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He’s in London the first time Sam finds him.
In a library. It’s quiet, save for the clicking of a woman typing on her laptop, the subtle, tinny noise of too-loud music emitted from someone’s headphones, and the muffled sound of traffic outside.
He’s sitting at a computer, too close to the desk, like he’s trying to hide what he’s looking at (and maybe he is), with his hood pulled up, covering his profile, like he’s trying to hide his face (he probably is).
Sam still recognises him. (Of course he does.) The way he looks tense, like he’s ready to bolt at any sudden noise. The way his gloved hand taps at the table gently as he reads. The way he tilts his head as he writes in a small notebook in front of him.
Sam approaches him, pulling his hands out of his pockets just in case, expecting Bucky to look up at him as he gets closer, but he doesn’t. When he gets close enough, Sam sees the furrow of his brows, and that his lip is pulled between his teeth.
So Sam sits next to him instead, tugging the chair out from under the table and clicking on the desktop as he clears his throat. He glances at Bucky just as he looks at him, and he catches the startle in his eye, the glint of recognition. The sharp, quiet gasp as he jerks his eyes away, back to the computer in front of him.
“I’m alone,” Sam breathes as Bucky tugs at his hood, pulling it to hide his face, even though he knows Sam saw him.
He doesn’t seem to believe him, so Sam sets both hands flat out on the table.
Bucky looks at him, just peering over the hem of his hood. Sam looks back at him, and it’s like he can read him.
“He doesn’t know we’re here.”
“…Promise?”
He sounds so small. Vulnerable.
Scared.
“Promise.”
Bucky visibly relaxes, exhaling and slumping his shoulders. They’re quiet for a minute, just sitting there together, staring at their screens, not really reading.
And then Bucky clicks the mouse, leans forward, and turns off the computer. Sam watches, turning his head just slightly, and Bucky catches his eye as he leans down, shoving his notebook into his backpack and tilting his head. Some hair has fallen into his face.
“Outside,” he says simply.
Sam follows him, from an unsuspecting distance, until they’re outside. He watches as Bucky looks both ways and crosses the street, pulling his hood back to look around before covering his face again. Nervous. Worried.
When he follows him into a narrow alley, Sam pulls his hands out of his pockets, letting them rest on his legs. Bucky’s eyes follow them, then they glance at his pockets and legs. Sam knows he’s looking for weapons. Sam also knows he doesn’t have any on him.
Bucky looks at him, lifting his hands to grip the straps of his backpack. It’s strapped across his chest, the buckle fastened like he’s scared it’ll fall off. Sam wonders what in it.
Sam doesn’t know what to say. He looks away, listening to passing traffic, the sound of strangers laughing across the street, oblivious to the obvious turmoil in Bucky’s head.
When Sam looks at him again, he’s staring right back at him.
His gaze is intense. Sam looks away.
“How’d you know where to find me?” Bucky says finally, and his voice is rough. Sam fixes his eyes on him again.
“I’m good at finding people.”
“I tried to be untraceable,” Bucky says insistently. He glances down the alley as wind rustles some leaves that branch out of a crack in a building.
“I didn’t say it was easy,” Sam responds, trying to ease his paranoia. “I’m just…” He shrugs. “Better than everyone else.”
He makes a face as he says it, frowning and shrugging, and it takes a second, but Bucky scoffs, cracking the smallest smile possible.
It’s still a nice smile. Of course it is. It reaches his eyes.
“Why?” Bucky asks after more quiet, and Sam leans against the wall behind him, finally sliding his hands into his pockets. Bucky’s eyes follow the movement, but he doesn’t say anything.
“Why what?”
“Why’d you find me?”
Sam meets his eyes. Bucky hasn’t looked away once this whole time. Sam wonders if it’s paranoia or if it’s just Bucky.
He looks away before Sam answers, to the ground abashedly. He seems to know it’s a silly question.
“I don’t know,” Sam says to appease him, and he shrugs. “I don’t know.”
“You wanna make sure I haven’t killed anyone,” Bucky answers for him. His voice is so low it breaks. He looks so… resigned.
“I wanna make sure no one’s killed you.”
This seems to confuse Bucky, and his brows furrow for a split second and he looks away. His head tilts, and Sam mirrors him without thinking.
“Why?”
Sam shrugs.
He doesn’t tell him why.
He doesn’t tell him that he just felt like he had check on him. That he couldn’t stop thinking about him, that he feels like he thinks about Bucky as much as Steve does. That the thought of him keeps him up at night. The thought of his eyes.
“You won’t tell Steve?” Bucky asks softly, catching his eye again. Sam looks at him.
“Not if you don’t want me to,” he says, just as softly. Bucky shakes his head and looks at the ground.
“I don’t—” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t wanna see him yet. I don’t know him yet.”
“…Okay.”
“I—” He cuts off again, closing his eyes at the ground before looking at Sam desperately. “What now?”
“Uhm.” Sam sighs and leans his head against the wall. The sky is grey above them. “Don’t know. I didn’t really think this far ahead.”
Bucky scoffs again.
“Think I might go,” Sam says, lifting himself off the wall.
“Where?”
“Home.”
Bucky looks as if he’s about to ask another question but he just looks away, and Sam swallows his disappointment.
He starts down the alley, back to the street, but he’s stopped by Bucky’s voice sharply saying, “Wait,” and he turns, ignoring the flip of his stomach.
Bucky has his mouth open, hesitating, with his brows furrowed.
“S— Sam. Right?”
Sam nods.
“Are you… Are you gonna find me again?” Bucky asks, shuffling one of his feet on the ground, and Sam hears the rustle of the rubber and pavement and pebbles from where he stands. Bucky looks bashful, and Sam almost laughs at the stark contrast of his shy demeanour and the intimidating shadows across his face.
He shrugs.
“Do you want me to?”
Bucky just stares blankly, so Sam shrugs again.
“I’ll see you around,” he says as he turns around.
* * * * *
The next time he finds him, a few months later, he’s in Giza.
Sam sees him in a crowded mall, and he takes a second to just look. He tells himself it’s to make sure it’s him, even though he knows.
Bucky is sitting at a table by himself, seemingly undisturbed by the echoing noises of conversation and jostling of people. His backpack is on the grounds, between his legs. He’s reading a book.
Sam slides into the table next to him and Bucky looks up as Sam pulls his phone out of his pocket to act natural.
“Hi,” Bucky says quietly, just loud enough for Sam to hear him, and Sam glances up. He’s staring again.
“You good?”
Bucky nods.
“I’m learning.”
Sam looks at him, and he’s almost smiling.
“About what?”
Bucky glances around, but no one seems to see them. It’s like they exist on a different plane. He slides his chair over to Sam’s table, reaching down to drag his backpack with him.
“Everything,” he says, watching a family take his table. He gives a small smile to the mother as she moves a child from her hip to a chair, and Sam’s heart squeezes.
“Everything,” he repeats.
Bucky looks at his phone nervously, and Sam sets it flat on the table, showing him the home screen. His wallpaper is a photo of the sky, blue and crowded with bright clouds. It’s generic, he knows, but it makes him happy.
Bucky looks into his eyes after looking at the screen, and Sam finds himself trying to talk to him telepathically.
It’s okay.
I haven’t told anyone.
You can trust me.
“Everything,” he says again. “The world. History. Everything I missed.”
“And?”
Bucky pauses, glancing at Sam’s phone, then his book, which he’s holding open in front of him, his finger between the pages.
“It’s a lot.”
Sam nods, letting his phone turn off on its own.
“Seventy years worth.”
Bucky nods.
“Any questions?” Sam asks playfully, and Bucky looks at the table, furrowing his brows in thought.
“What… What does ‘fly’ mean?”
“…Fly?”
He nods.
“I saw on the internet,” Bucky says awkwardly, “someone called a necklace ‘fly,’ but I don’t… know if that’s good or bad.”
“Oh.” Sam chuckles lightly. “It’s good. It’s like… The necklace is cool.”
“Oh.”
“But people don’t really that anymore,” Sam adds. “It was mostly in the nineties.”
“Oh.”
“Anything else?”
“Not really.”
“You can ask me next time.”
“Next time?” Bucky asks quietly.
“If that’s okay with you.”
Bucky stares at him, and Sam expects him to leave the question unanswered, like last time, but he nods.
“Yes,” he says. The word is clipped, cut short, but it’s heavy. “It’s okay.”
He looks back down at his book, and Sam watches as hair falls in his face. He almost wants to push it back. Almost.
“You’re nice,” Bucky says without looking up. “You don’t look at me like everyone else.”
“How does everyone else look at you?”
Bucky’s eyes aren’t moving across his book, and he stares at it blankly, but his eyelids flutter for a split second.
“I don’t know. They…” He huffs, his brows furrowing. “Strangers avoid me, even when they… When I don’t think they recognise me. Steve looks at me…”
His eyes go soft, fuzzy, like they’re unfocusing, completely zoning out.
“Steve looked at me like he knew me. He— He trusted me. I hated it.”
Sam frowns.
“Why’d you hate it?”
Bucky shrugs, looking frustrated (with Sam’s questions? His own lack of answers? Himself?) He tongue swipes across his lip before he bites down on it, inhaling slowly. Sam tries not to stare.
“Because it feels, just… wrong. He shouldn’t trust me,” he says solemnly to the book in front of him. He’s still speaking softly, just loud enough for Sam to hear him over the noise around them. “Because I hate that he knows me and I don’t know him.”
Sam is quiet, nodding even though Bucky isn’t looking at him. Bucky does the lip thing again, licking it and then biting it.
“I hate that he knows me and I don’t.”
Sam blinks.
“Know yourself?”
Bucky nods.
“I don’t know anything.”
Sam exhales, watching Bucky’s jaw work, watching him flip a page even though he hasn’t been reading. And he makes a decision.
“My name is Sam Wilson.”
Bucky’s eyes flick up to him in confusion. Sam presses on.
“I’m from Louisiana. I have a sister.”
Bucky is staring again, his eyes so intense Sam feels like he already knows everything about him.
“I was in the air force. I left when my wing-man died.”
The book closes.
“I helped other veterans with PTSD. Helped them cope, learn to heal.”
Sam’s eyes fall to Bucky’s neck as he swallows, and then they lift back to his eyes as he leans forward, hanging on to every word.
Sam leans forward too, crossing his arms over the table, shrugging his shoulders and giving Bucky a light smile.
“Ask me something. I’ll answer you.”
Bucky’s jaw works again, clenching and flexing as his eyebrows set. Sam thinks he looks angry, until he says, so softly Sam reads his lips more than hears the words, “What’s your favourite color?”
Sam looks into his eyes.
“Blue. What’s yours?”
Bucky holds his gaze before looking away hesitantly, down at the table, blinking. His lips twitch and his jaw shifts.
“Yellow,” he says finally, looking up at Sam, and Sam smiles, jerking his chin up at him.
“You know stuff.”
Bucky blinks.
And then gives him a hesitant smile.
* * * * *
A few months later, Sam finds him in Leuven.
He’s speaking French to a woman, and Sam wouldn’t be able to understand him even if he could really hear him. But his expression looks light, and she smiles at him kindly before gesturing down the road and pointing.
Bucky smiles back at her and starts walking, so Sam catches up, casually smiling at the woman as she passes him and saying “Hey,” when he’s walking side by side with Bucky. “How’ve you been?”
“Good,” Bucky says, sparing him a glance.
“Learn anything new?”
“Not really.”
“Where we headed?”
“Library.”
Sam chuckles, stepping behind him to let a man on a bicycle pass before walking by his side again.
“What?” Bucky says, sounding defensive, but his eyes are light on him. Sam shrugs.
“Wouldn’t have thought Bucky Barnes was a nerd.”
Bucky’s brows furrow.
“A nerd?”
“Mmhmm.”
“I’m not a nerd.”
“Twice now I’ve found you at the library,” Sam says, defending his claim. “And in Egypt you were reading a book.”
Bucky is quiet and Sam looks at him. His mouth is twisted, his hands tucked in his pockets. Sam wonders if he’s wearing gloves, or if they’re pocketed because he isn’t wearing gloves.
“I do like reading,” Bucky says finally, and Sam grins. He catches Bucky’s eyes glance at his smile before he looks away, down the road.
“Have you read Frankenstein?”
There’s a pause.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“What about a Wrinkle in Time?”
Bucky just looks at him.
“That one’s from the sixties, you probably haven’t.”
“Hm.”
“I recommend it.” They cross the street, both glancing up and down. “It’s kinda fantasy.”
“When did you read it?” Bucky asks, reaching up to tuck some hair behind his ear. (Sam feels a pang of jealousy. He ignores it.) (He is wearing gloves.)
“High school. With my sister.”
“What’s your sister like?”
“Stubborn,” Sam says, laughing lightly. “Sweet. She’s responsible. Easy to talk to.”
Bucky looks up at a building and catches the door as someone enters in front of them. He holds it open for Sam, looking at him and then at the ground.
“You’d like her,” Sam adds before going in.
Sam sits with him while he reads, looking at a book that he doesn’t intend on checking out, or even actually reading. He skims it, glancing up occasionally to just look at Bucky.
Bucky is reading intently, his ankles crossed. The title is in Russian.
Sam is happy here. It’s quiet. Peaceful.
* * * * *
Sam finds Bucky in Tokyo next, four months later, coming out of a 7-11, plastic bag in hand.
“Hi,” Sam says, coming up next to him and pulling his hood over his head as the wind picks up.
“Was wondering when you’d show up.”
“Yeah? Miss me?” Sam teases, but Bucky simply says, “Yes.” Sam almost stops walking.
“Really?”
Bucky nods, looking into the bag and rummaging around in it.
“Yeah,” he says casually. “Onigiri?” He holds one out to Sam and he takes it.
Sam watches Bucky open one and copies him, watching the plastic unwrap from the rice and seaweed.
“It keeps the seaweed from getting soggy,” Bucky says as he watches Sam analyse it.
“Fucking genius.”
“Mmhmm.”
“You really missed me?” Sam asks, unable to help himself.
“Mm,” Bucky hums, nodding as he chews.
“Why?”
(Sam thinking Bucky’s behaviour is rubbing off on him.)
Bucky shrugs. Swallows. Glances at Sam, and keeps walking.
“You’re all I know.”
“…Oh.”
“I read a Wrinkle in Time,” Bucky says stopping at crosswalk.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, surprised. Bucky nods as Sam eats.
“Yeah, it was good. I bought a copy of it in Belgium after you left.”
“…Huh.”
Sam keeps eating as they walk, crossing the striped road and glancing at Bucky when he feels his eyes on him.
“You know you stare a lot?”
Bucky doesn’t look away, shrugging nonchalantly as he chews.
“You’re nice to stare at.”
Sam almost stumbles.
“I think about you a lot,” Bucky continues. “I like thinking about you.”
Sam looks at him, awestruck.
“You like thinking about me.”
“Mmhmm. Do you wanna come to my place?”
“Where is your place?”
“Few blocks.”
“Legally rented?”
Bucky stares blankly at him, and he sighs, resigning.
“Alright. Lead the way.”
Bucky’s apartment is in a tall dingy building, the center of it carved out around the stairwell. It’s unlocked, the doorknob and lock rusty red and crumbling. It’s small, a dipped entrance right in the tiny, seemingly unused kitchen before leading right into another room with a window, a futon, and a table.
It’s definitely Bucky’s. There are two more notebooks, stuffed with post-its, scrap pieces of paper between pages, and colourful tabs, on the floor next to the futon.
“Homey,” Sam quips.
Bucky hums in agreement and sits on the futon, crossing his legs. He looks up at Sam, tilting his head to the side. He looks cute.
He doesn’t take off his shoes, and Sam copies him, assuming it to be a ready to go thing.
“So how’ve you been?” Sam asks as he sits across from him, keeping his shoes off the futon and leaning against the wall.
“Okay. I…” He shrugs. Sam wants to push his hair out of his face. “Kinda paranoid.”
Sam looks at him, and Bucky’s eyes jump back and forth between his. Sam shakes his head.
“I haven’t told anyone,” he says softly.
“I know,” Bucky says and moves closer. “I believe you.”
The corners of Sam’s mouth curve into a small smile.
“I’ve been remembering some stuff,” Bucky says, like an afterthought.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, almost excited. “Like what?”
“More, like, images than anything else. Memories of… places. My home, I think.”
“Tell me about it?”
Bucky hums thoughtfully.
“I remember a doorway. I think it was important, like I saw it a lot.” He pauses, looking at the floor, blinking. “There was a coat hanging on it. And a cross above the doorframe.”
“Were you religious?” Sam asks, wondering if he’d know.
“No.” He blinks at the floor again, his head tilting. “Steve was.” He’s quiet for a few seconds before he looks up at Sam. “I prayed with him when his mom died.”
“He still is religious,” Sam tells him.
He hums softly, nodding.
“That’s nice.”
“What else?”
“…A rocking chair.” His brows furrow while he thinks. “I used to sit in it while I read.”
Sam grins, and Bucky’s eyes roll into his head. (Though he’s suppressing his own smile.)
“Some things never change,” Sam says.
Bucky nods.
They sit in silence, and Sam takes the opportunity to look around the apartment. There are cracks in the walls, in the ceiling. In the windows. There’s a balcony, but a small, dingy sofa is blocking off the dusty glass door. Sam wonders if Bucky put it there himself.
When he finally looks back at Bucky, Bucky is still looking at him in that way he’s always looking at him. Like he’s trying to figure something out.
His hand is fidgeting with the wrist of his glove.
Sam looks at it and back into Bucky’s eyes.
“You know you don’t have to wear those with me,” he says gently. Bucky looks at his hands, letting go of his glove like he hadn’t realised he was touching it, and looks back up, inhaling.
“I didn’t… I didn’t know if you, maybe…”
“What?” Sam whispers, because he doesn’t really have to speak loudly for Bucky to hear him over the distant sounds of cars.
“If it made you uncomfortable, or…”
“It’s your arm, Bucky.”
“It’s…”
“Your arm.”
Sam lifts himself off the wall and holds his hand out, tilting his head and moving closer.
Bucky tentatively puts his hand on Sam’s and Sam carefully finds the zip of the glove, holding his gaze.
As he starts to pull the glove off, Bucky’s breath becomes heavy, louder, and Sam pauses.
“Okay?” he asks softly.
Bucky nods, taking a deep, shaky breath.
“Okay,” he breathes.
Sam nods back at him, pulling the glove off his hand.
Bucky’s fingers curl instinctively, like he’s trying to hide his palm, even though it’s not different from the rest of his hand: silver, shiny, lined with tiny gaps between the metal plates that move almost silently.
Sam tosses the glove to the tatami floor that’s more grey than green.
He touches Bucky’s fingers, gently pulling them open.
“See?” he says lightly. “Just your hand.”
His fingertips stop on Bucky’s, so light it feel fleeting.
But Bucky’s thumb runs over Sam’s nails, and their fingers curl together.
“Can you feel it?” Sam asks quietly. Bucky’s hand is cold. Smooth.
“A little.” He’s looking at their hands when Sam looks at his face. “It’s faint. Like it’s not really… loud enough.”
Sam’s hand tightens, and Bucky’s eyes close as he exhales, “Yeah.”
Sam smiles.
* * * * *
He’s in Perth a few months later.
It’s winter, nearly July, cold, and Bucky has his hood up, and when Sam approaches him, and looks at him, he can see that his hair is tied at the base of his head.
“Hi,” Bucky says, his voice hushed. His hands are stuffed in his pockets, and Sam wants to tug them out and hold them, gloves or no gloves.
“Hi.”
Bucky stares at him, scanning his face, his jaw working subtly.
“How are you?” he asks after a quiet minute of staring. (Probably gazing on Sam’s part.)
“Fine,” Sam says. “You?”
Bucky is quiet for a second before he nods.
“I’m okay.”
“Are you sure?”
Bucky looks away, inhaling and lifting a gloved hand to his face, rubbing his bottom lip. His hand is shaking.
“Bucky.”
“I…”
Sam’s heart clenches as Bucky exhales and inhales quickly.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” he asks softly. Bucky nods.
Sam’s hand closes around Bucky’s bicep, squeezing so he can feel it, and he pulls him closer, tugging him into an alley, away from prying eyes.
“Bucky, talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“I just—”
“Inhale.”
When Bucky’s breathing is completely calm, Sam’s hand is still on his arm, squeezing, and Bucky’s cheek is pressed against Sam’s shoulder.
“What’s wrong, Buck?” Sam whispers when Bucky falls quiet, as his hand runs over Sam’s back softly.
Bucky sighs and lifts his head, but Sam doesn’t let go of his arm.
“I just… feel like people know.”
“Like they know…”
“Me. Who I am.” Bucky takes a shuddering breath before adding in a hushed voice, “What I’ve done.”
Sam’s head starts shaking as his hand slides up to Bucky’s shoulder.
“They don’t,” he assures him. “You’re safe.”
“I just…”
Bucky looks at him helplessly, and Sam thinks he might cry.
“You haven’t done anything,” he says softly. Firmly. “That was all Hydra. You…” He brushes his fingertip down Bucky’s nose playfully, making it scrunch as Bucky’s eyes flash with brief amusement. “You are a good person,” he says slowly. “Okay?”
His lip quivers, and Sam’s chest tightens.
“Bucky, you’re okay. No one knows you here,” he says, holding Bucky’s gaze. “And I haven’t told anyone.”
Bucky looks back at him.
“…Promise?” Bucky whispers. Sam leans closer, his hand running over his neck, over his hood.
“I promise,” Sam says softly. “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you.”
Bucky’s eyes flicker down Sam’s face, and he exhales.
“Okay?”
Bucky nods slowly, lifting a hand.
It’s his metal hand, softened by his black glove, and it touches Sam’s wrist carefully, like Sam is going push him away.
He doesn’t.
Instead he lifts his own hand and replaces it under Bucky’s hood, running his fingertips over his skin.
He’s so warm.
And close.
“Sam…” Bucky murmurs.
“Bucky…”
Bucky looks away, letting go of Sam’s wrist, and looks down, his brows furrowing in focus as he takes his gloves off. He must feel Sam watching him, because he glances up, his expression still apprehensive, still anxious.
“Wanna feel you,” he mutters as he finishes taking his gloves off, stuffing them into his pocket as Sam’s cheeks burn.
Bucky takes a slow breath when he finally touches Sam, pressing his hands to his neck and jaw. His metal hand is warm, probably from the glove, but Sam still shivers.
Sam wonders if Bucky can hear his heartbeat.
Bucky’s fingers tighten on his jaw, his thumbs brushing over his cheekbones, pulling him close as his eyes flutter shut.
Sam’s other hand lifts to Bucky’s side, gripping his jacket as their foreheads press together.
He can feel Bucky’s breath on his face.
“Is this happening?” Bucky asks, his voice so hushed Sam almost doesn’t hear him.
Please.
“Do you want it to be?”
Please.
Bucky lifts his head, still holding, almost cradling, Sam’s face.
Kiss me, he says soundlessly, and Sam watches his mouth say it before he finally closes the space between them.
Bucky meets him with an open mouth, as desperate as Sam is, and holds him close, tilting his head and pushing him back gently.
Sam hums into his mouth, pushing his hand around to the back of Bucky’s head, and Bucky’s hood falls, but he doesn’t seem to notice.
Bucky finally makes a noise, a tiny, helpless noise, when Sam lifts his other hand to his hair, pulling the tie off gently and dropping it mindlessly, finallyfinallyfinally pushing his fingers through Bucky’s hair, catching tangles and tugging.
Sam ends up pressed to a wall, his body trapped between the cold concrete and Bucky’s warm body.
Fuck.
Bucky presses his hands over Sam’s chest, gripping his shirt and gasping as Sam bites his lip softly.
“Sammy…” Bucky breathes when they part, and Sam tugs his hair, pulling until Bucky’s head tilts and Sam can press his lips to his jaw, relishing in the feeling of Bucky’s stubble against his lips.
As Sam kisses down his neck, Bucky’s hands tighten on his shirt before his metal hand moves to rest on the crown of Sam’s head.
Sam run his hands through Bucky’s hair as they kiss again, listening as a soft whine escapes Bucky’s throat.
“Sam,” Bucky says sharply, breathlessly, when Sam pulls back, nipping at Bucky’s lip.
“Mm.”
“Do you— Would—“
His mouth moves noiselessly for a second before he scoffs and shakes his head, and Sam giggles lightly, leaning in and bumping their foreheads before kissing him slowly.
“What is it?” he asks when they part, pressing his palms to Bucky’s cheeks. He’s warm.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” Bucky asks, hushed, without opening his eyes. “I wanted to ask in Tokyo, but…”
“Yeah,” Sam whispers.
“…Okay.”
“Okay.”
Sam holds his hand the whole way, squeezing so he can feel it, smiling every time Bucky squeezes back.
They crash together almost as soon as Bucky’s front door is shut, after a beat of silence and locked eyes. Bucky’s fingers deftly twist the lock shut before he reaches for Sam, pressing his hands to his jaw and pulling him in.
Sam breathes his name when they part briefly, and Bucky lets go of him, stepping back and fumbling with his gloves. His breathing is loud in the almost silent apartment, and his hand is shaking.
Sam reaches out, gently taking Bucky’s hands in his own.
“I’ve got it, baby,” he murmurs, carefully pulling one of the zippers and Bucky exhales and leans forward, resting his head on top of Sam’s.
When the first glove is off, Sam drops it to the ground, moving on to the next one as Bucky drags his hand across Sam’s waist, pushing it under his jacket.
“Sammy, can I…” Bucky starts as his metal hand presses to Sam’s head.
Sam just kisses him breathlessly, nodding and letting go of him to take his own jacket off, dropping it to the ground as Bucky’s tongue slips between his lips.
“Anything,” Sam whispers.
He lets Bucky tug at his shirt until he pulls it over his head, tossing it to the side before pushing him against the wall, huffing a heavy breath before crashing their mouths together.
Sam sighs as Bucky’s hands, one warm, one cold, run across his stomach and chest as Sam sucks Bucky’s lip into his mouth.
Sam kisses him slowly, carefully, pulling his hair and shivering when Bucky groans into his mouth. His hands slip down Bucky’s waist, simultaneously pushing at his jacket and tugging at the hem of his shirt.
But Bucky steps back.
“I—“
Sam looks at him.
His eyes are intense, almost glowing in the dimness of his apartment, but Sam can’t understand what he’s trying to tell him.
Bucky doesn’t move when Sam touches his face, brushing over his cheekbones and under his eyes and over his lips.
“What’s wrong?” Sam whispers.
His hands slip down to Bucky’s neck, and his thumb presses over his Adam’s apple just as he swallows.
“I have…”
“You have what?” Sam pushes gently.
Bucky steps closer again, taking a stuttering breath, his eyes shifting on Sam’s face.
“Scars,” he says finally. “They… I…”
Sam tilts his head, sliding his hands over Bucky’s neck until his fingertips are under his jaw, right against his hammering pulse.
“That’s okay,” Sam says softly. “You don’t have to take it off if you don’t want to.”
“I w—“ Bucky cuts off with a sharp breath, his brows furrowing for a split second.
He swallows again.
And closes his eyes.
And lifts his hands, slowly pulls his jacket off his shoulders as Sam watches.
“Okay?” Sam whispers when Bucky pauses, holding the hem of his shirt. Bucky nods. “I got you.”
Sam’s hands drop when Bucky steps back to pull the shirt over his head, and he only glances at his chest, glimpsing the rough, dark scars around the seam of his metal arm, before looking into his eyes.
“Is it okay if I touch you?” Sam murmurs, and Bucky nods quickly, choking out a broken, “Please.”
He does.
- - -
The flight home is rough, haunted by the ghost of Bucky’s hands on Sam.
And of his tongue in Sam’s mouth, his hair tangled around Sam’s fingers. (Bucky liked that a lot, Sam thinks.)
And the sounds he made, into Sam’s ears, into Sam’s mouth.
The sounds he made when Sam mouthed over his chest and hips and boxers, when Sam clutched at his hair. (Sam’s favourite noise was when he slid his tongue up over the scars around Bucky’s arm. It was a whine, a helpless whimper that sent a chill up Sam’s spine.) The sound he made when Sam whispered to him. Things like I’ve got you, and Yeah, like that, and Fuck, baby, because of course that affects Bucky the way it does.
Sam could see how it affected Bucky, how it made his eyes shine in what Sam could only describe as wonder, his mouth dropped open as he watched Sam.
Sam sighs, shutting his eyes as he lays his head back against the headrest.
“I can use it to make you feel good,” he’d whispered to Sam afterwards, covered by the blanket of darkness, and Sam couldn’t see him, so he’d just reached out and grabbed at him, pulling at his arm until he rolled close enough for Sam to lay against his chest. He hadn’t needed to specify was it was. “It’s not hurting you.”
“Mm-mm.” Sam lifted his head, eyes straining to find Bucky in the dark. He ran his hand down his arm, over the small, thin ridges until his found his hand.
Bucky exhaled as Sam pressed it to his face, against his cheek, nuzzling into it like it was soft.
“Do you feel good?” Sam had asked quietly after pressing a kiss to his palm.
“Yeah.” His hand scraped over Sam’s neck and up the back of his head, scratching his scalp. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.”
“Me either,” Sam said gently, his lips brushing against his chest before he kissed it, right over his heart. “Who would have thought.” His hand slid over Bucky’s waist. He was so warm.
Bucky was falling asleep, but he still hummed a soft, “Hm?”
Sam sighed.
“Mm. Wouldn’t have thought I’d fall in love with the guy that ripped the steering wheel outta my car.”
Bucky was quiet for a little while after that.
And just thinking about the slip up makes Sam’s heart flutter, makes him inhale deeply, makes his cheeks burn, even as he rolls his head against his seat to look out the window at the sky.
“You love me?” Bucky had said.
Softly.
Vulnerably.
Sam had run his hand over his waist again, scratching his skin with his nails and feeling him shiver against him.
“Yeah.”
He lifted his head and tried to find him. He slid his hand over Bucky’s chest, up to his neck.
“Yeah, I love you, baby.”
Bucky was quiet again.
Sam could hear him swallow.
“I… I like it when you call me that.”
“Yeah?” He pushed his hand into his hair, and felt Bucky exhale on his face.
“Mmhmm.” Bucky shifted, moving down, closer to Sam. “What should I call you?”
“Hm.” Sam ran his hand around what he could just barely see of Bucky’s face. He kissed him slowly, his lips not quite square on Bucky’s. “Dunno. What did you call all your sweethearts back in the day?”
Bucky hummed thoughtfully, kissing him again.
“Think I called them sweetheart. Maybe… Darling.” There was a pause. “Doll.”
Sam tried to disguise the flutter in his chest with a nonchalant hum, but—
“Doll?”
It didn’t seem to work.
Maybe Bucky just knows him better than he thought. Or maybe he could feel the rise in Sam’s pulse.
Sam had smiled, a slow, lazy, blushing smile.
(It makes him smile now, at the clouds.)
“Who woulda thought Sam Wilson was old fashioned?” Bucky said, almost giggling.
“Shut up,” Sam said, but he was already leaning in to kiss him quiet.
He fell asleep with Bucky’s lips on his forehead, not quite kissing him, Bucky’s arms wrapped around him, with his fingers tangled in Bucky’s hair.
Before drifting off, the last part of his brain that was awake heard Bucky murmur, “I love you too.”
- - -
He misses him.
For months.
He only spent one night with him, but it’s harder to sleep, like his body and brain have gotten a glimpse of how it’s supposed to be, and nothing else would ever be the same.
He can’t tell anyone.
Can’t tell anyone why he’s drowsier in the mornings, why he needs more coffee. Can’t tell anyone he lays awake at night, clutching a pillow to his chest, staring at the dark like he’s searching for Bucky’s face again. Or where that red shirt came from, the one he only puts on when it’s time to go to bed, because when he moves and the shirt moves with him, it smells like him. When he lifts his hand to his face, his fist wrapped in the fabric, he can pretend Bucky’s there with him in the dark.
He misses him.
Until he finds him again, going into a bookstore in Glasgow, in a dark blue sweater with his hair tied back.
Sam follows him, crossing the street after checking, already smiling, already desperate to just kiss him. He pauses in the doorway, seeing as Bucky moves down an aisle between shelves, looking up and down casually, browsing. Sam takes a deep breath.
“Hey, baby,” he says when he catches up to Bucky in the aisle, and Bucky startles, looking at him with wide eyes before a smile spreads across his face as he scans Sam’s face.
“Hi.” He pushes the book in his hand back into the shelf before reaching for Sam, grabbing the lapel of his jacket. “Missed you so much,” he murmurs before he kisses him.
Sam smiles against his mouth, grabbing his hips and pushing him against the bookshelf.
“How’ve you been?” Sam asks when they part, without pulling away too far, his lips still brushing Bucky’s.
“Alright,” Bucky says quietly, kissing Sam again, sucking on his lower lip briefly. “You?”
“Mm.” Sam runs his hand across Bucky’s cheek, across the overgrown stubble that he’s clearly been neglecting. “Just waiting to see you again.”
“Was it hard to find me?” Bucky asks. Their voices are hushed, like every word is a secret.
“A little. As always.” He leaves a peck on Bucky’s lips. “You’re sneaky.”
“I do my best.”
Sam scratches lightly at Bucky’s cheek and shuts his eyes, letting their foreheads press, trying to savour the moment.
But Bucky can always tell when something is up.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, nudging him softly. Sam bites his lip. “What is it, doll?”
Sam sighs heavily, brushing his fingertips over Bucky’s cheeks, eyebrows, the bridge of his nose.
“I don’t… think I can see you anymore. After this.”
Bucky blinks, his fingers pausing at the hem of Sam’s hoodie.
“Not—“ Sam shakes his head, standing up straighter and looking into his eyes. “Not because I don’t want to— I mean— I do. I just… I’m worried they might be getting suspicious.”
Bucky hums, his mouth twisting as he looks at Sam’s face, scanning it intensely like he’s trying to memorise it.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I understand.”
Sam’s heart clenches.
“When will I see you again?” Bucky asks.
Sam shrugs, holding his face gently. Bucky’s hand slides under his hoodie, pressing to the small of his back.
“When you’re ready,” Sam says softly. Bucky hums again.
“How long can you stay?”
He stays two nights.
One night is spent at Bucky’s. There, Sam returns the red shirt, exchanging it for another, a dark blue one that’s soft and worn, probably bought second hand. There, Sam kisses him for as long as he can, as long as he wants, pushing and pulling and tugging and shoving until he can see Bucky come undone again. He watches, smiling, as Bucky’s eyes shut and his back arches and his head falls back as he lets out a noise that rushes through Sam like ecstasy.
He holds Bucky as he comes down, feeling his heart hammering against his own chest, brushing his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots until Bucky is moaning again.
The second night is spent at Sam’s hotel room. They get dinner and eat it on the bed together, shirtless, their legs crossed in front of themselves as they joke and tease. Bucky doesn’t try to hide the dark, raised scars branching away from his arm across his chest.
Sam doesn’t look at them.
He looks at his smile instead.
And at his sparkling eyes.
At his hands, one flesh and one metal, the silver soft on Sam’s face as he reaches for a stray eyelash.
They fall asleep late, neither wanting the day to come to an end.
They sleep tangled together, skin against skin against skin, unable to tell where one man starts and the other ends.
Sam’s fingers are at the base of Bucky’s skull, caught mid-stroke in his hair when it falls limp with sleep, Bucky’s slow breath on his chest.
- - -
They say goodbye late the next morning, almost in the afternoon, when the sun is almost at the center of the sky.
It’s covered by clouds.
“I love you,” Bucky says to him, holding both his hands.
“I’ll miss you,” Sam mumbled into his neck, squeezing his metal hand hard.
“That’s okay,” Bucky says softly, pressing a kiss to his head. “You’ll know where to find me.”
- - -
Bucky is on the floor.
His forearm is trapped so he can’t move. His hair is falling in his face. He’s sweaty, dirty, tired.
He’s wearing the red shirt.
Sam tries not to let his face fall, not to let his face soften as he watches him, as their eyes lock briefly while Bucky talks to Steve.
He even crosses his arms, hardening his brows so he looks as sceptical, as doubtful, as he should look. Even as his throat tightens, and his pulse quickens.
Steve leaves go find water for Bucky. (His voice is rough. Too rough.)
When the door is shut, silence falls.
Sam turns to check the door before looking back at Bucky, uncrossing just arms as Bucky smiles at him weakly, his eyes glimmering even in the dim lighting of the garage.
“Hey, doll.”
Sam’s composure drops, and he crosses the room, collapses onto his knees in front of him, and pushes Bucky’s hair back frantically.
“Hi, Bucky,” he says softly, touching their foreheads together and kissing him briefly.
“So intimidating up there,” Bucky says when they part, and Sam chuckles lightly, tucking his hair behind his ear as Bucky’s free hand runs across his neck and up the back of his head. “Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmurs before kissing him again.
“You okay?” Sam asks, his hands running down his face, his neck and chest.
“My arm hurts a little,” Bucky says, sparing it a glance before looking back at Sam with that look on his face. “But it’s tolerable.”
Sam hums, looking at where it’s trapped, touching his upper arm, squeezing it before leaning over and pressing his lips to it, kissing it up to his shoulder.
Bucky sighs, wrapping his arm around Sam and pulling him in until Sam’s arms wind around his neck tightly, his face buried.
“I smell bad, don’t I?” Bucky says lightly when Sam sighs.
“Yeah.”
He kisses him again anyway.
Bucky groans into it softly, and Sam grins against his mouth, biting his lip as Bucky’s hand tightens on Sam’s neck, holding him close.
There’s a distant clang outside, and they part.
Sam leaves one more kiss on his lips, and another on his forehead, before he stands.
He watches as Bucky drinks the water, their eyes meeting briefly, and Sam turns away so Steve wouldn’t be able to see his smile if he happened to look over his shoulder.
And then, as he faces the wall, he squeezes his eyes shut and takes a deep breath as quietly as possible while Steve and Bucky talk to each other. (Bucky’s voice is still rough, and it rumbles through Sam’s veins.)
He’s here.
Within reach.
Close enough to hear.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough that Sam could kiss him if he wanted to. (He does want to. Close enough that Sam would kiss him if he could.)
Bucky sleeps close enough that Sam can almost feel him, can almost sense him. Sam sleeps better, knowing he’s there.
That he’ll be here in the morning, with his perfectly mussed and tangled hair, his rough voice and morning breath. Probably with a mug of coffee in his hand.
That he’ll be here, even if Sam can’t touch him, can’t kiss him. (Until they’re alone. Whenever that may be.) Even if Sam can only look, can only put on a fake glare and complain about his presence.
It’s a comfort, just knowing he’s close.
That he’s not half a world away.