Chapter Text
Sam will wait until he can almost taste the ground before opening his wings.
Sam will risk losing both feet to whirling rotor blades in order to kick a helicopter off course. One human body against seven tons of metal and machinery and force.
Sam will go at a monster eighteen times his body weight, hand to hand combat with wings his only weapon.
Sam is fucking fearless.
*
Steve messages him, a few days after he put Sam on the bench: “How are you?” Sam’s been avoiding him; still fucking furious about the whole thing, even though it’s only two weeks and it’s not like anyone’s even out on a mission right now. He thinks of answering honestly: To be advised at this moment.
Instead he just replies: Asking as a friend or as a CO?
I’d say as a friend but I’m afraid the answer might require a lot of un-autocorrecting.
Duck you.
There’s no reply for a minute, then Steve returns with a smiley face and a: Dinner tonight?
Yeah, sure. Sure he can do dinner. At the very least if he shows up and acts okay Steve might not decide to do something like bench him further, or worse, send him for psych eval or something.
Sam brings wine. Steve looks surprised when he opens the door, and Sam wonders why for a minute then remembers his face is kind of a mess. “Bruises didn’t show till later,” he tells Steve, who only nods and, thankfully, doesn’t probe further. “Just the two of us?”
“Yeah, we haven’t really sat down to talk in a while, have we?”
Oh. Well. Just fucking great then. It’s a Talk. Well. At least it’s not an intervention involving other people. Sam doesn’t think he can deal right now with a bunch of people gathering around to tell him how fucked up he is and how he needs help. None of them know jack shit about it.
Bucky, holding him down while he tries and fails to move; Bucky, smiling with satisfaction as he makes Sam come; Bucky, kissing him hard and drawing blood, fucking Sam’s mouth like it belongs to him; Bucky, ignoring him as shame crawls up his skin, as his body tries to reject all contact; Bucky, on his knees, making up for inexperience with sheer focus on task at hand and a relentless grip on Sam’s hips.
*
There are new photos on Steve’s wall. Sam stops at one of them. Bucky and Steve, arms slung easily around one another. Modern day clothes, or as modern as Steve gets. Bucky in black leather. Both of them against an unfamiliar backdrop, two bikes parked nearby. Sam clears his throat: “Uh, this was recent?”
“Oh yeah, we went up to Lake Placid, it was great. Started when you were back home, now we try to make time at least once a week. He doesn't really get out much, I figured it's time.” Steve says from the kitchenette, pulling out something from the fridge.
When Sam was - he takes a deep breath, tears himself away from the image of Bucky’s face, not smiling but open, mostly unguarded. “Sounds like you had fun,” Sam says, trying to keep his voice neutral.
“Yeah, it was great actually. You should come next time. There are a bunch of spare bikes mostly idling in storage. You can pick your choice.”
“Yeah, not really a bike kinda guy,” Sam replies. “Maybe.” An entire day outdoors with the two of them. Sounds like the opposite of fun. Then again, it’s not like Sam actually knows what Bucky’s like outside the compound. Biking with Steve up to a fucking lake. Sam’s never even been. Too busy saving the fucking world, or hiding because he let Bucky fucking - he shoves the thought violently away, joins Steve to help set the table.
“How is he?” Sam asks, carefully, as he puts a salad bowl down. It’s none of his business; he’s been careful not to ask, mostly, careful not to probe even though he knows Steve wouldn’t mind actually talking about it. In Steve's head, Bucky's the guy that Sam got to come home to him, even though Sam really had jack shit to do with Bucky's decision. Or that’s what Sam had always figured, before.
But fuck it: Sam wants to know.
Steve waits until they’re both seated, generous glasses of wine, food on both their plates, before starting, hesitantly. “He’s. Well he was doing great actually, but the past few - I want to say months, but we’ve been so busy I don’t see him as often as I should, so. I mean physically, the deprogramming, all that, reports say he’s fine. But I know he feels guilty over what HYDRA made him do, so I guess sometimes it weighs on him.”
“Yeah, sure,” Sam says, polishing off his glass in one go and reaching for the bottle. He probably shouldn’t be drinking; he’s still on pain meds, but fuck if he doesn’t care right now. He regrets asking: he doesn’t actually want to know. “Must be tough.” He still can’t quite wrap his head around Bucky doing anything he’s told, despite all evidence to the contrary.
"But that's why he's got us, right?" Us. Steve sounds so, so optimistic about this whole fucking thing, still. Is Bucky different now? Probably. In ways that mattered to Sam? Probably not. Did Sam have any kind of positive influence on his recovery?
Absolutely not.
"Of course," he replies, faint.
"He really likes you, you know. Says you're a - what was the term he used? Steady guy."
Steady, sure. That's him. Steady. That's actually funny, coming from the only guy who knows, probably, just how unsteady Sam is.
"Guess things change, huh." Or not at all. The food tastes like ash in his mouth, all of a sudden. Sam puts his fork down.
"Well, I mean. We all have our burdens to carry." And just like that, he's not talking about Bucky anymore.
"Yeah, man. I'm sorry," Sam says.
"No, it's fine. We all have bad weeks. Seems like you've been having a rough go at it recently too. Anything you want to talk about?" He looks like he really really wants to know.
Sam closes his eyes briefly. Thinks of what exactly he could say to Steve that would make any sense at all to him. Or to Sam himself. Or to anyone at all, really. "Just let things get a bit out of hand, honestly. Nothing I can't handle - I have it under control, I promise." Bucky, sliding his hands down Sam's torso, rapt expression on his face. If Steve notices Sam's shudder, he chooses not to say anything about it.
Instead he just nods, says: "I still want you to finish out the two weeks, and then - conditional return, once Dr. Cho clears you for active duty. I know you know your limits, okay? I mean, who's gonna introduce me to decent music if you get yourself killed? Vision?"
"Hey, he's got the entire history of music in his head - I bet he'd do great recommendations."
"You might be right." He nods at Sam's plate, the half-eaten risotto cooling into an unappetizing mess. "Not hungry? Or just not good enough. I'm not the cook you are, but-"
"It's fine, just had a late lunch. Up for dessert, though."
Steve brightens. "The kitchen baked me this banana cream pie. You have to try it."
The rest of the night passes by uneventfully. They talk a little shop (strategy, Wanda's ongoing training, an upcoming mission), then weave into nothing at all in particular, then segue into the personal - "I got back together with him," Sam blurts out, entirely despite himself, entirely despite Steve not even bringing the subject up. Not sure why, really, he wants someone to know.
Maybe that it makes it real, somehow. That he had a choice in a matter. A decision to make: Like going for that last flip, inches to the ground. Like rushing headlong into that hail of gunfire.
Longing.
"Oh hey, I'm happy for you, man." That he doesn't ask the obvious, stupid question is a relief (Is Sam Wilson the type of guy that'll try to get himself killed just because of some relationship drama? Yes. No. No.). "Hey, does that mean I'll get to meet this mysterious guy after all?"
"Don't think we're there yet, but maybe one day." Imagining Steve's face if he knew. But him and Bucky. That's no-one's business. Not then, and not now. Bucky could take him up the mountains to a lake, fuck him on the ground, then kill him and bury him in the water. Sam would still go, maybe, even if told explicitly that would happen. He prods at the cut on the corner of his lip with his tongue. The sharp sting of it centers him, a little. "Listen, I should go. It's late."
"Yeah, sure sure. You want to take home some leftovers? I may have made too much."
"Sure, I won't say no."
Sam's room is two floors away from Steve's now since he moved, so Sam takes the elevator. It's late, so he doesn't expect to see anyone when the doors open, let alone Bucky, leaning against the wall, jerking upright when he sees Sam, his gaze sliding upward to see which floor they're on. Sam hesitates, but Bucky's hand shoots out to hold the doors open as they start to slide close, and Sam has little option but to step in.
Sam tries to press his floor number, but Bucky says, "Leave it," and Sam lets his hand hover, raising his brows expectantly. Bucky shrugs. The button for Level 4 is lit up.
Bucky's room, then. Sam stares at the neat row of numbers, unseeing, until the overhead voice chirps Level 4. Then Bucky's grabbing him by the wrist, pulling him along.
Sam's never been in Bucky's room before, is surprised that it's almost completely devoid of anything that looks like an actual person lives there.
"I see you've made yourself at home," Sam says, wandering around.
Bucky grimaces. "Not like HYDRA kept my stuff in storage for me."
“Where do you plug in at night to recharge?” Sam sets the bag of food down on the couch, pleased when a flicker of annoyance crosses Bucky's gaze. "You have it if you want - Steve made risotto. Think there's pie too."
"Keep it. He keeps forcing all his food experiments on me.”
"Avenging, cooking, taking you on long romantic road trips. He's a man of many talents, that Steve." Sam hadn't meant it as bait (or maybe he had), but Bucky's on him in about a second anyway, fingers tight on his shoulders. They've not actually been alone since; the meds Dr. Cho had given him had led Sam to the opinion that he should probably just remain horizontal, and so that's what he'd done, in the privacy of his own room.
“Ow," Sam says, mild, and then Bucky is kissing him, hot and bruising. His fingers come up to the back of Sam's neck, pushing him down to his knees. Sam reaches for Bucky's fly, sees his hands are shaking. What the fuck is wrong with him? Get it together, Wilson.
Bucky huffs in some impatience, then does it himself, jacking himself off a bit before tapping on Sam's cheek to get him to open his mouth. Sam glares up at him from under his lashes but obliges anyway, even if not wide enough so Bucky can avoid teeth. Not that Bucky seems to notice; he returns his hand to the back of Sam's neck, starts a steady, brutal thrust.
Everything about him smells familiar, and Sam fights against rising panic, instinctively grabbing at Bucky's wrist with one hand while raising the other for Bucky to take and twist. The discomfort, the increasing pain, the inability to consistently breathe help, force his head clear so he can focus on being in the moment, the heady taste of Bucky in his mouth, his harsh exhalations of breath, the way he rocks on his feet as he starts to lose control.
Bucky comes without warning, fingers tightening on the back of Sam's neck so hard Sam actually feels them break skin, blood starting to flow down his back.
Sam tugs at Bucky's wrist until Bucky lets him go, snarls, "I have to see the doc soon, Buck. What the fuck did you just do?" He gingerly touches his skin, as if that could make the gouges go away.
Bucky sighs, and collapses down onto the couch, rolls his head back until he's staring at the ceiling. "Sorry," he says. Sam can't tell if he's sincere or not, even though he sounds it.
"Fuck your sorry." Less than a week, Bucky's back in his life and he's already fucking shit up for Sam.
"Did you come," Bucky asks, lifting his head, and he actually looks as if he wants to know, like he cares.
Of course Sam did. He’d come the second Bucky's fingers had broken skin, as the pain shot through his neck, radiating up his jaw. He doesn't bother to dignify Bucky with a response. Rises unsteadily to his feet.
Bucky wordlessly holds out the bag of food, and Sam shakes his head, takes it eventually with some measure of defeat.
*
They fuck a lot, after that. Just about every day, Bucky's hauling him somewhere. Sam’s benched anyway, his stomach wound ugly, even with Dr. Cho’s help.
Bucky coos over Sam's injury, presses his fingers into the bruising around the stitches, and Sam says, “I need to pass my review, Buck.” Bucky actually pauses, for a moment, and a spike of anger jolts up Sam’s spine. He resumes soon enough, but careful not to leave obvious finger marks around it. It’s enough; it’s not enough. Sam doesn’t quite know anymore.
Mostly it’s good. Bucky’s cock in his mouth, his lack of care for Sam’s comfort, Sam’s throat, is heady, familiar. Salt, spit and blood from where Bucky’s hit him, and yeah Sam can deal with that, it’s okay; Bucky's hand on his wrist or digging into his shoulder, that’s fine too.
There are moments though: Bucky wrapping his hand around Sam’s cock for the first time (and the second, the third). Bucky kissing him and not meaning for it to punish, to hurt. Bucky’s face, too close to Sam’s, his gaze unexpectedly fond. It could be anything - any variation of movement, of touch. His skin crawls, tries to peel itself entirely away from the situation.
Sometimes Bucky seems to notice, and hurts him. Grinds Sam’s fist into his wrist, or slaps him. A pinch on the inside of his thigh, and that’s fucking outrageous, that, but it’s also a place Dr. Cho is less likely to see: objectively Sam’s aware of this. But it helps.
Except for when it doesn’t. Or when Bucky doesn’t notice, or maybe notices but doesn’t want to do anything about it beyond getting his own rocks off.
Sam can’t even fight, he just fucking freezes in place, and, once in a while, and that’s a relief, usually, he just completely drifts away, finds a space inside himself to hide until it’s over.
Sometimes it’s that that'll make Bucky finally notice, and he’ll jerk Sam back with pain, until Sam finally starts paying attention, and it gets good again.
The third time this happens, Bucky clenches his fists, looks fucking devastated for a moment, and Sam wants to die in a hole, buried with his shame. What the fuck is wrong with him? What the fuck is wrong with Bucky?
Just a moment, and then Bucky’s mouth flattens: “You’re no fun.”
That’s fucking rich, coming from Mr. Fun Bags himself.
“Great, go fucking find someone fun to be with then that’s not me.” But the outrage is easy; he can hold on to this, at least.
There’s only a scowl in response, an annoyed shake of a head.
*
Sam wears a turtleneck to his medical appointment, grateful Dr. Cho seems more interested in tending to the stomach than anything else, although she doesn't seem pleased about the state of his face.
“I'm starting to think two weeks isn't enough," she mutters as she probes clinically at Sam's stomach, but when his eyes widen she just shakes her head. "Don't worry, if I benched Avengers based on how much time your bodies truly need to recover from injuries none of you would be out on the field, ever. But you're just a guy, Wilson. Try to remember that, sometimes."
"Sure, doc," Sam says.
"You're still benched though, right?"
"Yeah, I know. I promise to use the time wisely."
"Rest, rest would be good."
"I can do that," Sam says, and gives her a bright smile. She only rolls her eyes.
*
Two days before Sam's able to go back on active duty Bucky hands him a bike helmet. "Want to go for a ride," he asks, bright. "Steve was supposed to come with me, but Avengers business or something."
"Yeah, I heard," Sam says, sour. The mission had come up on the briefings feed he obsessively monitors, and it's just two fucking days, but there's no arguing with Steve when he's got his mind set. He takes the helmet, but says, "I don't wanna go anywhere with you, Bucky."
Not as your fucking second choice.
Bucky grabs Sam's wrist. "Come on, we need to leave now if we want to get back down before dark."
There's only one bike parked outside the compound.
"Where’s mine?”
“You’re not cleared for duty, you’re not getting on a bike.”
“It’s two days, I’m fine. I want my own bike.”
“We’ll be late if I have to go sign out another bike, I already told you,” Bucky sighs, then straddles the seat as if the matter’s already settled.
“How come they let you out without adult supervision? Does Steve know?” Sam refuses to budge, knows he’s delaying the inevitable but he’ll be damned if he’s going down this easy. Not that he particularly wants to ride, even. He can fly; this hardly compares. “Also, where’s your helmet?”
“Got a hard head, don’t need one. Get on before I put you on.” The words are casual, which means he means them.
“Whatever,” Sam says, giving in. He straps on the helmet and slides on behind Bucky. Stubbornly tries to find somewhere to grip that’s not Bucky's waist but can’t, and Bucky peels off fast, revving the engine and almost dragging them into a spin. It’s not until they’re on a highway that it really hits Sam that they’re alone, the two of them, outside the compound. Not fucking, or fighting, although both will probably come later.
Bucky stops at the corner of some roadside food truck, heads toward it with a sense of familiarity. Sam removes his helmet, wipes sweat from the back of his head. The truck promises tacos, and he hopes Bucky remembers he prefers beef to chicken, but doesn’t want to bother calling out to remind him so he gets off and stretches his legs instead. Bucky returns soon enough with their food and beer. Cheesesteak quesadillas - Sam grunts in satisfaction as he eats, and at some point Bucky's just idly sipping his beer and watching him as usual, his gaze lazy and indulgent.
“What?” Sam asks, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Nothing. Food was free, by the way. On account of the Avenger.”
“Oh. I was wondering how you’d paid for it.” Sam turns to the truck, gives an appreciative wave to the proprietor, who furnishes Sam with a thumbs up in return before ducking back to serve another customer.
“Eh, government gives me back pay. Benefits.”
“Really? Fucking hell.”
“Well, I was a POW.”
“Seventy fucking years ago.”
“They put me down as HYDRA POW too.”
“Huh,” Sam says. He’d had to fight for all his disability benefits; mountains of paperwork to prove PTSD, evaluation, all that fucking bureaucracy after he’d bled for his country, over and over again. But it’s not like Nazis held him prisoner for more than half a century and scrambled his brain or anything.
"Also I took some of HYDRA's funds." At Sam's look he shrugs. "Not like they need it now." Bucky hands him the remainder of his beer in exchange for Sam’s unfinished food, but he tilts his head suddenly, fingers Sam's shirt. “You’re bleeding.”
The helmet must have rubbed off some of the scabs. “I’m fine,” Sam says, touching the back of his neck. It comes away red, but it’s fine, he barely feels it. “Come on, weren’t you the one going on about sunset or whatever. Let’s go before we’re late.”
The road they’re on gets quieter and quieter, and eventually it’s just him and Bucky and the woods around them as they wind their way up a mountain. Sam’s lulled into a half-asleep trance, finds his hands drifting to Bucky's thighs. Bucky moves them back up, the first time, then the second, and by the third time Sam’s kind of doing it on purpose, sliding his hands up Bucky’s jeans, shaking the sleep off as he senses Bucky's rising annoyance.
The fifth time he does it, up the inside of Bucky's thighs, close to his cock, Bucky takes an unexpected, sharp swerve to the right off the road, skidding to a halt. Sam's not holding on, and so he flies, and it's fortunate then, that Bucky, somehow, with the instincts and strength of, well, a super soldier, catches him and so he ends up hitting the ground hard, on his back, instead of flying into a tree.
"Oh," Sam says, dazedly.
Bucky's suddenly straddling him, pulling Sam’s helmet off with marked urgency and cradling the back of his neck. "Are you okay? Fuck - fuck."
Face a mask of worry, fucking petrified, his other hand running down Sam's body - checking for injury, which is stupid, and Sam says so, "If I'm bleeding internally you won't feel it, Buck. Get off me."
Bucky glares, but at least he stops pawing uselessly at Sam. Puts his hand to Sam's cheek instead. "Fuck you, Sam. Why the fuck did you do that?"
"Me? You're the one that decided to bank right like a goddamned idiot."
"Because you were distracting me from the road." Bucky continues to decline to get off Sam, and Sam tries shoving a little but gives up soon enough; everything's a bit hazy anyway, and he'd rather just lie here. "Hey," Bucky, says, sharp. "You there? Pay attention, come on."
"I don't have a concussion."
Bucky frowns.
"I'm fine, just got the breath knocked out of me." He focuses his gaze, starts putting more effort into struggling against Bucky's weight on top of him, and Bucky looks relieved, finally moves off Sam, lies down next to him. Sam's surprised - since when does Bucky listen to him when he struggles? He doesn't want to think too hard about it though.
“We should get going,” Bucky says, after a while.
“We could just lie here. Seems nice.”
“Are you sure you’re-“
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Bucky.” Sam sits up, then stands, aggravated into movement. The ground, thankfully, doesn’t waver around him. He holds out a hand and Bucky takes it, allows himself to be pulled up.
Bucky brushes off some imaginary grass stains before picking up Sam’s helmet, but says, “Turn around,” instead. He clucks disapprovingly, and Sam knows, can feel the blood, sludgy and thick, rolling down his back.
Sam hears material tearing, and then something soft wraps around his neck. He tries to turn, but Bucky says, “Stay,” and then fusses until he’s satisfied, before telling Sam to turn around again and tugging the helmet over Sam’s head, pulling the visor down over his face.
Sam flips it back up, examines Bucky's clothes critically, until Bucky sighs like Sam’s an idiot. “My T-shirt sleeve, okay. Not like I need it, the metal’s not getting a chill from the weather.”
Bucky pushes Sam's visor back down over his face, says, "Hands where appropriate."
"My hands are always appropriate.”
Bucky only grunts.
They keep riding, for what seems like hours. Sam's butt starts to hurt, has to keep shifting his legs to keep them from cramping. He taps Bucky on the shoulder a couple of times, wanting him to pull over for a while, especially as they're passing through several small towns, but Bucky shoots him an impatient look and keeps riding. Of course, both Bucky and Steve probably never get cramps, or aches from sitting too long, they could probably - what was it again? Yeah, do this all day.
Finally, Bucky pulls over at a small town for gas and "Ice cream," he says, distractedly casting his eyes about. "There's a place, I read about it somewhere."
Sam doesn't care. He rips off his helmet and scowls, starts bitching. The ride, the company, the fucking cramps. Bucky continues to ignore him, so Sam pokes at him until his gaze focuses, and he tilts his head.
He realizes he's mostly being a pain in the ass just to be a pain in the ass - he's sat in cramped spaces for far longer in far worse situations than on the back of a bike with a beautiful boy to press against, but Bucky's downturned mouth is hella cute, if Sam's being honest with himself, and the dark gleam in his eyes promises something, hopefully, at some point.
Bucky pats Sam on the head, like he's soothing a child, then says, "I know where the ice cream place is, I think. I'll be back."
"I don't want fucking ice cream, Bucky."
"Okay, then what the fuck do you want," Bucky snaps, and then looks surprised, as if he’d not wanted to say anything. His face shutters almost immediately though, before he turns and stalks away.
Sam stares at the space he leaves behind. Great. Just fucking great. He wants to fucking scream. The nerve of Bucky asking him - Sam shuts down for a bit, but when he comes back only ten minutes have passed and Bucky still hasn't made a reappearance.
Fuck it, he’ll just go for a walk. Town seems nice enough anyway. Maybe he’ll get that goddamned ice cream Bucky kept raving about. He barely makes it two blocks before he’s grabbed and shoved into an alley.
"Someone could see us," Sam says, glancing anxiously around. But the street outside is largely empty, the alley deserted, so Sam bares his teeth, kicks at Bucky’s shin. Is surprised when the steel tip of his boot makes contact and Bucky hisses.
He slaps Sam then, across his lips, sends him to his knees. Blood fills Sam’s mouth, warm iron, and he smiles up beatifically at Bucky. Who looks hesitant, caught between rage and lust. Sam makes the decision for him, scrambles for his belt. Bucky hauls him up by his shoulders in response, shoves him against the brick alley wall.
He undoes both their flies and slides their cocks together, taking Sam’s wrists into his hand above his head when he tries to help, to influence the momentum a little, so Sam has little choice but to take the grinding, leisurely pace. Bucky's grip is hard though, and his kiss sharpens the sting in Sam's mouth. Finally, finally, Bucky speeds up enough so Sam can come, groaning into Bucky's mouth. Then Bucky comes too, and it's just the two of them, breathing harsh against the warmth of the brick.
"Ice cream," Sam says, when he can catch his breath.
"What?"
"You asked me what I want. I want that fucking ice cream."
Bucky laughs, weakly. He lets go of Sam's wrists, then says, "Yeah, clean us up, I'll get you your ice cream." Most of the come is a sticky mess on Bucky's hand, the sleeve of his leather jacket. Sam considers, as Bucky raises it with expectation to Sam's mouth, but it's not really a request, so in the end Sam does as he's told.
The ice cream shop is small and quaint, although the proprietor stares at him with suspicion until he sees Bucky's with him. Sam bristles, but is too sated to want to get into it. His mouth tastes like come and blood and Bucky, which isn't unpleasant, but some chocolate would be nice.
Bucky orders Rocky Road, some triple white-dark chocolate confection, raspberry and some mocha thing, all in a giant waffle sundae cup with whipped cream and sprinkles. The works.
Sam ignores him when he raises a brow at the counter; he's not paying for a guy who can front WWII benefits and has HYDRA blood money. Not now. Maybe not ever.
They eat next to the bike, Sam leaning against it, passing the one spoon back and forth. Sam finds himself slipping into just watching Bucky take delicate licks, his tongue wet and pink. Mostly though, it's him eating and Bucky staring at him.
"HYDRA not feed you, Bucky," Sam asks, vaguely irritated at the attention, "That why you eat so little?"
"Mostly it was IV fluids. But I stopped really caring about most food during the war. It's just sustenance."
"You like that candy you keep making me buy."
"It's sharp - it makes me think of you," is the immediate reply. Bucky makes a face, then shakes his head, says before Sam can think of an answer: “We should head back. I don't think we're making it up the mountain."
"Yeah," Sam says, dragging his spoon through the last of the halfway melted ice cream. "Come on, let's go home."
*
Dr. Cho clears him for active duty, but mutters something under her breath about doing it under duress - then she says, "Why are your lips always bruised or split, Sam?"
"Yeah, I don't know, I guess cause I just keep worrying at the skin?" He tries his best aw shucks look, and she waves him off impatiently. He could kiss her in gratitude, but he's too anxious to get away in case she finds something else to get concerned over.
The group chat starts lighting up - there's talk of a dinner celebration of some sort, Sam messages: Hey, I'll cook
But then puts the phone away, goes hunting in search of Bucky. This hour, mess hall, probably, and he's right, but Bucky's not alone in his usual corner. Instead there's a woman: redhead, familiar looking, talking animatedly as Bucky nods, smiles slightly in response. Not a recruit - human resources maybe? No, one of Hill's. Intelligence or IT or something close.
Sam finds himself faltering, but he's already made a beeline to the corner, and Bucky's already noticed him, his gaze narrowing slightly as Sam approaches. Maybe he'll just say hi and then leave.
"Hey," the woman says, turning towards him as he reaches the table. "Melinda. Melinda Simmons."
"Hi," Sam says, awkwardly. "Sam Wilson."
"Yeah, I kinda knew that.”
Bucky snorts softly under his breath.
“Join us, please,” Melinda says. “It’s not often I get to have lunch with both an Avenger and a member of the Howling Commandos.”
Not the Winter Soldier. Interesting. Sam looks at Bucky, but Bucky shrugs as if he doesn’t care. Sam’s order pings, and he goes to collect it. He could just find another table, but it’s rude at this point.
Next to Bucky, who slides an assessing gaze at Sam’s food, then shakes his head as if Sam’s stupid. What? Sam wanted to try something different, that’s all. But he takes a bite, and it’s got mushrooms hidden in it and he hates it. It’s fine. Sam’s eaten worse. He won’t like it, but he’ll eat it.
“I’m gonna order fries,” Bucky says, keying in an order.
“So, Melinda, which department are you at again?”
“Ah, intelligence gathering. Boring, I know. A lot of deskwork.” The grin she shoots Bucky is bright, but cautious. Waiting for him to take the lead.
“Yeah, turns out a lot of what HYDRA put in my head is stuff that’s useful. A lot of places I remember, too. Bases, and people. Targets, mostly," and Bucky flinches slightly when he says that, "but other missions as well. Might as well have something good come out of everything I've done, right? Melinda was the unfortunate person put in charge of sorting through the mess.”
“Are you kidding me? The intel you’ve given me is invaluable.”
“So I’m interrupting your work lunch? I should go,” Sam says, as something loosens in his chest.
“Oh no, that was over a while ago. Now we’re just having lunch. He’s so hard to pin down though, I've been chasing him for weeks.” The smile she shoots him is slow, familiar.
Sam clenches his jaw. Intel, from someone sleepwalking through seventy years of life. Go here. Turn left. Turn right. Complete the mission. Level six targets to be eliminated. What else had he been asked to do? Red in his ledger, like Nat says. But whose, really? Does Bucky feel guilt?
The code words. Does Melinda know them? Probably not. They're a weapon. Bucky had given him access to a weapon. Too bad he couldn't use them when it mattered. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't be sitting here right now, trying not to hyperventilate.
“You wanna pick up my order, Sam,” Bucky says, mild, his fingers gripping Sam's thigh briefly beneath the table, jolting him out of it.
“Yeah, sure.” Sam rises, only slightly shaky, finds his way to the counter. The fries have come with a burger for some reason. “I don’t think he ordered this,” Sam says.
“Says right here, fries, shrimp burger.”
Bucky’s actually smiling at her when Sam returns to the table. He decidedly does not slam the food down, just slides it over as Bucky frowns, “Huh, I didn’t order this.”
“That’s what I said.”
“I’m full though. You can have it if you want.”
Sam desperately does not want to eat Bucky's pity burger. But the alternative is: mushrooms. Grudgingly, he takes the basket from Bucky's tray, and then keeps quiet when Bucky also passes him the fries after eating one and offering some to Melinda, who shakes her head no.
He focuses on eating, makes polite conversation with the both of them as she gently flirts and Bucky, mostly awkwardly, kind of flirts back. Finally, as he’s almost done, he’s rescued by a group text message. It’s just nonsense, but they don’t have to know that. "Hey, gotta run, sorry. Duty calls. Enjoy the rest of your lunch.” He offers Melinda a slow smile, ignores Bucky and makes his escape.
He’s promised to cook dinner anyway, so by the time he’s keyed in his grocery order and picked it up, an hour has passed; he’s barely thinking of Bucky when a hand grabs his wrist, tugs him into a stairwell.
“I need to prep for dinner,” Sam scowls, tries to leave but Bucky shoves him against a wall, takes his bag of groceries and sets it neatly down on the floor. "You wanna come? It's just the team."
"The Avengers? Thanks, I'll pass." There's a faintly mocking note to his voice.
“She seems lovely, by the way, I’m sure you’ll be very happy together.”
“It was just lunch. It wasn’t even out of the compound.”
“Let me know if you need some dining recommendations, then. Look, it’s really none of my fucking business. Get off me,” he shoves at Bucky, but as usual it’s fucking useless, Bucky tugs him back, smoothing down the lapels of Sam’s collar before releasing him. Sam slides down the wall, presses his head back against it. “You should go for it. She can probably give you what you want.” Better than me, at least.
He wants to laugh, but all that rises in him is faint helplessness. Bucky should find someone else, probably. Sam should find someone else. Probably not. But Bucky should, at the very least. Maybe he’s only not nice because Sam’s not nice. Maybe he could be sweet and hold hands and share slow kisses with Melinda under the moonlight like Casablanca or some shit like that.
Bucky crouches down next to him, says: “She can give me you? That’s nice. How do I put in that order? Does it work like - what’s that website?”
“eBay? It’s mostly used goods, though.” Sam wants to turn his head away, but he can’t stop staring at Bucky.
“It’s not like I’m brand new either. Pretty sure nothing on that site is more used than me.”
Sam finds his fingers brushing across Bucky’s temple, the neatly gelled short hair. “You’d be surprised what’s on there. I really like your new look. See. Cleaned up like that, no one can even tell you’re basically ancient.”
“I turn 102 in a few weeks. Steve’s throwing a small party, I’m supposed to invite you. It’s awful, but he insists.”
“Yeah, he does tend to do that.” Sam drops his hand, says with a faint despair he doesn’t quite understand: “You don’t have to buy me on eBay, Bucky. Can't buy what you already took.”
Bucky doesn’t respond. Sam lifts a leg, presses his boot against Bucky's chest as Bucky drops his knees down to the floor. “They reinstated me, by the way. No thanks to you.”
“Congrats.” Bucky doesn’t sound entirely pleased with the news. He doesn’t take his gaze off Sam as he tugs Sam's boot and sock off, wraps his fingers around his ankle.
Sam hisses, tries to jerk his foot away, but Bucky's grip is too tight. He lifts Sam's foot to his face, bites down on his heel. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough for a riot of conflicting sensations to make Sam squirm. "Undo your pants," Bucky says, conversational. Sam does as he's told, fingers shaking as Bucky nods, the grip on Sam's ankle tightening, his teeth marking Sam's sole. Sam doesn't think his feet are particularly sexy, but Bucky doesn't seem to care, his gaze is dark, rapt.
Sam starts to close his eyes as he jerks himself off, but Bucky says, "Don't," and Sam can't do anything else but comply, caught between wanting to run and wanting to be nowhere else but here. But then Bucky starts to look angry, and he drops Sam’s foot in frustration.
“What,” Sam says. The slap is a surprise: he hadn’t even been doing anything that warranted one. Then another, and another, over the same spot, but not nearly hard enough to mean anything - has Bucky forgotten how to slap someone with purpose? - and Sam can't take it anymore, kicks at him with the foot that's still booted.
Bucky catches it easily, and in the ensuing struggle Sam ends up on his back, heaving in rage as Bucky settles between his hips and just relaxes, the dead weight of his body enough to trap Sam’s entire lower half, and when he manages to grab Sam’s arms and twist them behind his back, Sam can’t move. “I fucking hate you, Bucky, stop this shit right now.”
Bucky only starts to thrust, a slow, lazy roll of his hips, and fuck, fuck. Bucky’s palm finds its way onto Sam’s forehead, grinding down until the pressure starts to hurt, and it’s good, and then Bucky mutters, “Fucking finally,” and speeds up a little, but not enough for Sam to come, his cock heavy between Sam’s thighs after he frees it from the confines of his jeans.
Sam spits out, “Fuck you, come on, stop wasting my goddamn time.”
At that, Bucky pauses, as if he’s seriously considering getting up and walking away, but then he smirks as Sam bares his teeth, daring him to, resumes rolling against him, and eventually Sam comes.
*
Dinner goes pretty well, all things considered. Sam packs food aside for Bucky before the team arrives, even though it's not like Bucky will appreciate it. Sam knows he's bulking down, sheer muscle mass turning into leaner, sleek lines.
Halfway through sealing a container it hits him that he never unblocked Bucky's number; Sam hesitates over the phone for a good long minute before he decides, fuck it, and clicks unblock. It's not like Bucky will know; it's doubtful he's sent any messages into the void the time they were apart. Although, he could have, and Sam will never know. Plus, Sam only ever sent Bucky the one message, the entire time.
Nat sits next to him on the couch after they've eaten and are settled down for drinks, her feet tucked neatly under her. "So hey, Steve told me you've gotten back with your gentleman friend."
"I know you know who he is." He glances over at Steve, but he's deep in animated conversation with Vision and Wanda. "Don't worry about me, I'm fine."
Her smile is soft, but her gaze is razor sharp. "You're not the only one I worry about. Not like I know him, other than when he tried to kill me, but I know what it's like to be someone like him. Or close to it.”
"Yeah, what's it like," Sam asks, more harsh than intended, but she accepts his unworded apology with a faint nod.
"Mostly, searching for meaning and trying to find reasons to stay alive. The former due to the latter, I suppose."
"Something to make you want to wake up in the morning, huh?" Sam shifts on the couch, turns his head to stare up, unseeing, at the ceiling. You were always mine.
He doesn't want to be anyone's, really. And yet here they are.
"Something like that, yeah," Nat replies. "You gotta lie on the bed you make, Wilson. Or find a new bed, I guess."
"I guess." But Sam doesn't want a new bed, either. He just wants -
On impulse, he pulls out his phone and sends a text: Hey.
The reply is almost immediate: I'm reading about the history of frog fishing
Why?
Why not?
Don't send me messages about it
No
Sam can't sleep after everyone's gone, so he picks up the bag of food for Bucky and takes the lift up, ends up standing in front of the door for the longest time, unable to bring himself to knock. Finally, he manages to do it, and Bucky says, "You were standing in front of the door for way too long. I was about to go to bed."
"I know you don't like food or whatever, but I have leftovers." Sam holds out the bag. Bucky takes it, then takes Sam by the wrist. “I gotta go.”
“Stay.”
“Allright,” Sam says, after a while.
Bucky gives him a long look. "Nevermind you had something to do, go do that."
He lets Sam go and closes the door in his face, leaving him gaping at it.
What the fuck, Bucky. Just, what the fuck.