, rolling his eyes severely as he muttered something offensive towards Bucky's intelligence.

Then, it clicked.

Oh.

Oh.

Shit.

They weren't going to be posing in fake relationships separately. No, they were going to be posing as a relationship. Together.

Bucky thought he just might die. Oh, this was going to be his personal hell. This had to be one of the worst missions he would ever play a part in.

Sam must have seen from the shock writ clear upon his features that he had figured it out. Great.

"Yep." Was all Sam said.

Bucky trained his features into a mask of indifference, even though panic licked through his nervous system like fire to a field of dry brush. This was bad. This was really bad. "Interesting choice of agents, then." Bucky commented, trying to seem like this wasn't completely destroying his world view as he knew it.

Sam would undoubtedly find out about his feelings towards him, now. This was too close, too personal.

Why was he agreeing to this?

"Yeah, well, it's more convincing if we know each other, alright. They had specific orders for you, though." His expression grew wary then.

Bucky frowned. "Like what?"

Sam hesitated before leaning forward, watching him closely. "Alright, first, background. Our target has a nasty habit of, well, 'enacting affairs' with other men while on these trips, and kills them once he's finished with them. If you catch my drift. This is all behind his wife's back, of course, and I've been informed that he's had past dealings with HYDRA. So, overall, not a great guy."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I gathered that much. What do I do?" He was beginning to grow impatient again.

"Look, if you ever feel like you wanna switch, I'm down, just say the word. But—"

"Christ, Wilson, just tell me what I need to do. I'm sure whatever it is isn't anything I haven't done before." Bucky snapped.

Sam pursed his lips. "You'll be the one that 'befriends' our target. Meaning you've gotta stop actin' so pissy and get this guy to like you."

Bucky grimaced, something dark and too-familiar twisting in his gut. He pinched the bridge of his nose with a groan, slumping in his seat. "So, you're telling me that our genius employers picked me to—what?"

Sam shifted. "Seduce him, basically." His words were empty.

Bucky barked out an incredulous laugh. "And why the hell did they do that? Why me? I'm not exactly known for my charismatic personality." He quipped, dryly.

Sam glanced away before forcing himself to look back as he clasped his hands together in front of him. He cleared his throat. "Well, uh, I was told you had experience with that sorta thing from... yeah." He didn't specify because he knew he didn't have to.

Bucky's stomach lurched as he felt himself tense. He wet his lips, glancing away from Sam's intense gaze in order to piece together a response. "I—I mean I do, but..." He paused for a long time then. He refused to look up as he finished. "I doubt this will be anything like that."

Sam straightened up a bit at that, his gaze burning with concern and a mounting alarm. "What is that supposed to mean?" The very real implications there made him feel ill with worry.

"Nothing, just forget it." Bucky replied gruffly, now intently staring at a spot on the floor. Sam didn't like that he wouldn't meet his eyes. "So, what? What else? How much time do we have? What's the plan?"

Sam allowed him to change the subject, but filed that information away for a future conversation that Bucky wouldn't be allowed to weasel his way out of. He didn't like what he was hearing one bit.

"I was told we have the entire week, but that it would be best to cut it as short as possible. I would suggest approaching him on day two so it isn't suspicious, and to 'befriend' him then. Let it build for two-to-three days—or however long it takes—and take every opportunity you see." Sam informed him, taking on that serious tone missions always gave him.

Bucky thought it was incredibly endearing, even despite the nerves brewing in his stomach.

"I'll be on the other end of the comms giving you instructions, so if I tell you to get out, that means get your ass out of there. No reckless heroic moments. This guy's dangerous." He caught Bucky's eyes then, urging him to, for once in his very long life, listen to his orders.

Bucky nodded. "How dangerous?"

Sam glared at him, warning. "Knows how to take down and get rid of super soldiers, kinda dangerous. Which means, if everything goes to shit, you'll need me to help you neutralize him. Which also means we'll have to work together on this, instead of you just chargin' in, guns blazin'."

Bucky scowled. "I wouldn't do that. I know how to complete stealth missions, Wilson."

Sam chuckled bitterly, pointing at him. "You would absolutely do that. Which is why I'll be watchin' from the resort's cameras. So, if he tries anything, I'll put his face through the ground." There was a very real protectiveness there, where Sam's face darkened and his eyes insisted that he would put a bullet through that man's skull quicker than he would let him do anything to Bucky.

That did odd things to Bucky's heart—things he would keep under lock and key until the day he finally died.

He swallowed. Yeah, he was screwed. "Sounds like a plan." He agreed, voice fainter. "But I can defend myself, Wilson. I was kind of trained to do that for a few decades. So, don't go jumping to my rescue like I'm some damsel in distress every time you think he's getting too friendly. I can handle myself."

Sam leveled him with a charged look, one that swore to shield him—defend him. "We'll have a code word, then. Anytime you feel like it's getting too much, say it, and I'll be there."

"Sam..." Bucky hesitated.

"Humor me, Buck. So I can have some peace of mind." He pleaded, sounding incredibly anxious.

Bucky sighed. "Fine. What would the code word be?" Might as well entertain this if it made Sam feel better.

Sam actually furrowed his brow in careful consideration, humming. He was serious about this, then. "What about 'White Wolf'?"

Bucky shook his head. "Something we're both associated with."

So Sam threw out suggestion after suggestion until, finally, he grew frustrated and insisted they use "Marvin Gaye". Bucky had, annoyingly, shrugged with a disinterested sound before relenting.

"Sure, yeah, that's fine. I'll be wired, right?"

"Yep, I'll be listening to every word."

"Okay, I'll just ask him if he's ever heard of him, or something. And don't harass me about whatever 'methods' I use. I haven't exactly tried to whoo anyone properly since the thirties. HYDRA doesn't count, obviously." Bucky shot him a look, embarrassed.

He really didn't want to be flirting with this guy with Sam listening in on the other end.

Sam cracked a wicked smile. "Oh no, you're never hearing the end of anything I hear through that wire." He whistled lowly. "The thirties? You've really gotta up your game, man. That's just sad."

Bucky rolled his eyes with a scoff. "Well it's not like anyone's lining up to date the Winter Soldier, Sam." He grouched. "And, I wouldn't be talking if I were you. We're both about as single as they get." He shot Sam a look, smirking.

"I'll have you know I have quite the list of admirers, thank you very much." Sam retorted, sounding scandalized.

Oh, Bucky knew alright. He knew because he had been waiting there idly for years. It was hard to think of a time he hadn't been there, anxiously waiting.

"Yet here we are." Bucky said, dryly.

"And what happened to your lady friend that worked at that restaurant?" Sam pressed, tilting his head.

Bucky grimaced. "I left halfway through our sad excuse for a date because she was accidentally making me feel like a massive piece of shit—deserved, but, still. And I only went for Mr. Nakajima."

Sam nodded, looking curious. "She wasn't your type?"

Bucky busied himself with locating a water, hiding his hesitation with the action. "You could say that. I don't really do well in that area." He admitted, surprising them both with his honesty.

"Think you're just outta practice? It has been, like, almost a hundred years."Sam asked as he leaned back in his chair, prodding in a way that was only barely dipping a toe into the conversation. Testing the waters. But for what, Bucky wasn't quite sure.

Bucky shook his head. "Nah, I've never really known anything about that. It never really interested me." He didn't know how else to spell it out, though. He had just never had any romantic interest in a lady, before.

Back in the day, it had frightened and worried him as news of what happened to people like him poured out in a panic. He had tried to ignore it then, out of fear for his survival. Especially in the War. Because every heading that wasn't engrossed with the war effort was cursing anyone that differed from that "ideal" model of a family.

They claimed that it was wrong and sinful. He had seen how people like him had been treated and told himself that he wasn't apart of that. There was no way he was.

"That's cool, too, man." Sam replied, shrugging casually. Bucky felt so relieved it surprised him.

"What about you?" Bucky pressed, jutting his chin his way. He needed to flip the conversation before it started getting even more personal. He wasn't exactly sure why he was opening up, but Sam had a way of making him feel safer than he ever had in his entire life.

Sam only smiled. "Too busy. I'm more worried about surviving my missions than meetin' somebody new. 'Drives Sarah crazy, though." He pointedly glanced at Bucky then, who nodded slowly.

"Anyway," Bucky cleared his throat, "got any words of wisdom for me? Since you're so romantically inclined?" He teased, smirking as Sam's mouth gaped in defense.

"I'm more 'inclined' than you, Elsa. Wasn't hand-holding, like, low-key scandalous back then?" Sam jabbed back, falling back into their easy rhythm.

"Hey, that was the time of real romance, alright? None of this new, overly-complicated bullshit. People were so much nicer, then. You actually knew when someone liked you, they didn't just dance around it." Bucky replied.

"Right, and I'm sure the most romance you've experienced was from listening to Frank Sinatra."

Bucky straightened defensively, his lopsided grin spreading across his face just enough to make his eyes go all squinty. "No. I got to experience Casablanca on the big screen. I think that takes the cake."

Sam tilted his head to the side in consideration. "Huh, 'never would've taken you for a romantic, Barnes." He commented, smirking.

Bucky felt his face burn. "Oh, shut up, Wilson. I went with my sister."

Sam laughed, bright and full. Bucky wished he would bottle that sound up and keep it nestled close to his heart, so he could hear it whenever he liked.

"Alright, alright. Real talk, though: you can't express your interest outright, you've gotta make him want to make you interested. Intel told me that he likes guys that are hard to get, so use that anytime you can. I seriously doubt you'll have trouble with that one—and keep control of your interactions. Only let him see what you want him to."

Bucky arched a brow. "Have you done this before?"

Sam smiled. "Nah, I just gave Sarah advice while we were growing up."

Bucky snorted. "Maybe I should be asking her for advice, then. She definitely has more first-hand experience with this sort of thing." He teased before downing his water. Sam looked offended.

"You're seriously gonna ask my sister for advice on how to flirt with a man? She's just as hopeless—actually, no, more hopeless than you are. Trust me on this, she doesn't know the first thing about whooing nobody." Sam replied.

Bucky sighed. "I'll take suggestions. I've never actually tried this before—without HYDRA brainwashing or whatever—so, this will be interesting."

"Never?" Sam sounded surprised.

"Never. It was kinda taboo back then, so..." He didn't go into detail, but Sam nodded his understanding. Bucky was very suddenly gripped by the realization that he had never actually talked to someone about this.

In all honesty, he had half-expected his first conversation to go horribly. But this? This was almost worse.

Because Sam's eyes were so kind, and his voice so free of judgement.

That burned.

That stung.

Because if Sam found out, he would rather be yelled at than told gently "no." He could handle the anger and the fire, but soft words? Those hit him the hardest.

He hoped that Sam would let him down harshly, but he also hoped that they would be able to salvage their friendship. He hoped with all of his heart that Sam would stay, because he didn't think he would be able to cope with losing him, too.

He couldn't imagine a world without Sam's light. He would be blind. Lost.

But Sam must have seen that small smile fall, because he leaned forward and shot him an encouraging look. "You'll do fine, Buck, relax. Besides, when all else fails, we can always fall back on your looks." He nudged Bucky's knee with his own, grinning mischievously.

Bucky blinked. Then his lips twitched upward. "You're impossible." He hadn't intended for those two words to sound so soft and tender, but they did. Sam's posture eased.

"What? Who could say no to those baby blues?" Sam teased, though there was something there that scared Bucky. Something far too fond, too... foreign.

"Oh, shut up." Bucky sounded more embarrassed than annoyed, but couldn't bring himself to care when Sam laughed and smiled with all the warmth and light of the sun.

And he didn't. They kept going on and on until they finally arrived at the resort, no longer plagued by the tense silence of before. Here they could be themselves, for this small pocket of time they had together.

Here it was just them. Them against the world outside.

So, Bucky allowed himself to quietly consider their future and what it could hold, stricken with a boldness being in Sam's vicinity always brought about.

Just this once.

Chapter Text

Getting into the sunny, beach-side resort had been a breeze: a smile and a quick flashing of their fake IDs, which dubbed them as Marvin and Theo Zalinski. On the plane, Bucky had faltered when he saw them at first. He had very nearly short-circuited when Sam casually presented to him a silver wedding band to match his gold one.

Sam hadn't mentioned that their alias' were married. He had been under the impression that they were "dating".

He had remained calm, though, and had assured himself that it was all for the mission.

None of this mattered, not even the gentle hand Sam had pressed to the small of his back when he had talked to the kind lady at check-in. None of this meant anything.

Still, he was tempted to allow himself to pretend. To soak in this moment—the beauty of being loved by Sam Wilson, even if it was fake. Or, rather, Marvin Zalinski.

Sam took their room key with a radiant smile and wished the check-in lady a good rest of her day. This dissolved the moment they entered the elevator and pressed the button that corresponded with their floor. It was like a switch had been flipped.

"That was suspiciously easy." Sam commented, crossing his arms over his chest. Bucky huffed.

"It's a resort, Wilson—or should I say Zalinski? Who even came up with that?—nobody is trying to break in." He sent him a dry look as he absently twisted around his fake wedding ring with his thumb.

"Except us." Sam reminded him, shooting him a frown. Bucky tipped his head as if to relent, his metal hand tightening around the handle of his suitcase.

The elevator dinged and the doors slid open, letting them step out into the brightly-lit hall. They made their way toward their door, alert and scanning the faces of any man that passed them by.

So far, no sign.

They finally found their room and quickly unlocked the door. They filed in, lugging their suitcases behind them with enough practiced eagerness to appear "normal" to passers-by. Bucky only relaxed his facade when the front door had been closed and locked.

He took a moment to peruse their lodgings, which was complete with a bathroom, kitchenette, half-closet, and a general living area complete with a TV at the foot of the queen-sized bed.

Right.

Bed. Singular.

Resorts exclusive to couples would, of course, only have one bed.

Bucky tried not to linger on it, but Sam had already caught his hesitation. "It's just for the week, Buck, relax." He pat him on the shoulder minutely as he passed, and began busying himself with their luggage and equipment.

Bucky swallowed down his nerves and, to expel some of his anxious energy, began searching the room for any hidden cameras. Sam watched him pace around with a little black light, peering at wall outlets, lights, and the alarm clock. He smirked when Bucky caught him watching, and huffed out a quiet laugh.

"Paranoid much?" Sam teased as he checked the connection for the wire Bucky would be wearing and it's corresponding device.

Bucky rolled his eyes but didn't pause his sweep. "I prefer the term 'careful,' but sure." He replied shortly. When his search came up empty, he wandered back over to Sam and stuck his hands into the pockets of his fitted pants.

Sam snorted, but didn't bully him further. "No, I get it. I still do checks of my apartment from time to time. 'Can't sleep if I don't." They both considered each other, then.

Bucky felt his tense shoulders sink, eased by the blatant honesty of his tone and the soft understanding staring him in the face. Sam knew.

He knew.

And that terrified him.

"Yeah," Bucky mused, quietly, "same." He sat down on the edge of the bed, and hastily began loosening the patterned tie that had been pressing too-presently against his throat for the better part of a few hours. Then, he undid the topmost buttons of his black dress shirt, his suit jacket having been banished to a hook by the door. He sighed, eyeing the blaring blue numbers on the alarm clock, which helpfully informed him that it was just past 6:30 PM.

"Please tell me that our attire for this week has options that aren't so damn stiff." Bucky grouched as he rolled his sleeves up to his elbows. His vibranium arm gleamed in the dim light of the bedside lamp.

Right. He had to keep that hidden. Annoyance burned hotly in his chest, then.

"It's not all suits, Buck. It's just that—" it's difficult to work around your blaringly obvious mechanical limb "—we tried to pack things that would keep your arm hidden, and you comfortable in this sun. This was just for check-in." Sam explained, now satisfied with his checks.

"Don't plan on any beach trips, then." Bucky joked, dryly.

He carefully put everything back in its rightful place, then turned to face Bucky. "Wasn't anyway. But I made sure they packed you some things to wear in here, too. Figured you wouldn't like bein' stuck in those stuffy clothes more than you have to be."

Bucky was relieved. "We goin' anywhere?"

Sam smirked knowingly. "Nah, we ain't makin' any moves 'till tomorrow." Bucky hesitated.

"Dinner?"

"Room service. Go change, Buck." Sam's dark eyes glittered with amusement as he hid their equipment away. Bucky was rifling through his suitcase in an instant, only pausing once he located a comfortable t-shirt and sweatpants.

He made quick work of the rest of his shirt buttons, and had it off with maybe only one muttered curse at a stubborn one. He rolled his shoulders with a sigh, rubbing at his shoulder port when it twinged with discomfort. He pulled his new shirt on as he made his way to the bathroom, where he unclasped his belt and shucked off his slacks in two fluid kicks. He pulled the gray sweatpants on and gathered up his discarded clothes.

He returned to a smug-looking Sam, who looked entirely too pleased with himself. "Better?" he asked, a lilt to his voice.

Bucky tossed his clothes haphazardly into the laundry bin beside the bathroom door. "Much," he answered, throwing Sam a grateful glance. "I can't stand having to wear those things—I wish I'd thought of that before joining Congress, but when do I ever think ahead? Anyway, is there any more information you didn't let me in on?" He laid down on one side of the bed, stretching his arms over his head before folding them across his chest.

Sam leaned against the doorframe of the small closet, smirking as he watched Bucky lounge across the bed. "Is there anything specific you wanna know?"

Bucky turned his head so he looked at him, humming absently. "Is this a kid-friendly resort?" Sam looked startled.

"That's what you're worried about?" Sam snorted, tilting his head. "I thought you liked kids."

"No, I do, I just don't want to deal with any while I'm trying to 'work'. Plus, they're too noisy."

Sam grinned. "Who would've thought? Mr. Rough 'n Tough has a soft spot for kids." He ribbed, crossing his arms.

Bucky groaned and turned his gaze back to the ceiling, instead. "Nevermind, forget I asked. How are we going to approach this guy?" There he was again, fiddling with his little wedding ring. He wasn't sure why he still had it on, since they were in their hotel room and away from prying eyes. But Sam had not asked, so he kept it on.

"First, there are some kids, but they'll all be in the nursery. Secondly, we don't approach him, he'll approach us. Shoot him a glance or two, make him interested." Sam straightened up, moving closer to the bed.

Bucky sighed heavily and dropped a hand over his eyes. "I hope this won't be a complete disaster, since I'm so out of practice with this. Last time, I had training for this sort of thing, but, y'know, that was HYDRA. This will be easier than that any day of the week."

Sam's brows pinched then, and he cocked his head to the side inquisitively. "You said that on the jet, too. What do you mean by that?" He tried to sound casual, but that blaring concern rang like alarm bells in Bucky's mind. His slight hesitation made a muscle in Sam's jaw tighten. There was an edge to his words that insisted he wouldn't take any vague answers.

Bucky blew a breath through his teeth, refusing to remove his hand from over his eyes. "Basically just missions like this but amped up, like, twenty percent."

"Meaning?" Sam pressed, his voice closer. Bucky peeked through his fingers and saw that Sam had taken a step or two closer. Bucky shifted, tensing.

"What exactly does this have to do with our mission?" Bucky gruffed shortly, already too defensive.

"Is it so hard to believe I'm concerned when my friend vaguely mentions negative experiences he's had that's similar to this mission? Stop deflecting. If you really don't want to talk about it, fine. But I don't like any of the implications you're puttin' out, here." Sam replied evenly, too seriously.

Shit.

Bucky turned, finally withdrawing his hand to more completely glare Sam's way. "Same old shit, Sam. They brainwashed me and made me do their bidding." He swallowed and looked away. "You heard Selby and Zemo at the Smiling Tiger."

There was a long few beats of thought, so painfully silent Bucky swore he could hear the cogs in Sam's head spinning.

Then, he knew the exact moment Sam put two and two together, because all of the air in the room seemed to disappear. Still, he refused to look at him. Not if he knew. No, he couldn't.

"So," his quietly loud voice rang out as if he had yelled, "what Zemo was... offering, that... they did that?" Bucky suddenly wanted to be anywhere else but here in this moment. He wished the earth would just swallow him whole, finally fold him within its depths where he belonged.

Where he should be.

He glanced at Sam for a split second, just long enough to catch an expression of seething hatred, anger boiling just beneath the surface of his calm facade. He had expected disgust, or that horribly ingenuine pity—anything but the murderous expression of Sam Wilson that made even the Winter Soldier at the back of his mind shy away.

"Sam—" He tried, only confirming the other's thoughts with his desperation.

"No, don't you dare do your little underplaying thing you do." Sam snapped, pressing his tightly-clenched fist to his grit teeth. "God, I swear I'm going to burn that goddamned place to the ground."

Bucky sat up wordlessly, eyes flicking from Sam to his own hands clasped in his lap. He said nothing.

"Please, say something." That fire dimmed, replaced by something else entirely as he took a step closer.

"What is there to say?" Bucky grumbled, refusing to look Sam in the eye because he knew. He knew the one thing he had managed to keep mostly secret—the thing that had dimly haunted him for decades now.

"Buck, this is serious. Does Dr. Raynor know?"

Bucky only shook his head.

Sam sighed, sounding beyond concerned. "Do you want to change roles? Would being in a situation like that again be bad for you? And be honest,"

"It won't be like that." He tried to sound sure, but there was a lingering question mark behind those words.

"But what if it—"

"Sam," Bucky finally met his eyes, if even for just a second. "You'll be watching my back, it won't be like that." He surprised even himself with how much he believed it. "You wouldn't let that happen. You said so yourself."

A grimace. "'You sure?"

"You haven't failed me, yet."

"That's reassuring."

"No, I know you've got me. I trust you." And he meant that, more than he had intended to. More than he ever had.

Sam's scowl faltered. "Fine, but if anything starts goin' there, you know the code word." He paused, considering him. "Does intel know?"

Bucky bit his lip. "Yeah, it's... it's in my file."

Sam's expression darkened again, looking as though he was genuinely plotting someone's murder. He probably was. "How considerate of them to use that to their advantage, awesome people we work for."

"Sam, it's fine, honestly. It freaked me out at first, but I'm not alone this time around. I'm not there anymore." He reached for the remote on the bedside table, and flicked the TV on.

"If you're sure," Sam relented, though it was hesitant.

"I am. Now, go change, we're going to watch the Golden Girls." Bucky replied, nodding to Sam's suitcase. Sam snorted and rolled his eyes fondly.

"Of course we are." Sam griped as he picked out his own change of clothes and quickly changed into them. And no, Bucky's eyes did not linger just a little too long when he pulled off that maroon button-down. Now clad in a t-shirt and gym shorts, he flopped down onto the other side of the bed with a huff.

He pulled out his phone and absently ordered them both dinner, then slumped against the pillows to mindlessly tune into the episode Bucky had selected.

Bucky settled next to him, making sure to keep a comfortable distance away, even if his mind was screaming about just how close they were and just how peaceful this was.

God, he felt like a teen-ager all over again, too awkward and lost to navigate these feelings tumbling in his gut.

Still, there was that lingering fear that Sam knew. That was enough to give him pause, which Sam noticed immediately. He turned to him, his gaze intense.

"Hey," he said, softly, "you do know I don't mind, right? Like, it doesn't bother me—well, it does, but, y'know what I mean. Don't beat yourself up over something that wasn't remotely your fault."

Bucky swallowed, meeting that gaze. "Yeah, I know. Thanks for not... well, overreacting, I guess. That's usually why I just keep it to myself." And he couldn't stand how disgusting it made him feel.

Sam bumped their shoulders together with a small smile. "No problem, man."

They lapsed into comfortable silence, absently watching the episodes without really watching them. At least Bucky wasn't, seeing as Sam had remained glued to his arm, leaning so casually into him it ached. It felt right even if the alarm bells blaring in his mind screamed that it wasn't.

When Sam went to retrieve their food, he mourned the loss, but he was back in an instant. He handed over Bucky's plate—a club sandwich with a bag of kettle chips—and was right back where he had been. Bucky eased against the comforting weight after a long few moments, grateful for the grounding presence that kept him from spiralling.

They ate in companionable silence, both leaning into the other easily. There was an unwavering trust here, something Bucky never thought he would ever be able to give, or receive, again.

This was nice, Bucky thought. This was real.

And maybe pretending to be with Sam Wilson wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.

Chapter Text

The oppressive chill of Bucky's haunted dream was, confusingly, interrupted by a foreign warmth paired with an anchoring weight. He cracked open his eyes, suddenly too alert, and was met with a sound-asleep, stars-and-stripes-donning superhero wrapped securely around him. Bucky froze, his breath catching in his throat.

Sam Wilson was clinging to him like a lifeline.

He had those strong arms wrapped snugly around his waist, and their legs were a tangled mess beneath the covers. His head nuzzled into the crook of his neck, sending shivers down his spine. Bucky thought he might die from those soft breaths ghosting over his collarbone, alone.

This was torture of the first-degree, Bucky amended as he remained perfectly still.

He carefully tried to extract himself, fearing what would happen when Sam woke up, but Sam's grip only tightened as he hummed disapprovingly. He shifted in his sleep so one of his hands clasped the ridges of Bucky's ribs through his shirt, and the other found its way into the nape of his short hair. His chest became flush with Bucky's side, practically enveloping him.

The ex-assassin, on the other hand, remained as rigid as a board, his breathing too forced. The majority of his sleep-addled brain was frantically trying to locate an easy way out of this situation, comfortable as it was, while the small percentage murmured about just how nice it felt to be held like this.

He honestly couldn't think of a time he had ever been held like this: without fear or restraint.

But every move he made only coaxed Sam to unconsciously pull him closer, further fuelling that tiny percentage of his mind that relished in the closeness. In the warmth of Sam.

So, he closed his eyes with an aggrieved sigh and slowly—painfully slowly—allowed himself to relax into that solidity, the firm reassurance that promised him that he was safe. When was the last time he had felt that? He allowed himself to ease against Sam, his breath becoming steady and relieved.

Maybe—

He felt Sam begin to stir, and a moment later the burn of his gaze. Then, a rumble from Sam's chest as he chuckled, his voice low and husky with sleep. God, Bucky hoped he would hear that more in the future. "Well." He murmured, so softly Bucky thought he might melt. "This is awkward." He could hear the smile in his voice, though Sam hesitated to pull away.

There was a beat of silence, which was interrupted by a quiet scoff from Sam. "C'mon, Sleeping Beauty, I know you're awake: you aren't snoring or tossin' around." He remained glued around Bucky for another agonizing moment before slowly pulling away, those warm arms and hands retreating and leaving him far too cold. He felt the mattress shift as Sam sat up, now on his decided side of the bed.

Bucky peeled open an eye to glare at him half-heartedly. "I don' snore." He grumbled, hoping his face wasn't as rosy as it felt.

Sam smirked. "You don't, I just knew poking at you would get the quickest answer."

Bucky's glare went flat. "You're a pain in my ass, y'know that? 'Can't even enjoy my morning."

Sam waved him off with a grin. "Nah, you love me. You sleep okay?"

Bucky sat up and propped himself against his pillows. "Yeah, just fine, just got a wake-up call from a damn koala." He snipped, refusing to meet Sam's gaze should he discover the truth: he really hadn't minded. In fact, he would really rather he wake like that every morning.

"Is it too late to say I'm a sleep-hugger?" There was that lilt to his voice that made Bucky's face twitch.

"Absolutely."

"Hey, I'm unconsciously doin' it, I can't help it." At least Sam sounded just fractionally as embarrassed as Bucky felt.

"Well, stop while you're ahead, unless you want to be kicked off. Literally." Bucky responded, flatly. He cracked his back with a sigh and massaged his dully-aching shoulder port. Sam watched.

There was that obnoxiously endearing smirk. "I can't help that I'm a physically affectionate person, Buck. And I know underneath all that black leather and grumpiness, you are too." He teased.

Bucky swung his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to Sam. "I'm not. So, either find yourself a comfortable spot on the floor, or figure it out." He forced himself to sound more affected than he was, and Sam saw right through it.

Sam stood, rubbing at his jaw. "And yet, the bionic man didn't push me away." Again, came the unreadable undertone, paired with those carefully assessing eyes as Sam rounded the bed and made his way to the adjoining kitchenette.

And Bucky had no witty comebacks for that, beause he hadn't. He could have, easily, but he hadn't.

"Chill, Buck, I'm just pullin' your leg. I'll just get a pillow or somethin', if you want." Sam called as the coffee maker groaned to life. "I'll figure it out." But that didn't reassure Bucky at all. He bit his lip.

"Hm." He hummed absently, not quite agreeing or disapproving.

"What?" Sam glanced over as he stuck a mug under the machine.

"Nothing, don't worry about it." Bucky mumbled, reinstating those walls that had momentarily slipped from the soft touches and warm arms. Sam passed him a cup of steaming coffee: black with a dash of milk and sweetener, just how he liked it. He felt his lips twitch into what he could assume was one of the worst, most soft little smiles.

Because Sam had remembered something as small as how he liked his coffee in the morning. Of course he had, the stupid idiot. "Thanks." He said, absently.

Sam considered him carefully, then. "Do you... want me to stop?" No judgement, just a simple question that silently promised him that he didn't mind. Still, it made Bucky's heart flutter in a way he found only Sam could bring about.

Could he have this?

Should he let himself have this?

That tiny percentage pleaded with him to say "no."

"...I don't know. I'm not... I'm not used to this." He settled on, his voice thin and honest. Whatever this was.

"Okay," Sam replied easily, not pushing or bothered. So, he redirected their focus: "What's on the itinerary today?" He took a long sip of his own coffee, two sugars with a splash of milk.

Thank God for Sam Wilson. "Locate and introduce ourselves to Mr. Roger Schmitt. Want me to wear that wire, just in case?" Sam hummed his understanding.

"Yeah, we can't predict how fast or slow he'll take it, so, I'd say so."

Bucky nodded, considering his future interaction. "How exactly should I go about this?"

A shrug. "Do what gets the best reaction. Don't seem too interested, but let him think you're curious—compliment him, or something. Guys like him like that."

Bucky sighed. "I'll just test the waters, today. See what works. Shouldn't be too hard, I was popular in Brooklyn back in the day."

Sam raised his brows when he glanced at him over the lip of his mug. "Things have definitely changed since then, and you don't have that uniform, anymore, Sarge."

He scowled. "It wasn't just the uniform. I also had the element of charm and my irresistible good looks." He smiled despite himself, challenging Sam in an almost playful way.

"Sure, baby blues. How long ago was that?" Sam grinned, flashing his tooth gap before he ducked to dodge the pillow Bucky threw his way, laughing.

"Oh, shut up. I've still got it—you're just jealous!" Bucky chuckled, jokingly defensive.

"Jealous of what? Your senior citizen discount?"

"Actually, technically, I'm younger than you. Let that sink in." Bucky laughed, actually laughed, at Sam's look of horror, full and easy. Sam paused, his expression softening around the edges with a kind of mesmerized air. He looked stunned, with that wide, goofy smile of his.

"You're still ancient, Mr. Flintstone." He murmured, moving to sit back down on the bed. Bucky rolled his eyes.

"I'm going to pretend I know who that is." Still, he sounded more relaxed than he had in ages. Sam couldn't get enough of it, not that Bucky recognized that. "I'll handle Schmitt, just watch. He'll be enchanted by me by the end of the day."

"I bet." Sam replied, surprising Bucky with his candor. "Let's figure out what you're gonna wear, first. Remember the excuse we agreed on?" He downed the rest of his coffee.

"You can figure that out. Yes, I have sensitive skin that breaks out into a bad rash in the sun. I came here for you because I'm nice, blah, blah, blah." Bucky answered absently, waving his metal hand for emphasis. Sam shot him a look as he got back up and moved to rummage through Bucky's suitcase of clothes.

"And your name?" Sam asked, holding up a thin, charcoal-gray long-sleeved shirt. Bucky looked offended.

"I know that. It's Theodore Zalinski, I'll say, and then," he paused, and when he spoke again it was in that horrible, syrupy-sweet tone: "but you can call me Theo." He visibly shuddered. "Ugh, God, this better be worth it."

Sam chuckled, tossing over the shirt and a pair of dark jeans. "Exactly like that, just make yourself sound more interested." Bucky thoughtlessly caught the clothes and scowled at him.

"Interested, not interested—make up your mind, Wilson. Am I outright flirting, or what?"

Sam located his own change of clothes and straightened, shooting Bucky a cautionary glance. "Do whatever gets the best response. Try both, then go from there. But don't come on too strong. Leave an impression." He talked even as he ducked into the bathroom. "Best case scenario, we catch him without his wife and either go up to him, or wait for him to go up to us."

Bucky hesitated. "I should probably just approach him, then."

"Why?"

He snorted. "I doubt he'll go up to me, Sam."

Sam stepped out of the bathroom, now dressed in bermuda shorts and a patterned polo that hugged his chest and biceps just right.

Focus, Barnes.

"Why's that?" Sam looked confused as he adjusted his collar and undid the topmost button.

Bucky stood, his own clothes folded in his arms. He shrugged, suddenly awkward under Sam's calculating gaze. "I don't know if you've noticed, but, besides my arm, I'm a pretty unremarkable person." He moved to go change, but Sam stopped him by firmly putting a hand to his chest.

"And, what? Don't tell me you're gettin' shy on me, Barnes." Sam's dark eyes searched his intently.

"No, I just... I don't know. Plus, then I'll have more control." He pushed past Sam and into the bathroom.

"Judging by the crowd of girls you complain about fending off, I'd say you've got nothing to worry about." Sam replied steadily through the door.

"...That was almost a hundred years ago. That's different."

Sam laughed. "Dude, you look the exact same—a hundred years and you've still got your pretty face? Please. And don't tell me you haven't noticed your little fan club you've amassed." He sounded so genuine, and–

Wait, did he call him pretty?

Bucky felt his face burn as his mind short-circuited. It took a while for him to respond, as he was rendered completely speechless. "No." His voice was quieter, and he tried to distract himself from the fluttering in his stomach by pulling on his change of clothes.

"You've got a legion, my man. They're honestly scary."

Bucky felt the corners of his lips quirk up as he combed his hair, looking over himself. Pretty, huh? "Sounds weird."

"Yeah, well, they're a little obsessed."

Bucky opened the bathroom door and was met with Sam, whose eyes roved over him before coming to rest on his face. This guy really had no shame. He smirked. "Pretty, huh?" Sam rolled his eyes and turned away.

"Don't let it get to that big head of yours." He grumbled over his shoulder as he pulled on a pair of boat shoes. Bucky laced up his boots and followed Sam out of the room.

Bucky bumped his shoulder with his, offering him a soft smile. "Hey, I appreciate it." Sam smiled back.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." They stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the first floor, where breakfast—and Schmitt—would be. "You've got the wire on, right?"

Bucky nodded.

"Good," the doors slid open. "Act cool, don't scare him off with your murder stare."

"'Murder stare'?" He murmured as they stepped into the dining area where the rest of the couples were. The realcouples.

Sam smiled and chose not to respond, instead scanning the smatter of duos. "There he is, two o'clock. In the golf polo." Sam whispered, leaning toward him. Bucky looked where he was directed immediately, catching sight of the man glancing around the room blankly.

Alone.

Bucky and Sam went side by side to the breakfast bar, where they got their respective meals. They sat down near enough to him that they knew he could see them, with Bucky angled so he was indirectly facing him. He caught his gaze while he and Sam kept up a quiet chatter.

Roger smiled, straightening in his seat. Bucky smiled back, his eyes lingering just long enough before looking away. Roger stood and began to approach their table.

Perfect. It didn't even take ten minutes. This would be a breeze.

"Morning, gentlemen. Nice weather we're having, eh?" He smirked. It made Bucky's skin crawl.

They both smiled politely, catching the way he kept his eyes on Bucky. "Yes," Sam replied, "and who are you?"

He held out a hand to him, and then to Bucky, whose hand he held just a little while longer, just a little tighter. "Pardon me, I'm Roger. Roger Schmitt."

"Well, I'm Marvin, and this is my husband, Theodore." He gestured toward Bucky, who Roger gazed at intently.

Bucky felt his stomach do somersaults at being casually referred to as his husband, even if it was a front. He was a mess, and he knew it.

"Lovely to meet you both. I'll see you around," that was directed at Bucky, "don't stay strangers."

Sam and Bucky offered their own farewells, with Bucky giving that charmed smile that made people buckle. Roger looked pleased, and promptly left after quickly offering a quick: "I'll be at the beach at two." Bucky turned back to Sam, surprised.

"That was easy." He remarked as he ate the rest of his fruit. Sam snorted, taking a bite out of his toasted bagel.

"Told you." He chuckled. "'Guess we're goin' to the beach, then."

"Guess so."

Chapter Text

Bucky glared distastefully at the sleek black fishing shirt Sam presented to him, along with a pair of swimming shorts. He pinched the long sleeves, grumbling. He hated going to the beach—or any body of water, really—for this specific reason: the ordeal of having to keep his arm from view, because, preferably, it was always kept from sight.

Well, that, and sand was a pain in the ass to clean out of the plates of his arm.

"C'mon, Buck. I know you don't like it, but it'll just be for a little while." Sam consoled him, handing over the swim-wear. Bucky suddenly wished that they were in Louisiana, instead, preparing for a hot day out with no worries or fear of judgment. There he could be himself, he could shed the persona he had built to protect himself from this new, unfamiliar, dangerous world.

He sighed grievously, slumping from his spot on the floor next to his suitcase. Sam was already changed into his own pair of swimming shorts and a half-buttoned hawaiian shirt.

How did he look good in everything he wore? It wasn't fair.

"I hate my stupid arm." Bucky grumbled, staring sullenly down at the vibranium limb. "I'm going to die of heat stroke because of this damned thing."

"Hey, cool it, Drama Queen. It's badass and hella useful. You can open, like, every can known to man, no problem. I'd call that a blessing." Sam shot him a look, one that urged him to be agreeable.

"I'm a super soldier, I can do that anyway. And you wouldn't call it that if you were the one attached to it." He deadpanned, glancing at him with disinterest.

"Still, I think it's pretty awesome. Plus, it's like, super cold, so if I ever need to cool down, you're my guy."

Bucky shrugged noncommittally. "I just wish I didn't have it so I wouldn't have to hide it. Nobody knows who I am until they see my metal murder arm." He murmured bitterly, turning it.

Sam shook his head. "Just, go change. I like your metal murder arm, I think it's super cool, if that counts for anything. And I love that you put it through the dishwasher."

"It's easier that way... and it's warm after." He grumbled as he stood and rumbled off to the bathroom. He pulled his shirt off and caught his reflection in the large mirror.

Scars of all shapes and sizes spanned the expanse of his torso: some dark and some light, some thick and some thin, some jagged and some clean. Old, ugly, puckered stab and gunshot wounds, now healed over and eternally warping his body. Dark, amorphous patches from old burns. All served to mar his pale skin, leaving him feeling like he had more scar tissue than muscle in some areas, even after the serum had tirelessly worked to mend his broken body.

He looked at his gleaming vibranium arm, listened to how it whirred softly with each movement. Inhuman, wrong. He glared at the patchwork of skin bordering his shoulder port, stretched and scarred deeply. He felt a violent revulsion to himself, a feeling that made him tense up and hunch in on himself. Each divot, each hill, had its own bloody story. Its own private memory of the horrible thing that had caused it, whether that was done to him by HYDRA or by an enemy.

An enemy. Were they ever the enemy? Weren't most of them on his side? Never his enemy, but theirs. That was all that mattered, anyway.

Suddenly, he was glad he was covering himself so completely. Who would want to look at his mottled body? Who would want to gaze at those physical memories and know them? Who would want to see that arm, that indelible reminder of all of the unforgivable things he had done, even without the branding of that star?

A part of him had hoped that Sam would. A part of him still did. When he said those soft words that made him feel more secure than he ever had before meeting him, or when he looked at him like he was worth it.

But, no, he should hide this.

He felt a deep-set shame settle into the very marrow of his bones. How had he allowed himself to go shirtless in Delacroix? And around Sam's family, at that. What had they thought? Had it frightened them to see the war-torn battlefield that remained his body? He shouldn't have allowed himself to relax there.

He should have stayed hidden.

"Buck, hey, you doin' okay in there?" Sam asked from right outside the door, his voice muffled but strong. Bucky was taking too long. He pulled his swimming trunks on silently, cursing.

"Fine," he grumbled, eyes still glued to each and every one of his imperfections. Sam huffed out a breath.

"Really? 'Cause I can feel you brooding from out here, so, something's up. You decent?"

Bucky blinked. "Yeah?"

Sam pushed open the bathroom door and stepped in, watching him carefully. Those dark eyes travelled over his chest, holding so much reverence and care that it scared him. He offered him one of those lopsided smiles, finding his face.

"You havin' another crisis?" He asked.

Bucky swallowed, looking away from that intense gaze. "It's nothing, Sam. I was just spaced out." But the desperate way he held himself told another story. He gripped the fishing shirt in his hands too tightly, and his shoulders were too hunched.

"Well, if this wasn't an undercover mission, I'd say keep the shirt off. But, alas, another time." Sam said, his words smooth but pointed. "Don't worry, I'll stave off the paparazzi, Boy Wonder."

Those dark thoughts lifted their hold for just a moment, and Bucky's mouth twitched into the beginnings of a smile, betraying him. Sam beamed in response, leaning against the doorframe smugly.

"We'll make a trip before we leave. Just the two of us,"

Just the two of them.

Somehow that was more reassuring than anything. No pity, no disgust—in fact, Sam's eyes traced over him easily. "We don't have to do that, Sam, I was just—"

"No, no, we're going. C'mon, you can get a nice tan, Barnes—maybe I'll sneak a picture to your little fanbase. They'd go feral." Sam interjected, so infallibly confident it awed the other. Bucky felt his face burn, but he occupied himself with pulling on the skin-tight, long-sleeved shirt.

"Unless you're worried about making a few couples jealous?" Sam added, mischievously.

Bucky hoped he wasn't as flushed as he felt. "Oh, please. You don't have to say that; you're so ridiculous." He murmured, expressing his embarrassment.

"Say what? That Marvin's gotta watch out before someone else swoops in?" Bucky rolled his eyes at the comment and pushed past him, back into the room.

"Shut up, Wilson." He snorted. Sam perked up at that.

"Hmmm? What was that?" He cupped a hand behind the shell of his ear, leaning toward Bucky with a cheeky grin. "Sorry, I didn't catch that, I was too busy lookin' to listen."

What was this side of him?

Bucky laughed, all surprised and pleasantly charmed. He shook his head, unable to keep the smile from his face. "You're impossible, you know that?" He fixed Sam with that easy grin, turning only to toe on a pair of sandals. Sam followed suit, humming.

"And you can't get enough of it." Sam shot back, over his shoulder as he fetched two beach towels from a duffel.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say." Bucky slid his sunglasses on and made for the door. "C'mon, it's almost two."

"Slow your role, Snow Miser. We've got to get some sunscreen." Sam tossed him a towel, and slung his over his shoulder. He rifled around for a moment before brandishing a bottle of Banana Boat sunscreen. Bucky rolled his eyes.

"I don't burn, Wilson."

"See, now you're just lyin'." Sam straightened up, now holding a beach bag full of waters and snacks, because, of course he would think to pack that. "Don't you remember the last time you said that exact sentence? Remember how you went to bed, red as a lobster, and bitched about it for, like, a week? 'Cause I do." He grinned.

"Hey, that was the first time my shoulders saw the light of day in decades. Cut me some slack." Bucky defended himself, though he allowed that little smirk of his that brought a certain twinkle to his eye.

They both stepped out of their room, grinning like idiots and unknowingly, as though influenced by an invisible force or pull, drifted closer towards the other as they talked. It made Bucky inwardly pause, because something as easygoing and normal as just getting ready for a day at the beach, wasn't normal for him.

It made him feel a kind of parallel understanding, that this is what it could be like. It was nice: not having to fight or kill, but still that negative little nagging voice at the back of his mind insisted that this was all for a mission, nothing else.

This meant nothing.

"Hey," Sam touched his elbow, soft but grounding in a way that made his head spin. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just thinking about our job." He lied through his teeth. But wasn't it a partial truth? Sam hummed, still holding his elbow. Why was he still doing that? Why hadn't he pulled away? But he loved how Sam's warm hand cupped the joint of his arm solidly.

Sam considered him, knowing, but he let it slide. "We'll spend some time at the beach ourselves before we go find him, alright?" They stepped into the elevator and made for the ground floor. "Just relax, Buck. The world won't fall apart if you let yourself chill out for a bit." Now, paired with that guiding hand was its attached arm wrapping across the small of his back.

The elevator doors slid open.

"I'll try," he agreed, begrudgingly. Sam smiled, satisfied.

"Yes, you will." He declared.

****

Bucky stepped out onto the bright, soft sand, using each step to accustom himself to the sinking feeling. He breathed the sharp scent of salt and the smooth musk of the sea. His shoes dangled from his free hand, having been shed in favor of the gritty warmth. Sam marched on, easing visibly at the familiar heat hugging them both from all angles. It was as though the sun was embracing them, holding them close to her chest like an old friend.

Together, they trudged along until they found a spot a little ways away from the other couples already set up.

The couples. Not the "other" ones. They weren't one. A couple.

The bright waves rolled and folded, crashing and rushing into sprays of white foam against the darkened sand. Gulls laughed mockingly, dipping and diving, gathering and scattering when the occasional kid came squealing into their midst. Children's laughter bounced off of the sand, echoing into the far distance, reaching.

It was nice. Familiar.

Sam laid a large beach towel down on the sand, and allowed his bag to fall from his shoulder. He immediately pulled out the bottle of sunscreen and ordered Bucky to sit. Reluctantly, he obliged. He sat cross-legged on the soft, red-and-white striped towel, staring out toward the tumultuous ocean. He reached back for the bottle, but his hand was pushed back.

He glanced back, confused. "I just need it for my face."

Sam shook his head. "Nope, shirt up—you can get sunburned through wet clothes, trust me, I know."

Bucky rolled his eyes, but did as he was told, though there was a clear hesitation. He kept the sleeves on, but pulled the shirt over his head and let it pool in his lap.

The sunscreen cap flipped open with a click, and Sam squeezed a healthy glob onto his palm. He rubbed his hands together, and then began to work it into Bucky's back. The chill made him flinch, and it took an embarrassing amount of willpower not to lean away. But, still, his face burned.

Slowly, he pressed back into the solid touch, sighing. Right, they were supposed to be married. Make it look like this wasn't the first time anyone had ever taken care of him like this.

Those strong, soothing hands passed over those scars he loathed, so soft yet firm it felt like a thousand words. He tried to ignore when he felt a calloused finger trace them, featherlight and awed.

Sam massaged the lotion into his shoulders next, which Bucky melted into as he worked a knot in the space where his neck and shoulder met. Sam chuckled quietly, his brows raised.

"Good?"

Bucky hummed his answer, eyes closed. He covered his neck, too, and gave him a pat on the shoulder. Bucky pulled his shirt back on, and turned back. Sam stuck a few dollops on his face and smirked. He spread it out evenly, his gaze too soft as they just watched each other. He looked him over, squinting, before declaring he was good to go.

And, strangely, Bucky just took the bottle and provided Sam with the same ministrations, though he was painfully gentle about it. This was too casual, too–

"I'm not gonna break, y'know." Sam chuckled, and Bucky felt the vibration. Bucky swallowed, frantically searching for a response.

"I know," was all he said. And Sam didn't comment on the matter any further. He tapped him on the shoulder once he finished, and had to cope with his turning and facing him while he ever-so-gingerly swiped the lotion onto his face.

Again, they watched one another, both biting back smiles and failing. They broke into easy laughter, their eyes crinkling around the edges as they grinned crookedly. It was soft and gentle, and Bucky squawked when Sam jokingly dabbed a dot of sunscreen onto his nose.

He rubbed it in just in time for Sam to yank him to his feet. He allowed himself to be drawm closer to the glittering ocean, Sam's hand firm and sure in his own.

Together they stepped out into the cool water, stopping as it pushed and pulled at their ankles. Bucky stood still to feel that odd sensation of sand slipping out from under him with the drag of the water, but was quickly disturbed as Sam kicked a wide arc of water at him. He shielded himself with a surprised sound, peering at him as he, without a second thought, flung some at him in return.

Pretty soon it was an all-out battle, with salt water spraying up around them. Sam's bright laughter wafted through the air like music, deep and true.

It reminded Bucky of long beach days at Long Island when he was just a kid. He would fool around in the water until he either wore himself out, or grew tired of salt water invading his nostrils and eyes. The memory was faint, but there. Buried beneath everything else he kept from view.

"Alright, alright, truce!" Sam called, his hands held up in mock surrender. Bucky relented, his hair now dripping and sticking to his forehead. They both waded out further, with the waves hungrily lapping at their shins, knees, upper-legs, and, finally, up their torso.

The pressure of the water was comforting, much like an embrace.

"This your first time swimming since the thirties?" Sam asked, grinning as he floated easily along with the current.

"Could be," Bucky answered, curiously. "I honestly can't remember. I'm sure I've—" Then he remembered: him fishing Steve out of the dark, murky water of the Potomac River, only to leave him laying on the bank, bruised and battered. Sam must have seen his face fall, because he drew closer.

"Remember something?" It was carefully soft, but reinforced by something he could almost call support.

"Yeah," Bucky blinked, fighting to regain that momentary ease that was already slipping from his lax fingers. "After Steve and I fought a while ago, I had to carry him back to shore when we landed in that river."

Recognition dawned in Sam's eyes. "I remember hearing about that after. Sreve said you saved him, even though you had been ordered to kill him."

Bucky blew out a breath, though it was fuller than he thought it would be. It was a surprised sound that lept quietly from his throat, not quite a laugh. "That was before you two pulled all that shit to find me."

"You're welcome, by the way." Sam cut in, smugly. Bucky rolled his eyes, that smile already clawing back to the surface.

"Thanks, even if you hated my guts."

"I didn't hate you, per se."

"Sure seemed like you did."

"Okay, maybe a little bit. We didn't meet on the greatest of terms, but you grew on me. I used to think—" he paused, looking away, suddenly embarrassed. "Actually, no, nevermind."

"Aw, c'mon. Now I'm curious. What? What did you think?" Bucky urged. Sam licked his lips.

"No, no, it's dumb."

"I don't care, honestly. I won't judge you."

Sam glanced his way. "Well, for starters, I thought you were an asshole—"

"Hey!"

"—but, I understood why. I used to think that you were, like, kind of a bonus to the whole 'becoming Captain America' thing." He smirked, drinking in Bucky's surprise.

"A bonus?" Bucky laughed.

"Like, your trust and general companionship. I felt like I had to keep up Steve's work of defending you against everyone that was after you." Sam specified. "It was like gaining that shield also just happened to mean I gained you." That was strangely tender and bittersweet.

"I trusted you before then, too. That's why I fought so hard to get the shield back to you. Plus, since he... y'know, you were the only person left I had to turn to." Bucky admitted as they began to drift back towards the shore, kicking lazily.

"Seriously?"

"Yep. Family and friends from before HYDRA were all gone and buried, and the majority of the world still saw—sees—me as some dangerous thing to be locked up, so that left you. You were the only one that looked at me and thought to help me, rather than fear and hate me."

Sam considered him then, head tilted. "I'm glad I did." An honest, heartfelt truth. Bucky softened.

"Me too."

They were back on the beach just as the approaching figure of Roger Schmitt appeared against the sand. He glanced around as though ensuring it was just the three of them, confident in his long strides. He grinned, all too-straight, professionally whitened teeth. Bucky suppressed a shudder when he watched his eyes scan over him.

Still, they both plastered delighted smiles on their faces.

"Afternoon, gentlemen." He greeted politely, coming to a stop in front of them.

"Mr. Schmitt, right?" Sam asked innocently, too casually wrapping a solid arm around Bucky's shoulders. Those dark, weasel eyes watched, curious.

"Please, just call me Roger." His forced charm came off as vaguely ingenuine, but only if you knew what to listen for. Anyone unaware of what this man got up to at places like this would never have caught it.

"Alright, Roger. You come here every year?" Bucky chipped in, noticing the clear absence of a wedding ring from his ring finger. He could even see the pale little line of skin where it hadn't tanned. Interesting.

"Yup, every year. What about you two?" He stepped just a little bit closer, but close enough to set the alarm bells blaring in his mind.

"First time. We figured it would be a good way to relax and spend some quality time together, since we both work a lot." Bucky smiled softly at Sam then, willing it to hold all of the affection he could muster. Sam's eyes were surprised, but he smiled back.

"Then you two have got to go try the crab shack they have further down the beach—they have amazing all-you-can-eat crab legs." Schmitt said, though something in his voice made Bucky feel like he was trying to lower their guard.

"We absolutely will," Sam replied, feigning pleasant interest.

"Say, do either of you like a solid game of pool?" Schmitt asked, still eyeing Bucky in a way that made him nauseous. Sam pulled him closer, suddenly.

Here was their chance. "I'm not much of a fan, but Theodore here loves it." Sam announced. Bucky trained his features into an intrigued smile.

"You play?" He asked. Schmitt's grin grew like a shark's. He thought Bucky—or, rather, Theodore—had taken the bait he had so cleverly set, sinker and all.

They had him.

"Yeah! We should go play sometime—get some time away from them, eh?" He winked, and Bucky thought he might gag. In his mind he sneered, imagining him pulling similar traps on other, unknowing victims. What a piece of shit.

"Sounds perfect," he declared, his tone bright.

Schmitt flicked a business card out of seemingly nowhere, and handed it over to him, though he kept a stead hold for a second too long. "Call me. I'll be free anytime." Another smirk that made Bucky wonder if he thought he was being attractive. He didn't.

"Will do," they both exchanged an uncomfortably long look before he was off again, strutting through the sand. Schmitt never did stick around for very long—judging by the anxious glancing around, he was making sure they weren't being watched. He was skittish, and fled before anyone else had the chance to take notice.

Clever, but not clever enough.

Once he was out of view, though, Bucky shuddered. "Christ, that guy gives me the creeps."

Sam laughed, patting him on the shoulder Bucky just noticed he had been squeezing. "Tell me about it." They both made for their towels, which Bucky tied around himself, now feeling entirely too wrong from being under that man's beady gaze. His wet hair fanned across his forehead, making Sam snort. Sam used his own towel to dry it, ruffling it in the process, before drying himself.

"You think this is it?" He asked.

"I hope so. I honestly can't remember the last time I played pool." Bucky replied sarcastically.

Sam shot him a warning look, appearing graver than Bucky expected. "Be ready for anything, Buck."

Bucky smirked. "When aren't I?"

Chapter Text

Sam and Bucky found themselves enclosed in a secluded booth at the crab shack Schmitt had recommended to them not even an hour prior. They were still laden with sand and towels, much like the other customers around them. It was a charming establishment, with many large windows and a wrap-around porch the faced the glittering ocean, where they had karaoke on the weekends.

The staff were all sun-kissed and easygoing, with their waiter—his nametag read Connor with a drawn-on sun—providing his own favorites when he came back around for their order of food. Bucky absently ordered a lobster roll, and Sam got the fish and chips with hushpuppies and coleslaw. Connor asked Bucky if he wanted a side, which he "politely" declined.

Food was the last thing on his mind right now.

"Alright, I'll be right out with all of that, then." He gave them a smile, gathered up their menus, and left. Immediately, Sam leaned in closer.

"So when are we gonna do this?" He asked in a rushed whisper, as he glanced around to make sure Schmitt hadn't set them up. "We need to be smart about this."

"There really isn't a point in dragging it out, now. Clearly he's made his mind, so we could probably wrap this up tonight, if we wanted." Bucky stirred his glass of water with his straw, for no other reason than to do something with his anxious hands.

Sam looked less convinced. "Tonight? Shouldn't we plan this out—how about tomorrow?"

Bucky shot him an annoyed look that looked oddly ruffled paired with his mussed hair. "I don't want to lose this chance, Wilson. I want this guy caught and behind bars ASAP, and so does intel. We can't risk putting someone else in danger by hesitating."

"I get that, but..." He trailed off, conflicted.

"But, what?"

"I don't know, Buck. I don't like the idea of sending you in there alone." Sam admitted, looking at him significantly.

Bucky scowled. "It's one guy, Sam. I've got it handled if things go south. Friendly reminder that I'm a super soldier with a metal murder arm." He said, tone flat despite his attempt at a joke.

"And if you blow your cover, he's probably got some things up his sleeve that can take you down, one guy or ten." Sam countered, his brows pinched severely as he searched Bucky's face.

"I won't blow my cover, Sam."

"Really?" Sam huffed out an amused snort and, leaning back against the booth's cushions, crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you have a plan, then?"

"I have a plan." Bucky bit out defensively.

"Let's hear it." Sam levelled him with an expectant look, his head tilting just enough to be infuriating. Bucky sighed and averted his gaze out of the large window they sat beside.

"I'll go along with what he does and let him think that he's in control, and then I'll cuff him the second I decide is best."

A muscle in Sam's jaw twitched just as those dark eyes went slack. "That's a shit plan." He spat. Anger rose hot in Bucky's stomach as he looked at him with great incredulity.

"Alright, let's hear your genius plan, then. Since you always have such amazing plans. Enlighten me, Samuel." Bucky shot him a sharp smile that didn't reach his icy eyes.

Sam shifted. "In my plan, we get him by using you as bait as little as possible. Because, for my peace of mind and for your sake, I would prefer that he doesn't lay a single slimy hand on you." There was something else there, something Bucky feared.

Bucky's gaze flickered to something Sam couldn't quite decipher, as it shuttered itself quickly. "That isn't much of a plan." He muttered. "And the easiest way to get him is with his guard down, so we don't really have a choice."

"Nuh-uh, out of the question. I'm not gonna let that happen." Sam looked downright murderous.

A sigh. "Sam–"

"You've been through enough, Bucky. I don't want you to think that allowing him to do anything to you is the only way, because it isn't." His voice was like steel, so strong and so determined it quieted Bucky's attempts to object.

"Hasn't that been the plan all along? Isn't that the whole reason why I'm here? Because I've had to do that before?" The fire had gone out behind his words, replaced only by something careful. Like he was the one convincing Sam that it would be okay, like he was the one tasked with this.

There was a certain kind of anguish behind Sam's eyes when he stared at him, too hesitant to speak his mind without thinking it through. "I just don't want you to feel like you have to do that again, if there are other options. I don't think it would be good for you."

Bucky softened with a breath, glancing down at his hands where they were clasped on the table in front of him. At the silver band sat snugly on his hand. "I know, I get it. I wouldn't want you to do it if you were in my place—but I know you'll be there to back me up." It surprised him how much he believed his own words. "You won't let anything happen, Sam. I trust you." He looked up, meeting Sam's eyes with a look of faith.

Sam nodded solemnly, because they both knew that this was something rare and delicate. Bucky didn't trust people, he couldn't. But Sam was an exception, even if he didn't fully understand why—even if it frightened him more than anything to even consider why.

It was clear in the way Sam could sneak past his defenses, both literally and figuratively. He could always find a way to weasel his way past his walls. It was why he was the only person who could properly sneak up on him, because his reflexes automatically registered him as safe. He made him feel safe.

Sam had fought for him to be pardoned. He had worked tirelessly alongside Steve in order to help make his life his. He owed him everything for that.

"Fine," Sam relented, slowly. "But I'll step in when I feel like it, even if you don't give the codeword. Got that?" It was challenging, daring Bucky to deny him.

Bucky hesitated, but relented. "Yeah," Sam raised his brows. Bucky sighed a heavy, long-suffering sound, glancing away before re-focusing his intense gaze. "Yes, Sam. Why do you care so much about this, anyway? It doesn't affect you,"

That disrupted his careful resolve, though, as Sam's scowl faltered. He wet his lips, suddenly cautious. There was a long beat of silence as they watched each other, with Sam struggling for the right words—for once—and Bucky waiting, expectantly.

Sam seemed to reach a decision once he straightened back up with a determined pinch of his brows. "It does affect me, Bucky, because I—"

Just then, Connor arrived with their food in hand. He set down their respective plates with a concentrated, "there you go," before stepoing back and finally catching on to the tense air. "Oh, I'm sorry. Was I interrupting something?" He asked sheepishly.

Sam deflated just enough to be noticeable. He clenched his fist. "No, no, it's fine. We were just... talking. Thank you." He threw him a tense smile, which he nodded to before glancing between them.

"Alright, then. Let me know if either of you need anything." He was gone quicker than he had come, clearly embarrassed.

There was a beat. "You were saying?" Bucky pressed, his eyes fixed on the roll in front of him. Sam gazed at him for a long time then, with his lips pursed. He shook his head, his shoulders sinking.

"Nothing, just forget about it. It wasn't important." Sam said, too quiet, his smile too forced. Bucky frowned, but allowed the conversation to drift. At least Sam wasn't hounding him about the mission anymore.

He had already decided that he would do anything to keep everyone else safe from Schmitt, because he could handle the hits that regular people couldn't. He wanted to keep Sam safe.

He would be fine.

"You ever watch The Hobbit?" Sam asked suddenly, before popping a hushpuppy into his mouth. There was still something dangerous and unspoken stirring between them, but they both ignored its smoky appearance, looming low and heavy over them.

"No, I'm not really one for fantasy movies, but the book was good. I just never got around to it." Bucky said, still eyeing his food like it had personally wronged him.

"We should watch it, then. For old times' sake." Sam noticed the hesitation. "What? Something wrong?"

Bucky glanced up, lost for a moment. Then it clicked: he was taking too long. "Oh, no. Sorry." He lifted the roll and took a small bite. Not as good as Sarah's, but still good. Still, for days food has tasted off, and it hasn't been able to properly settle.

Sam squinted at him, calculating. He took a measured sip of his offensively-sweet tea, and pointed a finger his way. "Don't apologize, Buck. You did nothing wrong. You still feelin' off?" Sam leaned forward, looking over him like he might find his answer elsewhere. So he noticed. Of course he did.

"You could say that." He murmured, setting the roll down. "It's easier when we talk. I don't have to think." He admitted the last bit like he was embarrassed, his shoulders hunching.

"Okay," Sam said, soft and bright, smiling slightly. "I can do that. Tell me about what you like to read and watch."

Bucky eased at the complete lack of judgment. So, he went on to explain his newfound interest for a good historical fiction novel, if time allowed. He also said it interested him to watch all of the shows, movies, and documentaries about all of the historical events he missed. Sam listened, offering his own commentary, opinions, and questions where it was welcomed.

"You ever seen any trash TV?" Sam asked with a grin.

Bucky raised a brow. "I think most television these days is trash, so you're gonna have to be more specific."

Sam tilted his head. "True, true. Y'know, like, The Bachelor. You ever watch Dance Moms? It's great." He laughed at Bucky's mounting confusion.

"Dance Moms?" He repeated, his face pinched. "Who the hell are they? What do they do? Dance?"

"Nah, man, their kids do. They're basically just a bunch of rich moms that yell at each other because someone else's kid got a solo. They have their good moments, though." Sam explained, his smile growing at the hilarity of the situation. Sam from a few years ago would have never predicted that he would ever find himself sat across from a highly-skilled ex-assassin with a staring problem, explaining Dance Moms of all things to him.

Bucky blinked. "And the kids? Do they enjoy it?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

Sam made a wavering motion with his hand. "Eh, some of 'em do. The instructor, Abby, kind of yells at them, like, a lot." Bucky frowned, looking perturbed.

"Why does she do that? How old are they?" Sam snorted. He always forgot about Bucky's little soft spot for kids.

"Who knows, she's kind of obnoxious, but iconic. They start out pretty young, though." Sam said.

"I bet. Jesus, and they just record those poor kids getting yelled at while their moms brawl it out?" He sounded disturbed, and he definitely looked it, too.

"Yep, basically."

Bucky shook his head. "I'll pass on that one. Sounds awful." He finished the rest of his water, and realized he had eaten all of his food, along with the rest of Sam's fries, which Sam had slyly pushed towards him. He blinked, ridding his face of its surprise, but Sam caught the flicker.

He didn't say anything, just smiled as he looked towards the approaching Connor.

Connor slid their bill onto the table, visibly relieved by the shift in mood. There was a short stand off via head tilts and expressions of the eyes, which Sam won as he grinned and offered up his card in triumph. Bucky rolled his eyes, grumbling, as Connor ran off to complete the transaction.

"You didn't have to do that—we could've split it." Bucky huffed, absently running a hand through his ruffled hair. Sam shrugged, leaning back with an arm over the back of the booth's cushion.

"I don't mind." He insisted before grinning wickedly. "But we're doing the mission tomorrow. Schmitt's not goin' anywhere, trust me. He's got that look to him."

Bucky was left with his mouth gaping, his hands raised in incredulity. "Wha—you can't do that! You can't use that against me!" He smiled despite himself.

He honestly hadn't smiled this much in years. He often found himself thinking that when he was with Sam. He had a way of making him smile and laugh like no one else could.

Sam chuckled. "I absolutely can, and I am." He smiled so wide his eyes got all squinty before it eased. "Just relax for a bit, Buck. We were given seven days and we're only on the number two. We'll do it tomorrow and have the rest of the week to ourselves." He said it with ease but his tone insisted there was no arguing.

Bucky shook his head. "There's no way they're letting us stay after we arrest one of their guests, Sam."

"Yes way, intel told me we're free to do whatever we want for the last few days. Which means we're going to the beach, Barnes, and we can play as much pool as we can lose at, and probably go see a movie, if you want." Sam looked at him with this new, tender kind of emotion, then.

"You've thought about this?"

Sam fought down a smile. "Maybe, maybe not."

"But why do that when you can be home doing literally anything else?" Bucky asked with an edge of self-consciousness, which had Sam softening. He brough his hand over and gingerly laid it over the one Bucky had resting palm-down on the table. He squeezed, and urged Bucky to look at him.

When he did, his warm, caring eyes felt like they were burning a hole in his chest.

Sam smirked. "Is it seriously that hard to believe that I want to hang out with you?" He asked, his tone light and weighted by that unspoken thing. Bucky swallowed down the hope fluttering in his chest that he feared to acknowledge.

Wouldn't acknowledge.

His unsure eyes flicked down to the warm hand covering his own, which felt like it was burning with how much he realized he craved it. His heart was hammering in his ears, racing right along with the ice-cold fear that roared through his veins.

He couldn't have this. He couldn't let himself believe that he was allowed to have something as good as this.

James Bucky Barnes didn't get to have nice things, and he especially didn't get to have nice people.

Plus, he severely doubted that Sam was interested in him in that way. Why would he be? Why would anyone?

Sam caught him spiralling and squeezed his hand in both of his, now, leaning forward. "Stay with me, Barnes. Don't go there." He murmured.

Bucky blinked until that vacant look melted away from his eyes, which fixed on Sam's. Realization dawned on Sam, heavy and true. Oh.

"Hey, of course I want to hang out with you, man. I've had a really great time talkin' with you these past few days, honest. I really like being around you, even if you are a pain in my ass." He smirked, still squeezing Bucky's hand in his. "I wouldn't have picked anyone else to go with me, if I could."

Bucky felt heat rise to his face, which he prayed wouldn't show. He snorted, rattling the soft, delicate air that had formed between them. "Jesus, Wilson. You asking me out, or something?" Oh God, why did he say that, how could he be so—

There was a hesitation, but he didn't pull away. That determined look came back into his eyes, the very one that he had before their food arrived. Bucky swore that he forgot how to breathe.

Connor came back with Sam's card, and glanced between them as they pulled away from each other. He wished them a good evening with a grin, before leaving with a: "hope you two enjoyed your date."

Bucky thought his heart had stopped.

Right. The rings. They were supposed to be married. It didn't mean—

"Hey," Sam leaned forward with a cheeky grin, "let's get out of here." Bucky nodded with a gruff agreement before they both stood and made their way to the door. Together, they walked up the length of the almost-empty beach back to the resort, in silence.

Once back in their room, they settled down in bed after their own respective showers. Bucky chose to wear one of his black wife beaters with a pair of running shorts, while Sam wore a plain white t-shirt with shorts.

Bucky sat back against the pillows he was propped against before laying down. Sam laid next to him with his head turned slightly, so his dark eyes could trace over him as the TV droned on in the background, illuminating their features.

All Bucky could think about was the feeling of Sam's hand clasping his, squeezing them to convince him of something neither put into words.

Could Sam Wilson like Bucky like he liked him? Love him? Could he ever? What then?

He caught Sam's gaze as it finally came to rest on his face. Sam smiled easily, his eyes all tired and squinty in a way that made Bucky's heart skip. "What?" Bucky asked, quietly.

Sam looked for a moment longer before turning his attention to the mindless movie they had put on. "Nothing."

And Bucky wanted that warmth back, wanted to feel it envelope him like it had that morning. He wanted that safety Sam made him feel. Still, he hesitated to ask for it, because did he really deserve it? He wanted it, but did Sam? He couldn't know.

Sam was looking at him again. "I can hear your bionic brain computing, Barnes. What's up?" His voice was so soft, and those hands were folded on the blanket, over his ribs.

Bucky averted his gaze to where his metal hand rested on his chest. He swallowed down his nerves and slowly, agonizingly slowly, scooted over and allowed himself to rest against Sam.

It was so light Sam could have missed it, but he was there when he looked over, snugly pressed against his arm. Bucky refused to look at Sam after that, and the two continued on in silence. Sam slung his arm around him and let him lay against his side.

They both smiled softly in the dim light, but neither saw.

Chapter Text

They spent much of the next day in short, tense conversation. Neither spoke a word about the softness of the night before, nor the fact that they had woken up in a tangle of limbs, again. Both cast these weighted, longing glances at each other when they thought the other wasn't watching, with Sam fending off that complicated, determined look from his face. Clearly, he had made his mind up about something, though. But about what, Bucky didn't know.

"You call him yet?" Sam asked as he sprawled himself across the bed, his arm behind his head as he looked up at his partner. His work partner, of course. Nothing else.

"No," Bucky grumbled. He slowly located the small card Schmitt had handed him and a burner phone. "Didn't know when I should." He shot Sam a look.

"Go for it. Gives us more time to figure out," he gestured vaguely to Bucky, "this whole situation." Bucky scowled, his lips twisting down.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam shook his head with a grin.

"Nothin' man, just make your call."

Bucky bit his lip as he toyed with the business card, which was already beginning to fray at the edges. He dialled up Schmitt's number as Sam laid idly by, observing.

Schmitt answered almost immediately. "Hello?"

"Hey, Roger, it's Theodore Zalinski." He glanced to Sam, who nodded his encouragement.

"Ah, Theodore! Are you calling about my offer?" There was an unbridled, smug kind of achievement to his voice, then. Bucky tensed subconsciously. That was the tone of someone that thought they had won whatever mind game they had been orchestrating.

"Yes, actually—I was wondering if this evening would be fine?" Bucky forced himself to sound smooth.

"Just name a time, and I'll be there." Schmitt practically purred into the receiver, making Bucky's jaw twitch.

"How does six sound?"

There was a smile behind his words when he responded, delighted: "Perfect. I'll see you then, Zalinski." And then he hung up with a click. Bucky set the burner phone down onto the bedside table so hard Sam worried vaguely that he might have broken it. He clenched his hands so hard that his metal hand whirred louder than usual. Sam glanced over him, his concern calculated and controlled.

"You okay?" Sam asked as he settled against his pillows, his legs laid out in front of him. He was turned so he was fully facing Bucky, giving him his full and undivided attention.

"Fine. How many has this bastard killed?" He shifted so his legs dangled over his side of the bed, and his back was facing Sam. His voice was flat, entirely neutral. Sam took in the set of those shoulders under his tanktop, and the way his spine remained locked in a straight, vertical line.

It was as though an invisible string held him perfectly upright—he recognized it as something painfully military.

Sam turned so he was laying on his side, his head propped up by his hand, his elbow to his pillow. He gazed, long and hard, at that taut expanse of tightly-corded muscle and set bone.

"That's believable," he quipped, his eyes roving freely, admiring. His eyes rested on the place where metal met the scarred skin of his shoulder. Bucky twitched, just barely, as if he could feel where his gaze was. He probably could.

He wondered what if would feel like to kiss that border between skin and vibranium.

Lord, he needed to get a grip.

"How many, Sam?" Bucky gravelled, his voice rough. Sam cocked his head to the side, considering.

"Intel says five, but those are the reported ones. Who knows who else he could've gotten over the years." He narrowed his gaze, watching a muscle in his shoulder flex. He wondered if it was sore, since Bucky had been absently massaging it with well-hidden winces. Well-hidden from anyone that wasn't Sam, that is.

Bucky nodded. Sam heard a quiet breath of air. "Any common traits?"

Sam pinched his brows. "All of them were married men, all to other men. That's the only similarity they all shared, Buck. What are you gettin' at?" He asked. "You could have figured that out on your own."

"How did they die?" His voice was quieter, but steely.

Sam paused, his eyes softening. "They were strangled, all of 'em found back in their rooms. All drugged, they said. And, uh, declothed, with signs of force." Sam's gut twisted when Bucky's shoulders hunched, his exhale sharper.

"The drugs won't work, so I'll have to act like they did, if it comes down to it." Sam hated how detached his voice sounded, like this was another thing to cope with silently. "Or do you want me to get him before then?"

Did Sam want him to avoid an undoubtedly negative experience. He wasn't asking to work around the possibility of reliving something that really should stay where it was, he was asking Sam what he preferred.

That made Sam set his teeth as he sat up, crossing his legs. He didn't ask if he could, he asked if Sam would rather he skip out on it, like it was just an extra step in the process.

Jesus.

"Buck, look at me." It was an order, which Bucky hesitantly obeyed. His gaze was fixed away from Sam's face. "Hey," Sam leaned so he caught that empty gaze, warm brown meeting icy blue. "If you really want my opinion, I would prefer that you do whatever keeps you from any danger, or any situations that might go into some unsavory territory."

Those blank blue eyes blinked, flashing a flicker of something vaguely lost. "But what if that doesn't work? I was under the impression that I was supposed to—"

"You're supposed to catch this guy, man. Nothin' else. Don't feel like you have to do anything, 'cause you don't." Sam set him with an intense look, then, urging him to realize; to see that he didn't have to do any of those things, now.

He wasn't there, and this wasn't another name on his list. He had a choice.

A muscle in Bucky's jaw jumped as he looked away, his head bowed. His eyes were still faraway, like he was somewhere else. "What if it comes down to that, Sam?" He sounded so conflicted, and it would have confused anyone else.

Someone else would insist that the choice was obvious; would push or prod. But not Sam, because he knew. He knew what was going through Bucky's head:

'I'm here to do this, even if I don't like it, because my opinion doesn't matter as long as what needs to be done is done.'

"It won't, Buck. I swear it won't." He kept his voice firm as he leaned forward, his brows knit together.

"Then what's the plan?" Bucky sounded downright defeated, but relieved.

"You're gonna go with Schmitt while I listen and watch nearby. You'll say the code word if your cover gets blown, and, if not, you'll get the jump on him the second there's an opening. I'll be there, regardless." Sam said it slowly and surely, allowing no room for hesitation.

Bucky's shoulders slowly eased, with his hand coming up to swipe over his face. He blew out a heavy breath, most of the tension from his spine evaporating along with it. "Okay," he murmured.

"Yeah?" Sam was relieved.

"Yeah." Bucky took a few controlled breaths, nodding his head. Sam lightly pat him on the shoulder, which he didn't shy away from. Progress.

"Glad we're on the same page, then." Sam said, smiling. "You want to do anything until then?" He watched as Bucky laid back against his pillows with a concentrated fix of his lips. Why the hell was that so endearing?

"Relax and watch more trash TV." Bucky huffed, trying for humor even as that lingering vacancy remained behind his words. Sam settled next to him with a chuckle, and retrieved the remote.

"Fine by me." He said, and passed the remote over to Bucky, before he pulled the bedcover over himself. Bucky found and put on some brainless 90s sitcom, and yanked his share of the blanket up over his chest.

They didn't lean into each other, now, but each other's presence was enough. It felt like a taboo here in the morning light, where their weighted glances were so visible. It made whatever was stirring up between them real.

But neither said a word. No, they just allowed the other to gaze at them as they convinced themselves that that thing was impossible. That thing they adamantly refused to acknowledge.

Sam never thought that he would ever find himself in the situation of agreeing on an outfit for James Bucky Barnes, a man who wholly did not care about his dress most of the time. Yet here he was, carding through the nicer clothes he had thought to bring, occasionally holding one out for Bucky to scrutinize—not that he really looked.

He looked bored, if anything.

Sam pulled out a gray turtleneck and paired it with a nice black jacket. "How's that?" He asked, and Bucky spared him an uninterested glance. His expression remained unphased, skimming with those blue eyes.

Bucky shrugged before looking at Sam. "I don't care; just pick what you like."

Sam sighed, lowering his finds to level the other man with a glare. "C'mon, you have to look like you actually made an effort to look nice. Work with me here, Buck. I want it to be something you like."

With a huff, he waved towards Sam's bundle of clothes he had gathered. "Those are nice, just find something you like. I don't know what's considered 'nice' these days." He smirked as he slyly enforced the excuse he always managed to use to get his way with these situations.

Sam groaned, but did as he was asked. At least Bucky was trusting him to find something for him, even if it was just an outfit.

He pushed the turtleneck and jacket his way, along with a pair of ironed slacks. "Fine, wear that." He said as he shooed him towards the bathroom. "Come out and show me when you're done, so I can decide whether it's fine or not." Bucky rolled his eyes, but closed himself in the bathroom.

He spoke through the door as he changed. "I can't even remember if I've ever worn one of these before." He remarked, which made Sam smirk.

"Probably because your closet is, like, seventy percent black leather, and thirty percent muscle shirts." Sam jabbed. He heard a snort from the other side, dry and rough.

"Anything else is always too soft." Bucky answered, before making a decisive sound. "What should I do with my hair?"

"We'll figure it out. You done?"

"Yeah, hang on, give me a second." There was a beat before the door swung open, revealing an offensively-prim Bucky Barnes. Sam caught how the turtleneck fit him snugly, accentuating every curve of muscle.

Bucky averted his gaze and shuffled his socked feet.

Sam whistled, unable to take his eyes off of him. It was so simple, but somehow it served to make him look so much softer than the black-clad grouch he was familiar with. The light gray of the turtleneck brought out the slight tan Bucky had gained, and made those blue eyes almost crystalline.

He smirked, because he had thought it might. He loved how lighter colors brightened those eyes, and quietly wished to see more in the future. Not that he didn't look damn good in darker colors, because he absolutely did. He just looked good in everything.

The slacks fit him nicely, making for a sleek and powerful look. He looked nice. Like, really nice.

"Damn, Barnes." He said, crossing his arms over his chest. "Doesn't look half bad." Bucky, to his utter delight, turned visibly more pink and scowled.

"Shut it, Wilson." There was a smile behind his words, though. Sam's heart fluttered as he caught sight of that small, but genuine grin. God, he loved that smile.

"Nope, you've been holdin' out on me." He stepoed so Bucky saw him craning his neck to look his over. "You sure you haven't worn one of those before?" Bucky's smile grew as he pointedly looked away, fighting to hide it.

"Stop, you're so obnoxious." A quiet laugh, like music to his ears. Sam would fight anyone in the universe to keep that sound in his life forever.

"Clearly you've been depriving the world of what they should be seein', man. We need to dress you up more often—and not just in those stuffy suits." Bucky covered his smile with a hand, and Sam saw with interest that his ears were turning a vibrant pink.

Bucky groaned. "Go back to making fun of me, you jerk! What happened to the real Sam?" He sounded embarrassed, but he held himself a little higher. Sam bumped him on the shoulder and sent him a smirk.

"I'm just playin', man. But, seriously though, it looks nice. Leave off the jacket," Sam said, his voice light and sincere.

Bucky regained most of his composure, but there was still a lingering rosiness tinting those cheekbones. Awkwardly, he put the jacket back with the rest of the clothes. Sam recognized that he didn't hesitate, but assumed that it was because the turtleneck's long sleeves.

"Hair?" Was all he asked, signalling vaguely to his dark hair, which had its usual fray.

Sam considered him, then, with a thoughtful hum. Suddenly, an image—a very old image—emerged within his mind. "Why don't you do your side part thing you used to do?" He suggested. Bucky looked surprised, his brows rising.

He huffed a breath. "I haven't done that in decades, Sam."

"And? Your hair's long enough."

So, Bucky begrudgingly located a comb and some gel, and worked to part his hair. At first, he was hesitant, but, like instinct, he soon fell into the familiar process. Sam watched as he worked with that endearingly concentrated look: his brow furrowed as he stuck his tongue in his cheek.

Once finished, he straightened, scrutinizing the way his bangs tumbled onto his forehead. He squinted. "I feel stupid—I'm not twenty-four, anymore." He grumbled, unsurely.

For Sam it was like seeing Bucky for the first time after his mask had fallen away: a picture from a museum exhibit now animated, only lacking that bright smile and mischievous glint to his eye. But Sam caught glimpses of that Bucky when he laughed and grinned without restraint, or shot him a snarky comment through a proud smirk.

Bucky noticed Sam's staring when he looked past himself in the mirror. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?" He sounded prickly and apprehensive.

When he turned to look at him fully, Sam reached out and carefully arranged his hair. Bucky kept perfectly still, his gaze averted and reproachful. Something soft and delicate settled around them, then. So light that Sam feared it might spook at the slightest movement.

Since when did Bucky avoid staring matches, anyway?

Sam assumed that it had to have started during this mission, more specifically after the jet.

"There," Sam stepped back, his eyes fixed on the neat-yet-frazzled comb-over that rested his bangs on his forehead in a wave. "Lookin' sharp," he shot Bucky a grin when he finally looked up, "for a hairdo from the forties." He added, his grin twisting into a devilish smirk at Bucky's chagrin.

Bucky rolled his eyes and batted him away. He went and laced up his sleek dress-shoes. Then, he smoothed a hand down his shirt with a little furrow of his brow. He glanced towards Sam, his gaze unsure.

"You ready?" He asked as he slipped on his leather gloves, which creaked as he flexed his hands.

Sam arched a brow. "I should be the one asking you that." He pointed out as he retrieved all of their tech. He went and helped Bucky hide the little microphone by tucking it into the collar of the turtleneck, and by concealing the small device in his waistband. Sam switched it on and stuck his earpiece into his ear.

"Testing," he said, and heard it echoed back to him. "Perfect, we're all good to go." He glanced to his watch, which read 5:41 PM. "Are you ready?" He looked to Bucky.

"As I'll ever be. You connected to the cameras?" His voice had gone flat, again, those walls now right back in their place. Sam silently mourned the loss of that infectious smile.

Sam showed him the screen on his wrist that he usually used to survey Redwing, which now had the resort's surveillance system connected. "It's a little less than legal, but I got the go-ahead, so it can't be that bad." Sam explained as Bucky watched a couple walk by.

"Where will you be?" The question surprised him, but he recovered quickly.

He selected the camera facing Schmitt's door. He pointed to a room across the hall after swerving the camera around. "There. I got the key from a worker that knows what we're doing." Bucky nodded thoughtfully.

"And you trust them?"

"Have to."

Bucky hummed. "Are there cameras in his room?"

"I had a few put in by Redwing when they weren't in their room this morning." Sam reassured. "I'll be watching your back, man. Just worry about keeping your cover, and keeping that slimeball distracted."

Bucky blew out a weighted breath. "Alright, let's get this over with. Quick and easy."

Chapter Text

When Schmitt caught sight of Bucky, his face split into this stomach-churning grin that looked more like a predatory leer than anything. Bucky smiled back, even as his instincts started screaming, urging him to turn tail and run the other direction.

They both approached each other until they met in the middle. Schmitt wrapped an arm around his shoulders, already far too close for Bucky's comfort. Still, he forced himself to lean into it with a charmed raise of his brows.

Just imagine that it's Sam, even if he smelled and looked different, and that possessive grip he held him with was nothing like Sam's comforting touch.

Schmitt leaned in to whisper in his ear: "I don't know about you, but I'm not actually interested in any pool." There was an edge to his tone, and his breath was hot and acrid against the hinge of Bucky's jaw. Bucky fought against every urge that screamed at him to push this guy into the floorboards. Just pretend that it's Sam.

Bucky glanced at him with feigned interest. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah," Schmitt was leading them back towards the elevator Bucky had just emerged from.

"What did you have in mind?" Bucky forced himself to sound enraptured, and was relieved to see Schmitt's grin sharpen hungrily. His grip tightened around him, dropping down to his waist. Panic rang like alarm bells through his mind, but he remained calm and collected. It was Sam.

"I was thinking we go somewhere more private." Schmitt purred. "Wanna get outta here?"

Think of Sam. Think of that bright smile and his amazing laugh.

He moved so he was leaning against Schmitt, smirking. "I was hoping you would say that." He murmured in a voice he swore he hadn't used since he wandered around Brooklyn with a girl on his arm, nearly a century ago.

He imagined that it was Sam he breathed those words to.

Schmitt's expression darkened as he pulled Bucky into the elevator. "How about my place, Theodore?" He crowded Bucky up against the wall, those dark eyes boring into his, lacking Sam's warmth. He smelled of bad aftershave and too much cologne. Bucky's eyes wandered, for just a second, to the camera in the opposite corner, which faced them.

He leveled Schmitt with a weighted stare, telling himself that it was Sam, instead. It was Sam's hands holding his waist in a bruising grip. Except, Sam would hold him softer. "Perfect." He leaned forward so he was closer. "And call me Theo." It was so soft, but he saw the exact moment he had him hooked. Schmitt's grip tightened, just as those eyes turned starved, now actually bruising. He grinned like a shark.

Memories of hands forcing him down, fingers bruising against his hips, surged forward. He fought them down, assuring himself that Sam wouldn't let it get that far.

God, Sam was watching. Somehow that made this worse. So, so much worse. Because he would rather it was him holding him like this, looking at him like this, wanting him.

The elevator doors slid open, and Bucky was being yanked down the long hall of rooms to Schmitt's door. They passed the room Sam was inside, loaded with his gear and watching. Waiting.

Schmitt had the door open in an instant, and was pushing Bucky in by a hand pressed to his chest. His back hit a wall, and Schmitt held him there, his eyes boring into his.

Sam's eyes, Sam's hands. Sam, Sam, Sam...

Sam stood anxiously by in the next room, his eyes locked on the feed of one of the cameras he had hidden in Schmitt's room. His grip was dangerously tight on the handcuffs he held in his fist. It felt oddly invasive to watch them, and Sam was impressed by just how convincing Bucky was making it. Even if it made his jaw clench so tightly his teeth creaked.

An ugly emotion clawed its way up his ribcage and clamped itself around his heart. It squeezed. He vaguely recognized it as an encompassing jealousy; a kind of possessiveness that loathed to see someone else hold and murmur sweet nothings to Bucky.

He refused to explore the implications behind such feelings, and forced himself to focus in on the screen strapped to his forearm.

He watched as Schmitt stepped back, his gaze alight and hungry. "I just knew you would agree, Theo. God..." He turned his back to Bucky, who suddenly wasn't the same subdued, wanting person he had been pretending to be.

Bucky made to grab Schmitt from behind, but Schmitt twisted around and ducked out of the way, just in time. His expression turned blank and cold, calculating. A cruel smile twitched at his lips, those weaselly eyes seething.

It was like he was running on pure instinct, now, those blue eyes too far away as he lunged. Schmitt pulled a knife from a hidden sheath, and tried to strike, quick as a snake, but Bucky's metal hand caught his wrist and twisted.

Recognition flashed in those weaselly eyes.

Schmitt's other hand yanked something from a nearby drawer, just as they crashed against it. There was a flash of a needle in the low light, which made Bucky release him in order to dodge out of the way. His mind was screaming orders at him, but it also became eerily quiet. He was laser-focused and responding to every one of Schmitt's movements with a countering one.

"I know what you are," he huffed through bared teeth, his eyes crazed. "I know that I can control you—I know how."

Bucky kept his expression perfectly neutral, and blocked a slice from Schmitt's knife with his vibranium arm, filling the room with the awful screech of metal on metal. Bucky floored him with a right hook, which he recovered from quickly. His lip bled freely.

"Imagine all of the people that would be relieved to find out that you're dead." Schmitt spit as he lunged, brandishing the little syringe. "The Winter Soldier!" He said it with mock bravado, just as Bucky knocked the needle away and took hold of Schmitt's wrists.

He heard the glass of the syringe shatter, and saw the first hint of panic behind Schmitt's eyes.

Bucky twisted his arms behind him and held them tight. "Shut up." He hissed into his ear, because his words had tugged at something raw in his chest.

Something that did work to imagine the vast number of people that would rejoice when they heard he had died. All of the people that would sleep a little easier at night, knowing that the man who had caused them so much pain was gone. Exterminated like a roach.

His mind began to spiral, detaching itself from the task at hand.

He was brought back by the slice of a knife, which whirled past his head. It nicked his cheek, and he whirled around to find the enraged eyes of a middle-aged brunette, her hand shaking where it was still poised in the air.

Schmitt twisted and landed a solid kick to his gut, which sent him backward. Bucky couldn't catch his breath, and found he was not-so pleasantly surprised. They hadn't thought his wife was involved at all.

Then, Schmitt held Bucky in place with a firm boot to his sternum. He breathed heavily, clearly winded, bleeding and battered. "We've got you now, Soldat." He smiled, his teeth pink from the blood of his split lip. "I will admit, I didn't expect to have you here, so I only thought to bring one of the modified drugs. Which, you so rudely crushed. But I suppose I should have guessed that they might send you on one of these missions, since you were so good at them in HYDRA."

His wife leveled Bucky with the barrel of her handgun, her gaze steely. Bucky watched her closely, silently cursing.

Where the hell was Sam?

"Don't worry, though. We have a lot more we can play around with, instead." Schmitt lifted his foot off of him, confident he will stay put under the threat of a bullet between his eyes.

He noticed Bucky's impatient glance towards the door, and grinned. "Mr. Wilson is being handled by one of our own, so he won't be joining us."

Handled.

Bucky's blood ran cold. Something snapped, and he allowed his training to take over. He lunged and grabbed for the handgun, which shot a hole into the far wall as Bucky yanked it from Mrs. Schmitt's hands.

When Schmitt made to intercept him, he hit him with the grip, and sent him sprawling.

Bucky was on his feet in an instant, and pointed the gun at it's owner, who stared back with wide eyes. He instructed her to turn around, and had her cuffed in an instant. He made for the door and yanked it open, where he saw no sign of Sam.

Shit.

Schmitt came up behind him and had him in a headlock before he could react, pulling him back into the room. His grip tightened even as they tumbled into a wall. Bucky's vision was beginning to grow fuzzy around the edges. He panicked, lashing out to strike him in a frenzy, fighting with the desperation of a cornered animal.

Hot breath against his neck. "I've got you now, and I'll do whatever the hell I want once you're mine. I'll make you." Bucky shuddered, his mind getting loud.

He had to get to Sam, he—

Schmitt was very suddenly ripped away from him, and Bucky gasped for air, which he gulped down greedily. His vision focused enough for him to see two figures twisting and lunging at each other: he recognized Schmitt and his sparse hair, and caught a flash of a certain red-and-white striped shield, with a blue center adorned with a single, glimmering star.

Sam.

He could have collapsed with relief. He had a cut on his temple that was bleeding heavily, and a number of developing bruises. But, overall, he was alright.

Sam fought with the same determination and drive that he always did, only instead of his quips, he wore an expression that made even him want to shrink away. He looked more furious than Bucky had ever seen him, his movements harsh and fuelled by a seething rage.

He ducked and weaved with a deadly efficiency—and Schmitt's smirk finally fell and gave way to worry.

Sam had him on the ground in a matter of minutes, having used Schmitt's surprise to his advantage. He had him cuffed, and left him laying there, helpless.

Already, Bucky could hear sirens wailing in the near distance. Sam was at his side in an instant, looking over him with this unveiled panic. "Are you okay? Did they do anything? I heard a gunshot—Buck, talk to me, please."

"Sam, I'm fine." He saw how Sam's hands hovered, hesitant to touch. He wished they would. Sam searched his gaze, trying to figure out whether he was lying or not. Satisfied, he slumped forward with a heavy sigh. He softened.

"Are you good? You with me?" Bucky nodded, and Sam let their foreheads fall together. Bucky felt his panting breath against his face, and leaned into the touch. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I should've—I should've assumed they might—God, how could I be so stupid?"

"Hey, we're fine, now, aren't we? There was no way we could've known that it wasn't just him." Bucky murmured, his heart still pounding with the adrenaline of the fight.

Sam's eyes met his, alight and intense. "I thought I lost you, man." He pulled away so he could see Bucky's entire face. Bucky swallowed.

He tried for a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I can handle myself just fine, Wilson. Worry about yourself. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. You should see the other guy." He replied breathlessly, and waggled a finger his way. "I'm never sending you in alone, again, though." He said, seriously. His hands reached out and brushed across his cheekbones. Bucky saw them shake, just barely. "Never."

"Okay, Sam." He hadn't meant for it to come out so softly, but didn't regret it. They both made their way out of the room, as soon as back up arrived. Neither bothered to watch as their three assailants were pushed into the backs of black, unmarked vans, where they were faced with armed agents.

Bucky noticed that Sam kept a steady grip of his hand the entire time, squeezing to reassure himself. They went back to their room after giving a report to one of the agents, when asked, and silently tended to each other's wounds.

Sam ordered Bucky to remove the now-ripped turtleneck. Bucky watched as those eyes darkened at the bruising on his waist and ribs. He knew it would be gone by tomorrow, thanks to his advanced healing, but that didn't mean Sam hated looking at it any less.

"You don't have to do anything, it'll just heal, anyway." Bucky murmured when Sam started gingerly cleaning the cut on his cheek. Sam glared at him, so Bucky wisely decided to shut his mouth.

"Just lemme take care of you, for once." Sam said softly, but without room for argument. Bucky nodded, and allowed those gentle hands to piece him back together. Sam made sure that nothing was broken, and iced his ribs, murmuring when Bucky stiffened at the cold. Bucky let his eyes close.

He had already tended to Sam's cut on his temple, which had made Sam gripe about him being too gentle, again. But they both knew they would always treat each other carefully, even if they understood that the other could handle the opposite.

Not out of pity or concern, really, but because they knew the other deserved the soft touch. They wanted to treat each other like they were precious, because that was what they were to each other. Something to be soft with.

And when Bucky vaguely said that, Sam had paused and given him this complicated look. Sam agreed that, yeah, he felt the same way. And there wasn't another word spoken about it.

After getting patched up, Bucky took a very long shower. So long, in fact, that the scalding hot water had gone icy. He felt unclean, and could still feel Schmitt's hands and breath upon his skin. He scrubbed until his skin was raw and stinging, and only got out when Sam knocked on the door.

He walked out of the bathroom dressed in black shorts and a sage green USAF hoodie, which he had nabbed from Sam's stash of clothing. Sam didn't say a word. He just looked at Bucky with that heavy look when he laid down next to him.

"Doin' okay?" He whispered. Bucky nodded, and glanced his way, looking almost embarrassed. "What?" Sam lifted himself up so he could see his face.

Bucky rolled onto his side so that he had his back turned to him. "Nothing, just go to sleep, Sam." He replied as he reached to turn off the lamp. He wanted to fall into Sam's reassuring warmth. He wanted to be held, so the feeling of Schmitt's hands would go away.

But he wouldn't ask that of Sam. He just couldn't.

"Talk to me, Buck." Sam moved so he faced Bucky's back. He heard him sigh.

"It's nothing, Sam." He said, harsher than he had intended.

"Please, Buck." Sam insisted, wanting nothing more than to reach out and ease those worries he heard behind his tight voice.

A heavy pause. "... It's stupid." Bucky murmured softly.

"Try me, a lot of what you say is stupid." Sam felt Bucky turn to glare at him in the dark. "Seriously, Buck, just say it. I won't judge you, you know I won't."

Did he?

An even longer, even heavier pause. His throat clicked audibly when he swallowed. "Can you..." He hesitated, his face burning.

"Anything, man." There was a raspiness to his voice that made Bucky wish he could hear that sleepy voice every single night for the rest of his life. Bucky shifted.

"Just—" A frustrated sigh. "Can you, uh... Jesus. Could you—can you... can you hold me?" He whispered, so quiet it was almost inaudible. When Sam didn't respond immediately, he floundered, rushing to fill the suffocating silence. "Forget it, that was out of line. I'm sorry, just—"

"Buck," Sam breathed, making him freeze. But instead of continuing, he shifted closer and snaked his arms around his waist. He pulled Bucky close so that his back was flush with his chest, and squeezed just enough.

At first, Bucky tensed, but he quickly melted into the hold and pressed back, freely seeking out that enveloping warmth. Their legs tangled under the blanket.

"Good?" Sam asked, his breath ghosting over the nape of his neck. Bucky hoped he couldn't feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest.

"Yeah," he said, allowing his eyes to fall shut. He finally felt safe, here in Sam's arms. He was safe.

Both refused to acknowledge how the other's heart was racing, or just how right it felt to be fit together like this.

"Good." Sam yawned. "I've got you." It was slurred with exhaustion, but Bucky heard it loud and clear. He smiled to himself.

The two fell asleep quickly, so close and correct. When either stirred with a nightmare, the other soothed them with reassuring murmurs. It was nice, and Bucky allowed himself to soak it in, gladly.

God, he loved Sam Wilson.

Chapter Text

When Sam woke up, the first thing he noticed was a complete absence of Bucky. He reached over to feel around the other side of the bed, his vision still groggy with sleep. There was no Bucky, but the sheets were still warm from where he had been.

So last night hadn't been imagined. He would think about that more later.

He sat up with a grunt and rubbed a hand down his face. He felt like one giant bruise, if he was honest. Luckily, they didn't have to do anything today, if they didn't want to. He could really take a nap. Or ten. Preferably with Bucky to hold onto, but that wasn't entirely relevant. Speaking of...

He looked around, and caught a glimpse of Bucky milling about the tiny kitchen, still wrapped up in his USAF hoodie. Something about seeing him wear his clothes tugged at the sharp, ragged thing in his chest. God, he was a mess.

Bucky's eyes looked faraway, and Sam briefly wondered why.

That was when the events of yesterday finally caught up with him. An odd, protective kind of emotion reared its head at the memory of barging in on Schmitt, his arms locked around Bucky's neck, far too close.

At those hands holding him like he even deserved to.

Bucky caught his gaze and promptly looked away. He shuffled his way over with a steaming cup of coffee, which he held out to Sam like a peace offering. Sam took it, his eyes never leaving Bucky's face.

He saw too many complicated emotions flitting across that face, and those dark, too-blue eyes refused to meet his.

"Thanks," Sam murmured, his voice still gravelly with sleep. He took a sip, and couldn't fight the smile that split his face, just slightly. It was exactly how he liked it.

Bucky gave a jerky kind of nod, and remained glued in place, his shoulders impossibly tense. Sam looked over his taut frame with a decisive set of his lips, calculating in a way that made the other visibly shift in discomfort.

Alright, he could do the talking, then.

"You want to talk about yesterday?" He asked, still closely observing each twitch or change in his eyes. Bucky winced, his jaw tensing immediately.

"What is there to talk about?" He muttered, crossing his arms across his chest protectively. When he finally glanced over to meet Sam's gaze, he was met with a thoroughly unimpressed look.

Sam sighed. "Look, we don't have to talk about it now, but we've gotta get it sorted at some point." He took a measured sip, gazing at Bucky over the lip of the mug.

There was a huff. "Where would we even start?" Bucky bit out, trying to defend himself with an argumentative tone. Sam raised a brow, but didn't take the bait.

"Wherever you want to." He replied easily. He received a frustrated scowl, like his patience was taxing Bucky's. Still, he remained perfectly neutral.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?" He asked, innocently. Bucky set his jaw.

"Talk like you're my damn shrink, or something." Bucky bit out, putting more anger behind his words than he meant. Sam considered him, and very suddenly remembered their conversation over the phone, days ago now.

It felt like months ago he had visited his lonely, barren apartment in the middle of the night. Filled more with haunted memories than comforting furniture, it seemed like a hollow shell of the man inhabiting it.

That place wasn't a home. It didn't remind him of Bucky, not even remotely. It was a place for him to sleep when he finally collapsed, that was it.

Sam wondered if, if Bucky were to just move in with him, his own home would actually become his. Bucky's. Something to find joy and safety in.

He wondered if they would pick something out together; something that they could put within their space that really felt like theirs. Maybe they would get a pet. Bucky had mentioned his interest in getting a cat, once. Maybe they could start there.

He blinked, realizing he hadn't provided a proper response. His brows pinched carefully. "I'm trying to help, Buck." He said, his voice soft.

"I don't need any—" Bucky stopped short at the warning glare shot his way, and his mouth fixed itself into a severe frown.

"Don't even try any of that bullshit on me, Barnes." Sam snapped, then softened. "You're my friend, and I'm worried because you're lockin' me out, again." He levelled him with an intense look, his eyes steely.

Bucky hesitated, and Sam saw a flash of guilt in those impossibly blue eyes. "Talk to me, Buck. What's going through that big brain of yours?" Those tense shoulders slumped.

"He knew who I was." Bucky said, voice tight and guarded. Sam encouraged him to elaborate with a nod. "He knew what they did, Sam." Sam swore his heart ached to hear the vulnerability laid bare before him: this was his answer, his assurance that he wasn't going to retreat back into himself.

Not this time.

"Buck—"

"Others must know, too, then." Those eyes hardened. "God, with my luck, the entire world will probably know by next week." There was an edge of panic to his voice as he looked away. He ran his metal hand through his hair, tugging. Sam caught how it shook. He let out a bitter laugh. "Not that anyone would believe that I—" He stopped, and went dangerously quiet.

"No, they won't. Nobody will be tellin' anyone nothing, not unless you want them to. And the only people who can listen, already know, and wouldn't dare share it. That's for you to unpack, nobody else. You're good, Buck. I've got you."

He watched Bucky's tongue dart out to wet his lips. "Sure, because none of them would love to find a way to make my life ten times more miserable than it already is." His words burned, but not because of his doubt. It was moreso his lack of trust.

"And they would've said something sooner, then. You said they read about it in your file, so it isn't new information. If anyone wanted to use that information against you, they already would have." Sam reasoned, so self-assured it made the other glance over.

"They could always just be waiting until—"

"No, Buck. They read your file, so, even if they have their own opinions about you, there's no denying that you're the victim. Anyone with a brain knows that." Sam shot him a pinched look, disbelieving in his disbelief.

Bucky shuffled, and a muscle in his jaw flexed under the intensity he grit his teeth with.

"You've been pardoned. You're—for the most part—going to your mandated therapy sessions, even if that therapist honestly shouldn't have a license." Bucky winced. "What they know is that HYDRA did terrible things to you that made you do things you couldn't control. You had no choice, and they know that you're making an effort to make amends."

"But..." Bucky trailed off, looking conflicted.

"Nope, I'm not havin' none of that." Sam leaned forward, forcing their gazes to lock. "You're good, Buck. Nothing's gonna happen, so just relax. This is our vacation away from everything."

Bucky nodded slowly, but his face remained fixed in a tight scowl. He looked away from Sam's all-seeing eyes, pointedly. "Look, about last night—" Sam held up a hand to quiet him, and smirked at the slight flush he saw spread across the other's cheeks.

"Don't worry about it, Buck. It doesn't have to mean anything if you don't want it to." Sam assured him, even if those words tasted stale and wrong. All he wanted was for it to mean something—to mean that this hope he held so dearly wasn't foolish. Wasn't unrealistic.

Bucky pursed his lips with a curt nod. Sam couldn't quite read the look in his eyes, and mentally swore. He just wanted a sign, one little look that assured him that what was happening between them wasn't just something he had imagined. That these complex feelings and moments were real, and not just misinterpreted.

Something settled in those blues, at last. Something almost akin to panic.

Sam not-so discreetly watched his throat bob as he swallowed. He silently willed him to speak, to open up and confirm the very thing hanging over them, even if Sam was probably just relying too heavily on wishful thinking. He worried that this might be the one thing he should be less sure about.

He wished that Bucky would soften, and speak his mind. And that he would finally acknowledge this overbearing weight pressing them both down.

But instead of a proper response, he got a hesitant: "Did you have anything planned for today?" He sounded, suddenly, impossibly worn. Sam's heart constricted, but eased up quickly.

Not a denial, but not a blatant acceptance, either.

Maybe this would just be their reality: forever ducking and weaving around a complicated truth neither were brave enough to admit to. Sam tried not to let his disappointment show on his face.

"Nope. Did you want to do something?" He said it with a perfect calmness, which didn't nearly match the turmoil tumbling through his gut, ripping at where he was most vulnerable like an angry tornado. He watched those tense shoulders give a stiff shrug, those magnetized blue eyes searing a hole through the wall with their intensity.

Those pale blues flicked towards him for a fraction of a second. "Did you?" That at least made Sam's lips twitch up into a tiny smirk. What was he going to do with this man? First, he had tried to kill him, and now, years later, he was trying to kill him through another method.

But he would honestly do anything for those eyes. Maybe that made him weak-willed, but he could live with that.

"Nah, not really." He admitted, his wariness a vague reminder of their bruised memories from only a few hours prior. But, still, he offered Bucky a lopsided grin.

He only barely caught Bucky's nod, and how he shuffled his feet, seemingly lost on what to do with himself. He turned and began rifling through the kitchenette, again.

Sam allowed his gaze to linger, an unfamiliar boldness encouraging him. He didn't immediately squash the desperate thoughts that longed to surge forward and kiss that man stupid, but he didn't follow them, either. Instead, he took that urge and told it: "later." A promise.

Frustration simmered low beneath his skin, then, right along with the welcome buzz of caffeine.

"Got any ideas?" Sam asked.

Bucky glanced over for a fraction of a second, and cleared his throat abruptly. "Well... I saw that there was a kind of dinner and dance, tonight, at this little place down the street. Thought it might be fun..." He gently pushed the offer into the space between them, hesitant but daring.

Sam felt his face split into a grin before he could even stop himself. "Yeah? You want to go?"

He received an embarrassed look, which he assumed might have tried to be a glare. "Don't make me change my mind, Wilson." Sam laughed, which served to be an adequate balm to Bucky's nerves.

"No, no. I would love to go." He insisted, as genuinely as he could sound. Not that he had to make much of an effort, he did want to go. He let Bucky believe that he hadn't seen his private, little relieved smile.

"Whatever," Bucky gruffed, trying for nonchalance. "It's at this little bar down the road. Small, so hopefully some privacy. I had to make a reservation, since spots were limited." He refused to look up, even when Sam very obviously stared at him, still wearing that stupid grin.

"You already made reservations?"

Bucky paused, and Sam swore his ears went pink. "... Shut up."

But Sam, of course, did the opposite. "That's surprisingly bold of you, Barnes." He couldn't deny the softness of his tone, though.

Bucky shot him a scowl, his face charmingly rosy.

Sam held up his hands in mock surrender, relenting. "Okay, okay, I'll stop." He chuckled, and Bucky eased, but still looked apprehensive. "That was very nice of you, Buck. I appreciate that." Somehow, his genuine words made Bucky even more annoyed. Or, at least, that's what he pretended.

He shrugged, refusing Sam's gaze. "It's nothing. Just thought you would like it when I saw a flyer at that crab shack."

Under all of those murderous stares and black leather, there really was a sweet, considerate person. Even if he didn't want people to know. It was ridiculously endearing.

Sam graciously refrained from commenting on that, and instead offered a soft smile. "Well, I'll be looking forward to it. What time is the reservation?"

"I booked it at 6:30." Bucky replied. "And we don't have to stay for the dancing bit, if that's not really—"

"Nuh-uh, you said it's a dinner and dance." Sam grinned. "We've gotta dance at least one song."

He watched as the other glanced over, his gaze now more curious than cautious. "Okay, fine." There was that rare smile, small but dazzling. "But I will warn you, I haven't danced since the forties."

Sam smirked. "We can be bad together." Something about the way he said that made Bucky pause, his eyes searching.

"Who said anything about being bad? I'm great at dancing—I'm just rusty." He quipped, recovering.

Sam barked out a surprised laugh. "Oh, alright! Pardon me, sir. I wasn't aware that you were a pro in that field."

"Yeah, well, there's a lot of things you don't know about me." Bucky's voice lowered, his grin devilish. What was Sam getting himself into?

"You'll have to teach me, then."

"And you can teach me the new ones."

Sam made a face. "Haven't you heard the saying about teaching old dogs new tricks?" Bucky rolled his eyes with a snort.

"Ha-ha, very clever, Samuel." He smiled, and Sam honestly thought he might melt.

"We can teach each other," Sam offered.

"Sounds good." Bucky moved to stand next to the bed, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Great! It's a date, then." Sam thought Bucky might die when he heard how he choked after that fateful sentence.

Chapter Text

Getting into the little bar had been easy enough, with a quick confirmation and polite welcome in. Thankfully, nobody had recognized them, especially now that news had begun to spread about the arrest and attack. Someone had let it slip that Captain America and the ex-Winter Soldier were involved, and people had already started losing their minds about it. If they could, they would savor the bliss of remaining completely and utterly normal, if only for just a few more days.

Sam hated to remember that this little pocket of calm they had wormed their way into would only be there for another three days. After this, who knows what will happen. He hoped that Bucky wouldn't push him away—or, arguably worse, go back to what they were before all of this.

He didn't know exactly when what they were had shifted, but it definitely had. It has softened noticeably, much to his mutual joy and anxiety. He knew that they were both too afraid of losing each other to say anything, though.

It honestly drove him crazy, how they were just attentively watching one another toe that line that their past selves had so cautiously drawn, miles away from where they had started. But they have come a long way, and now it felt like the only way to go was either forward, or right back at square one.

He knew that if he pushed Bucky, he would close up and most likely bolt. But he could just tell that this wasn't unrequited.

No, he understood that, to a degree, Bucky absolutely returned his feelings. There was no way he didn't: Sam saw those looks full of longing, and he had never outright denied any of Sam's past advances.

He trusted Sam. He had asked him for comfort last night, rather than wallow in his misery alone, like he always did. That meant something.

This was just the infuriating waiting game of wondering who would make the first move, and Sam was beginning to lose his patience.

As they went to find their seats, he ventured to stand that little bit closer. Bucky glanced his way, but refused any comment another, older version of himself would have snapped defensively. Something biting and warning, with blaring signs ordering him to stay away.

Sam saw that as progress.

They found a cozy booth pushed in a corner, complete with a nice, sleek black vinyl. So, they slid into their respective seats across from one another, neither refusing nor accepting the other's piercing gaze.

God, the tension was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Sam thought back to their earlier conversation. To Bucky's shock at Sam suggesting that their outing was a date. Bucky had stood in silence for a beat, before giving a small nod. His lips had twitched up into a ghost of a smile, and he had said: "Right, yeah. A date."

He had excused himself to go for a walk after that, and Sam had decided not to chase after him. If he needed space, Sam would gladly give it to him. As long as that distance wasn't too far.

He just really didn't want this to go poorly, because he honestly didn't know what he would do if he had to keep up this charade of only liking him as a friend for much longer. It wasn't even a secret that people already had their speculations.

They were both asked all the time whether they were pursuing a relationship together, and both would always answer with a vague variation of: that's my business, not yours, but no.

But Sam wanted to be able to clear this up, so that one day maybe they could confidently say yes.

When the waiter came by, they both ordered beer and burgers. The beer arrived a few moments later, just as Sam noticed Bucky glancing around at the other guests.

The bar itself wasn't particularly fancy, with a homely feel to it. It was nicer than most bars he has found himself in, with a much more intimate feel to it. The other couples were all either around their age or older, and looked like they were familiar with the establishment and staff.

Sam took a decisive sip. "Just this once, I'll try not to get wasted tonight." He said, attempting to quell this awkward air. Bucky snorted, quirking a brow at him.

"You'll try? That's believable, Mr. Lightweight. Remember the last time you said that?" Bucky teased with a smirk.

Sam scoffed. "I am not a lightweight! And, no, I don't."

"You absolutely are. Of course not, because you were absolutely hammered." Bucky rebuffed. Sam was honestly just relieved that Bucky didn't look so cautious, anymore, even if it was at his expense.

"That's an exaggeration, I wasn't hammered—"

"You sang terrible karaoke for, like, two hours straight, before breaking down for absolutely no reason." Bucky laughed, smiling at the memory. Sam felt his heart damn near flutter. "And then Torres and I had to practically drag you out to the truck, where you spoke unintelligible nonsense the entire ride back." Sam felt his cheeks burn.

"Hey, at least I didn't puke." Sam defended. Bucky snorted and leaned back against the cushions.

"Yeah, probably because you passed out halfway to your place."

"Well, there you go. I honestly only vaguely remember the karaoke—did you end up doing any?" Sam sipped his beer, easing up completely. This was good.

Bucky made a face like the idea was outlandish. "No, and thank God for that. I would only ever try if I was blackout drunk, which is now impossible."

"Aw, c'mon! We should do it next time we go," Sam insisted, grinning at Bucky's doubtful grimace.

"I'll cheer you on from the sidelines, Cap, but, for everyone's sake, I'll leave it to you." Bucky replied before taking a gulp of beer.

"Alright, alright. But you can't knock it 'till you try it."

"Oh, I have, and that is exactly why I'm knocking it."

Sam grinned. "No way!"

Bucky shrugged. "That was forever ago. I was probably, like, twenty-three."

Sam shook his head. "What I would give to hear that. What would you even sing back then?"

Bucky grew thoughtful. "Vera Lynn, I guess. But we didn't really have karaoke back then. We just called it drunken singing." He looked embarrassed, which was insanely endearing. "I don't really remember most of it, though. I was pretty out of it."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, that checks out." They paused when their food arrived, thanked the waiter, and immediately continued. "You ever miss that?"

He watched Bucky take a bite out of his burger, and he considered the question as he chewed. "Yep," he answered easily. "Some people might call it a blessing, but I call it a curse. Can't be careless or let my guard down, even at a party. Gotta stay razor sharp, all day, every day."

Sam caught an underlying ache behind those words, something he understood meant: I can't run away from the hellscape of my mind by drowning my sorrows in alcohol.

When things got loud, Bucky couldn't hide from it by drinking himself numb. And maybe that was a good thing, but, damn did Sam feel for that. He knew there were many times in his past he had relied on that to keep himself afloat some nights. Especially after Riley.

"Hey, at least I've got a great guy to watch my back, then. Always." Sam offered, sending him a quiet smile. Bucky nodded, satisfied to settle with that.

"To keep you out of trouble, you mean." He quipped, making Sam bark out a surprised laugh.

"That, too, yeah." Then they just took a moment to look at each other—really look. Sam mentally kicked himself when his eyes fixed on those lips for a second too long.

Get it together, Wilson.

"Anyway, how's Torres doing?" Bucky asked as he ducked his gaze down to his food, instead. Sam wished he would ask other questions, preferably ones pertaining to whatever this was churning between them, but he was happy to brag about that kid. Bucky knew that, sneaky bastard.

"He's been good. He's a great kid, but sometimes he can have trouble with listening to his orders. Which reminds me of a certain someone that I know." He shot Bucky a look, which made the other chuckle.

"I think you just attract that kinda crowd, Wilson." Bucky pointed out before finishing off his burger.

"What, the infuriatingly stubborn kind that prefers to do what they think is best, instead of following my thought-out directions? No, I think I just accidentally surround myself with dumbasses that don't use their heads and have an overwhelming hero complex." Sam laughed, jabbing an accusatory finger Bucky's way.

Bucky tilted his head as though relenting. "Congrats, Cap, you finally figured it out." He grinned, holding up his hands.

Sam rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Yeah, and you're the reigning champ of the group, so congrats to you, too." Bucky laughed, and didn't agree nor disagree.

"I'm honored." Bucky replied, sarcastically, before softening. "Torres is a good kid. He's got heart, even if he does talk too much."

Sam nodded with a snort. "I wouldn't have it any other way, though." Then he considered Bucky. "What about you? How's being a congressman goin' for you?" Bucky pulled a face and sighed, shaking his head.

"It's alright. People are a lot more up-front about how much they hate me, but there are also a few that really believe in what I'm fighting for. It's definitely a different kind of battlefield, I'll say."

"You've got it. You're doin' good," Sam encouraged as he took the last bite of his own burger. That was when he noticed an older couple stand up from their seats, hand in hand, before making their way over to the open floor.

He took in their enchanted expressions, with starry eyes for only each other, as they began to sway easily to the soft music of the bar. He listened to them laugh quietly when they stumbled; not graceful, but loving in a way that enraptured him.

It made his heart constrict.

He looked away from the couple, and fixed his intent gaze on Bucky, who was glancing out the window, beer in hand. He had the overwhelming desire to, one day, be able to be like that couple with this man before him. He swore his heart skipped to think that, maybe, they already kind of were.

He stood up and held his hand out to Bucky without a second thought, having decided that he would, in fact, allow himself to have that. Bucky looked at the proffered hand with surprise, and Sam's heart honestly fluttered when those ocean-blues flicked up to his face, curiously cautious.

But he took it with his metal hand, and allowed himself to be led, his expression awed.

It was that moment when he noticed that they both still had their faux wedding bands on, and it was for that moment he let himself pretend. He hadn't really seen Bucky's, since he had had to wear those gloves, which he had chosen to leave at their room.

Sam pulled him out onto the floor, his gaze never leaving that face that he had memorized, right down to the dimple of his chin. He smirked when they came to a stop, but didn't drop his hand. If anything, he held it tighter.

"May I have this dance?" He asked, grinning as Bucky's lips twitched upward with a roll of his beautiful eyes.

"You're such a dork." He huffed, though Sam saw the truth in how he softened, his face rosy.

"Maybe, but you love it." Sam ventured, choosing to blame the beer for his boldness. He watched that face he adored melt into this utterly enchanted expression; so at-ease, for once, that Sam immediately wished that it would never falter.

"In your dreams, Wilson." He murmured, his voice low.

Sam huffed out a laugh, his eyes getting all soft and squinty. "Sure, Barnes. Now are you going to show me how to do this, or are we gonna stand here all night?" Not that he would mind that. He would honestly do anything if that was what Bucky wanted.

Bucky laughed quietly, and carefully took a step closer, putting them nearly chest to chest. He refused Sam's gaze, then, who grinned at his flushed face. Bucky took hold of both of his hands, and hesitantly placed them on his waist.

Sam didn't dare breathe, for fear that he might somehow spoil the moment.

His hands rested lightly over the smooth material of his shirt. Bucky's hands came to fall gently on his shoulders, his forearms pressed to his chest. He finally looked up, and there was an apparent insecurity there that Sam wanted to personally chase away.

"Alright?" Bucky asked, his voice strained as he feigned normalcy. Sam smirked.

"I'm great." He replied cheekily. He received a quiet snort, and that hesitance waned. Good. "Now what?"

"Now we just—" He cut himself off and began to sway them around, now mirroring the other couples around them. Their eyes met, and suddenly it was just them, alone in their own little bubble.

Sam tightened his grip, but remained gentle, and watched as Bucky swallowed.

He pulled him in closer, so that their chests were flush. Bucky smoothed his hands over Sam's collarbone, his face burning. He tried to look away, but Sam craned his neck to catch it. He read a vulnerability there that made him want to pull him in even closer, even if it was impossible.

He looked almost scared.

Bucky usually wasn't either of those things.

"Hey," he murmured, leaning in, "what's goin' on? Talk to me."

Bucky blew out a breath, which fanned across Sam's face. "I don't know," he admitted. A partial truth.

"Then tell me what you do know." Sam replied, urging him with his gaze. Bucky's breathing audibly caught, and his gaze flicked around for an exit. He tensed beneath Sam's hands, momentarily, before easing up in defeat.

"Sam," he sighed, shaking his head, his expression pained. "I can't." He pulled away to fix him with a serious look, still soaked in his unspoken fear, looking ready to flee. He remained in Sam's hold, though.

"Why not?" Sam asked, simply. Bucky looked so at war with himself it hurt. Sam just wanted to tell him to say it, to go ahead and spit it out, because this tension was becoming suffocating.

Bucky looked away, his expression something caged. His eyes shuttered, trying to do anything to protect himself from whatever it was he was convincing himself would happen if he allowed himself to admit to this. But Sam caught it, and chewed his lip.

"Buck," Sam tried again, trying to meet his eyes. "What is it?"

"It's nothing, Sam. Just forget about it." He began to pull away, but Sam's grip didn't loosen. "This was a mistake."

Sam winced like he had been struck. "C'mon, no, don't shut me out. What, Buck?" Sam urged, and those panicked eyes finally found his. They looked wounded.

"I don't want to fuck this up, Sam." He said, more aggressively than he had intended.

"You won't," Sam assured, offering him a small smile.

Bucky hesitated, and suddenly Sam watched as those blue eyes flicked down to his lips, before returning to his gaze. Bucky looked almost embarrassed.

Oh.

Oh.

Sam wet his lips and smirked. Suddenly he wanted this distance between them to be a thing of the past. "Fuck what up, exactly?" He asked, entirely too pleased with himself. But he caught himself, and eased. Don't scare him off.

Bucky glared at him, his face burning. "Whatever this is." He grumbled, looking like he desperately wanted an out.

"What would you call that?" Sam lowered his voice, leaning in, again. Bucky exhaled an annoyed sound, sharply.

"What would you call it?" Bucky countered impatiently, challenging him, even if he looked terrified.

Sam brought a hand up and cupped his face, then slid it to rest on the nape of his neck. Slowly, but surely, he closed their distance.

The kiss was soft and careful, but held so much more than words possibly could. Bucky froze, shock writ clear on his features, before his eyes fluttered shut. He allowed himself to press back, finally indulging that need he had felt for so long.

It wasn't hesitant in the slightest, with Sam smiling into the kiss once Bucky didn't pull away. Relief washed over them both almost aggressively.

Finally, they pulled away to catch their breath, with Bucky's head falling onto his shoulder with a breathy laugh.

"I'm a dumbass." He said, and Sam laughed. Sam only wanted to kiss him over and over again, just because he could. He had wanted this for so long, he was almost breathless to think that it was possible. God, he loved him.

"Maybe just a little bit," Sam teased. Bucky lifted his head to level him with a glare, his face flushed. Sam caught him in another kiss, this one much more deliberate. He broke it a moment later, grinning like he had won a million dollars. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that."

Bucky rolled his eyes. "We're both idiots, I guess."

Sam loooked like he was actually glowing. "Damn right. Was that your first kiss since the forties?"

He received a dangerous look. "You really had to go and ruin it."

"Hey, I'm just curious. Besides, that's an answer enough."

"I hate you."

"Nah, you love me." Sam laughed.

Bucky groaned, pushing him away. Sam followed him as he jokingly left, grinning all the while. Together, they made their way to the resort, both with a pep in their step.

"Yeah, maybe I do."

Chapter Text

The next morning, the two lay facing each other, with both wearing big, stupid grins as they soaked in this new closeness. Sam's hand carefully carded through Bucky's short hair, his gaze impossibly warm. Bucky leaned into the touch, sighing.

Now they weren't secretive about their contact. Didn't pretend that it meant something else. Now they could accept things for what they were, instead of hiding away and denying themselves.

Sam smirked. "Got any other plots up your sleeve?" Bucky huffed an amused sound and daringly shifted that little bit closer.

"None that I can think of. Unless you're getting some ideas." He offered it like a question, already leagues more comfortable than he has been since Sam reinstated himself into Bucky's orbit when he arrived at his apartment. Sam made a show of humming, before presenting his own proposal:

"How do you feel about fishing?" He grinned.

That's how they found themselves walking along the docks, rented fishing rods in tow. Sam was practically buzzing with excitement, which fractionally affected his companion, who laughed at the other's energy.

They still hadn't really sat down and taken the time to answer the still-looming question of what exactly they were. But they were still basking in the afterglow of realizing that their feelings were returned, and for right now, that was enough.

Oh, Sam could just hear Sarah, now. "You're both dancin' around each other like pre-teen boys—for everyone's sake, just talk to each other!"

It wasn't even that Sam was afraid of rejection. No, he had the previous night to ease that concern. He was more afraid of pushing Bucky into too much at one time. So, he would bide his time until the right moment arose for that conversation.

If anything, his main adversary was Buck's crippling self-doubt and his tendency to assume that he didn't deserve things that made him happy.

Sure, Bucky hadn't shared such things with him, but the signs were definitely there.

Sam saw it in how the man denied himself basic comforts, insisting that he was "functioning", and therefore was fine. Sam usually countered that with a pointed: "Sure, yeah, but you don't have to settle for 'functioning', Buck. You're allowed to be comfortable."

He tried not to make a deal out of it, and reminded himself that Bucky was a grown man that was entitled to his own decisions, even if Sam downright detested some of them.

Bucky has been getting better about it, though. Sam has noticed that he has started reaching for blankets (which Sam made sure he had a plethora of) whenever he got cold, rather than let himself shiver even despite his hatred of the cold.

He's started buying food that he actually likes, instead of forcing himself to continue choking down those lifeless TV dinners just for the fuel and calories.

He's especially started letting Sam in, as opposed to choosing to blatantly ignore him, or push him away.

Sam thought back to one of the many evenings spent on the back porch of his home in Delacroix, side by side in those old, creaky chairs as they watched the backyard twinkle with lightning bugs. Bucky had leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily into his beer.

"You know I don't hate you, right?" He asked, his chin dipped like he was embarrassed to ask. His weird way of making sure that Sam knew that he cared.

Sam had cracked a smile. "I don't think you would be here in Louisiana if you did, but, yeah, I do."

Bucky had nodded and pointedly avoided Sam's efforts to catch his gaze. "Good, because you're all I've got. So, uh..." There had been something cracked open about the way he had said it. He had shot Sam a glance, all flustered, before looking away. "Just wanted to make sure we're on the same page, since we're kinda stuck with each other."

Sam remembers exactly how it felt to hear those words, and how his heart, once hesitant, had warmed. Hope had rung clear and true through him, then.

He had bumped their shoulders, and taken great care to school his expression into one of nonchalance. "I don't hate you, either." He had said, grinning.

Bucky's smile after that still flashed through his mind on the daily. It was the same one he had worn the night before, when they were walking back to their place.

Sam shook the memory from his mind and refocused on the warmth of the sun and the more gravitating warmth of a certain ex-assassin. He almost laughed when he caught Bucky doubtfully eyeing the life jackets presented at the beginning of the dock.

"Have you fished a lot?" Sam asked, genuinely curious. He honestly couldn't tell if fishing was really an area of interest for Bucky, but it was nice to think that he had tagged along, anyway.

Bucky shrugged, making a so-so gesture with his flesh-and-blood hand. "Maybe a few times with Steve, but that was really just us foolin' around. When I was a kid, my pa used to take me, when he wasn't busy. We'd usually cook whatever we caught, then. Sometimes I'd try it out when I was working the docks. Wasn't really my thing." He admitted, twisting the grip in his hands.

Sam softened. "And I'm guessing HYDRA wasn't one for a day at the lake, either."

Bucky chuckled. "Yeah, no. Fishing was definitely not a concern of theirs. I really only thought about it again when I went to visit you in Delacroix after the GSP fight." His eyes got all warm and easy like they did anytime he mentioned the little haven.

Sam caught this and smiled to himself. He knew that place had already wormed its way into Bucky's steel-reinforced heart. He saw that in how his shoulders seemed to lessen their weight, and he smiled more often.

"Well, you did a fine job then. You'll do fine out here." Sam insisted. Bucky tossed him a narrow look.

"Just 'fine'?" His lips twitched into a small smile.

Sam made a face, clucking his tongue. "Slow your roll, Tin Man. Your fishing skills still have a long way to go."

Bucky held up a finger, his brows raised. "Hey, I only broke one rod, last time! I'd call that improvement."

Sam barked out a laugh. "Sure, savor the little victories, eh? And it was only one 'cause we didn't have any more spares, because you broke them all."

"In my defense, in the heat of the moment, I don't always think about my strength. That takes focus I don't have when I'm trying to catch something." Bucky replied.

"Yeah, and if anything bit, you would reel it in so fast I was worried the rod might start smokin'!" Sam's grin split his face so easily it almost surprised him. Bucky was grinning that goofy grin of his, all curled lips and that slight crinkle of his bright, blue eyes.

"But did I catch most of 'em?" Bucky asked, stubbornly.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Maybe, but not without giving the fish a good bit 'a whiplash."

Bucky smirked, and came to a stop towards the end of the dock. "I rest my case. I do pretty alright for a suped-up super soldier that hasn't fished since the thirties." Sam stopped beside him, tossing him an 'okay, whatever you say, man' look.

They both took a moment to arrange their bait before stepping apart, and casting their lines. Sam made a grumbling remark about Bucy having an advantage with his advanced eyesight, which made the other reply with an amused snort.

Then, they lapsed into comfortable silence, even if their attentions were definitely not fully set on the bobbers in the water. There were more than a few sneaked glances that left them grinning like idiots.

It was so normal, it made them both pause. This was what life could be like.

Together.

For a beat, they both really stopped and considered what they would be doing if they had gone on home after the mission, instead. If each had gone their separate ways.

Sam imagined that he probably would have either ended up in another mind-numbing yet infuriating meeting, or alone in the emptiness of his Louisiana home, likely pining after a certain bionic staring machine.

Bucky imagined the oppressive quiet and cold of his apartment. The often overwhelming loneliness of knowing that he could be elsewhere, in a happier, more homely place. A place with Sam. He winced to think that he definitely wouldn't have pursued it.

A quiet, newer voice at the back of his mind, that sounded suspiciously like his new therapist, insisted that he allow himself to have this thing going on with Sam. Another, softer voice assured him that Steve would have wanted him to be happy.

And it took feeling that wave of relief afterwards to really understand what was holding him back. This wasn't just another instance of 'do I deserve to have this after all of the terrible, traumatizing, horrendous things I've done to people?' but also of 'am I allowed to move on even though he already has?'

A foreign kind of peace spread through his chest, easing his tense shoulders. When had he tensed them in the first place? He couldn't bring himself to care. Sam glanced over, curious.

"You good?" He asked, plain and simple. Bucky nodded, his smile easy as he looked out across the rippling ultramarine of the water.

"Yeah, I think so."

Sam smiled, too. "Good." And he meant it, because Bucky deserved all of the amazing things of this world, even if he himself didn't always believe that.

"... you're all I've got." Bucky's voice echoed through his mind.

"Are you happy?" Bucky asked from beside him, trying to sound less interested than he was. Sam fought down a snort, looking fondly at the other.

"Yeah. Are you?" Sam watched as Bucky's eyes got all distant and soft, really considering the question and its answer. Over the years, Sam has learned that, with Bucky, sometimes you had to wait to hear the truth. And Sam honestly had all day—hell, he had the rest of their lives, he hoped, to make that answer a definitive 'yes'.

"I'd say so, yeah." Bucky replied evenly, offering Sam one of his addictive little half-smiles, looking with one of those expressions of his that he reserved only for those he loved and cherished.

Sam used to worry that such looks might have left right along with Steve, but looking back now, he saw that they had never disappeared. They had faded, sure, but they had come back during those days spent on Sam's family's boat. That was back when Buck had chosen to be cared for, rather than lock everyone out after everything with Walker and the Flag Smashers.

Sam had expected him to go right back to what little he had settled for back in New York, but he had chosen to be with Sam, instead. Had chosen to help out with the boat and errands around town. Had chosen to, though timidly, allow himself to accept his place in Sam's family.

Because they were family.

And not just them, but Sarah, AJ, and Cass. All of them.

Sam noticed how Sarah always made sure that Bucky was included, even if it was in their sibling banter. AJ and Cass had already taken to calling him Uncle Buck, and adored being around him. He saw it in how they looked for Bucky whenever Sam video called, and how they pretended not to be disappointed if he wasn't there.

That didn't even include all of the locals that have grown to care for the grumpy soldier like he had been born and raised there.

Bucky finally had a place where he belonged after being without one for decades.

Sam recast his line after slowly reeling it in. "Good. You deserve it, man." He saw Bucky glance his way out of the corner of his eye, and gave him a small smile.

Bucky opened his mouth to respond, before snapping his gaze towards his now-taut fishing line. For a split second, he stared at it dumbly, before Sam hurried over.

"Aw, you got one! Reel it in!" Sam beamed, and quickly set his rod down to help, even though Bucky wouldn't need it. Bucky did as he was told and soon Sam was reaching out to get ahold of his catch. He got a good hold, carefully unhooked it, and passed it over to Bucky, who looked lost on what to do with it. Also a little guilty.

"... Now what?" He asked, looking doubtfully at the fish in his hands. Sam fumbled for his phone.

"Now, we take a picture! This is your best one yet, man! Then, you can let it go." He answered, grinning so much his face hurt. He held up his phone to snap a picture, when a lady nearby noticed and tapped him on the shoulder.

She asked if he would want her to take it, so he could jump in. He handed his phone over gratefully and sidled up next to Bucky, who rolled his eyes.

Bucky removed one of his hands, and nodded for Sam to replace it with his own, which he did with a smug grin. They both focused on the camera for a beat while the kind lady took a few pictures, before lowering Sam's phone. Sam stepped forward to retrieve it with a "Thank you so much," while Bucky carefully lowered the fish back into the water.

Sam almost laughed at how gentle he was, but bit his cheek to stop it. Instead, he pulled up his recent photos and began looking through them. He stopped on one where they had both looked at each other, smiling like they had won the Lottery. He felt his lips pull up into a smile, and looked up to thank the lady again.

"Seriously, thanks. These are definitely better than any I could've taken,"

She grinned. "It's really no problem—you guys make a really sweet couple." She waved goodbye and left, leaving Sam buzzing with the echo of her words.

Couple.

Him and Bucky, a couple.

That sounded right.

Bucky straightened, wiping the water from his hands onto his shirt. He craned his neck towards the phone. "Let me see,"

Sam handed his phone over and watched as Bucky's eyes got all soft and gooey, again, as his lips twitched up into this tiny smile. It was honestly like looking through a history book, Sam could swear he had seen that star-struck expression before in a picture from almost a hundred years ago.

Bucky stopped on one, and looked up at Sam. "I like this one." He said, simply, turning the phone so Sam could see. It was almost exactly like the one Sam had found, only their shoulders were pressed together, and Sam's eyes honest-to-god twinkled.

Sam thought he might die. "That is a good one," he agreed, smiling. Bucky nodded, looking at it again.

"Can you send it to me?" Bucky asked, all unbothered and cool in a way that Sam could see right past. Sam smirked as Bucky handed his phone back to him.

"Sure, man, hang on." Sam replied, just as unbothered and cool. He took a second and sent Bucky the picture, before pocketing his phone. "Wanna keep on going, or find someplace to eat?"

Bucky weighed his options, then decided that food sounded good. So they gathered up their rods, and returned them to the stand they had rented them from. Then, they walked along the cozy line of restaurants before settling on a Thai place.

And throughout their dinner, Sam pretended not to notice Bucky's sly, stolen glances at the picture on his phone.