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Back at the motel, as he tiredly shrugs his way out of his suit after a long day of fighting bad guys (well, bad androids - his least favorite of the Big Three, as metal punches hurt the worst), Sam can’t help but bring up the obvious: “Man,” he says to Bucky. “You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
Grimacing, Bucky says, “I liked this shirt.” What’s left of the shirt clings to his back, four ragged slashes cut into it because (seriously, what the fuck) the androids had big sharp robot claws. It had not been Sam’s favorite day at work.
“I’m sure you’ll be able to find several back-up blue henleys in your closet,” Sam points out. Also: black, grey, dark green, dark red. All about one size too small.
“This one is soft,” Bucky says. On anyone else, Sam would call his look pouty. One of these days he’s going to introduce the guy to a nice cashmere sweater and really blow his mind. Bucky sighs a little sigh of shirt-mourning and pulls back the covers on his bed, and Sam realizes with dawning fucking horror that he’s about to sleep in a bloody shirt.
“You’re gonna have to take that shirt off,” Sam tells him. Bucky’s eyes flick up to him. Sam can feel it, how Bucky wants to just follow the order and also how much it annoys him to want that. “Let me take a look, I can stitch it up if it needs it.”
“It’s fine,” Bucky says. He pointedly takes his pants off, like that’s a fair compromise, and like he wasn’t going to do that anyway once the lights were off. They’ve had to share quarters a handful of times by now; Sam’s gotten used to the fact that Bucky’s a little shy about changing in front of him. This is the first time Bucky’s compromised his virtue enough to reveal so much as an ankle, and Sam appreciates it, the little gesture of trust.
However, he is going to get a look at those robot scratches, so Bucky better get even more comfortable real quick. “Man it’s your back, I know you don’t have super soldier eyes in the back of your head to check out how bad it is. Let me look at it.”
“I can already feel it healing,” Bucky says. “Don’t worry about it.” He won’t meet Sam’s eyes.
The part of Sam that wants to respect Bucky’s bodily autonomy wars with the part of him that’s still a field medic who will not be going to sleep until he’s done what he can for the regiment. Another part of him is deeply curious as to what Bucky is trying to hide from him. More metal parts, like random steampunk gears and shit? Scars? A tramp stamp? “You can feel it healing,” he says finally.
“Yeah. Super soldier thing.” Bucky shrugs.
Sam tries to wait him out, but it’s like trying to win a staring contest with a cat. Worse, actually. “You want to get blood all over the sheets, fine. It’s not very considerate of the motel staff who have to do the laundry, but do you.”
“Damn it, Sam.” Bucky looks pained now. “It’s weird, okay? Fine, look at it, but it’s creepy to watch. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“You, weird? Guess there’s a first time today for everything. Come on, bathroom so I can see it with better lighting.”
Bucky glares at him, which isn’t at all scary when he’s all mussed and scratched up and pathetic-looking, but follows Sam obediently to the bathroom. Under the harsh light the bruises on his face stand out darker, dusky purple on his cheek and fading red on his brow, though already they don’t look as bad as they had before. “You really don’t have to,” Bucky says, one last attempt that Sam responds to only with a raised eyebrow and patient silence.
Bucky turns around before he strips his shirt off. It sticks a little as it pulls away from the wounds; Sam tables a lecture about why these things need to be seen to in a timely fashion, but oh, Bucky can count on hearing it in the future.
Bucky’s leaner now, still nicely built, but without quite being the tank Hydra had turned him into. Sam remembers being afraid of him, once, of what he could do with that body, that metal arm and that total lack of mercy. It used to freak him out a little, even after Bucky was back on their side; it was hard to stop thinking of him as a killing machine. Looking at him now, at the bare stretch of his back, his head bowed, it’s hard to believe he was ever someone Sam didn’t trust with his life.
“I really don’t have eyes in the back of my head, Sam. You can stop trying to find them.” Bucky’s voice is rough, tired with an edge of defensive.
“Then how’d you know I was looking? Suspicious,” Sam says. “I’m going to clean these up, is that okay?” Their eyes meet in the mirror, and Bucky nods. Four claw marks are slashed down Bucky’s back from his left shoulder to the dip of his spine, and though they’re not bleeding as badly as they were before, it’s clear that Bucky lost a lot of blood. Like, a lot a lot, like if he didn’t have the super soldier thing going on they would have needed a hospital hours ago. Bucky tosses his shirt into the garbage bin, where it lands with a soaked thump. “Do you have any blood left?” Sam asks, only sort of kidding.
Bucky relaxes, letting his eyes close and his shoulders fall. “I got enough to last me, but I need to sleep soon. Medic me already, will you?”
“Now he’s desperate for my skills,” Sam says, but grabs a washcloth and runs it under warm water. It’s something he’d done dozens of times as a pararescue, working with what he had to fix fellow soldiers up in the field. It feels different with Bucky, though, tucked close together in this dingy motel bathroom. Everything feels different with Bucky.
Bucky tenses at the first press of the cloth, though Sam tries to keep it gentle. He squeezes the washcloth, letting the water carry away blood old and new, rivulets of it running reddish-pink down Bucky’s bare back and catching at the waistband of his briefs. It can’t be comfortable; thinking quickly, Sam rubs his knuckles over the base of Bucky’s spine, water beading up and collapsing down his wrists. Bucky pushes into the touch with a soft sound like he doesn’t even mean to do it, his shoulders moving back, arching his lower back as if to give Sam’s fist a better place to rest. He wants to turn his palm around, press it flat to the curve of Bucky’s tailbone, then lower. Bucky’s skin feels good, hot to the touch, worth exploring.
Sam rinses the washcloth out in the sink, water running out pink. He can see the wounds more clearly now, three of them lighter, mostly closed up like they were mended with invisible stitches.
The fourth one, though, that one worries him. That claw cut in deeper and caught, dragged and left a valley of open flesh in its wake. At the ends the cut is already starting to heal, but the middle is still bleeding sluggishly. “I might need to stitch this up, Buck,” Sam tells him regretfully. Bucky metabolizes painkillers so quick that it makes them kind of pointless; Sam knows he’s the suffer in silence type but that doesn’t mean it isn’t awful.
“No,” Bucky says. His voice is low, breathy. Is the pain catching up to him? “You just have to hold me together.” He reaches around with his right hand, taps Sam’s fingers where they’re pressed against his shoulder, and guides him carefully to place his fingers around the wound and squeeze, closing the gash up until it’s just a ragged line in Bucky’s skin. “Keep them there. You’ll see.”
Sam sees, alright. He sees Bucky’s tired posture, head down, leaning his hip against the counter. He sees every inch of his back, scars he must have gotten during the war and marks from more recent battles still lingering. And after a minute of steady pressure, he sees that wound start to close. It’s slow, a graceful remaking of flesh, like being split open in reverse. Sam’s never seen anything like it. The ragged edges meld back together like they’d never parted. “Holy fuck, Bucky.” Sam doesn’t mean for it to come out as breathless as it does.
“I know,” Bucky says. He remains still; clearly whatever self-consciousness he possesses isn’t enough to make him want to move away. Sam realizes then that he has both hands on Bucky, one helping close the wound, the other braced on Bucky’s uninjured shoulder to hold him in place, though throughout this all he’s been compliant, at least physically. “I always had to hold them closed myself, no one else ever wanted to touch me.”
Sam thinks, helplessly: a person would have to be crazy to not want to touch you. He can’t imagine not doing it now; since they started working together his own hands have been drawn to Bucky as if magnetized, as if he could take in Bucky’s fear or rage or recalcitrance or joy with the tips of his fingers, the flat of his palm. Those touches had been automatic and received as such, and eventually returned with Bucky’s own little touches - pats on the back, half-hugs when they haven’t seen each other in a minute. “Can’t relate, man,” Sam says after probably a little too long. “You’re like a little teddy bear. Prime cuddle material if you ask me.”
That gets a smile out of him. “Well, I was the Winter Soldier most of the time. Can’t blame anyone for not wanting to cuddle the killing machine.”
Sam scoffs. “You kidding? That’s the perfect time. All docile and shit. ‘Soldier, you be the big spoon. Come here, Siberia is so cold.’” Bucky’s shoulders shake with laughter beneath his hands. Between Sam’s careful fingers, the worst cut has mostly closed up. It’s still hot and angry red when Sam smoothes a fingertip over the edges of it, but otherwise it looks like it’s been healing for days rather than just a few hours. He takes his time checking over the remaining scratches, but they look better already.
It’s too easy, touching him like this; Sam finds himself gripping Bucky’s hip, pulling him around before he can think better of it. Bucky responds without question, letting himself be guided to face Sam. He’s still smiling, faint and sleepy, and Sam feels a twinge of guilt at keeping him from getting the rest he clearly needs. “What’s the diagnosis, doc?” Bucky asks.
There’s nothing too bad on his chest, no cuts that Sam can see. A bruise blooms over his heart, about the size of an android fist; Sam has a brief but vivid vision of melting every stupid robot down to scrap. “Anything we can do about this?” he asks, setting gentle fingertips over the edge of the bruise.
“Nah,” Bucky says. “It’ll probably be gone by morning. You could kiss it better if you really want to be proactive, but I think any effects from that would be psychosomatic.” He looks up at Sam through his eyelashes as best he can while being taller than Sam. There’s far too much flirtatious sparkle in those baby blues for Sam’s liking; a guy could get the wrong idea.
“Spoken like someone who’s never been kissed by these lips,” Sam says, quick to defend his honor. “You should be so lucky. Forget the healing, one kiss and you’d be a super ultra soldier. Deluxe edition. I’m talking brand new upgrade.” It’s gone midnight and delirium is absolutely setting in if he’s indulging himself in a little flirting like this. “My diagnosis is go to bed.” He goes for one last brotherly squeeze at Bucky’s shoulder but it looks more like a lingering caress from where he’s standing. Well, close enough.
“Thank you,” Bucky says. His face is too open, soft when he looks at Sam.
“Tell me next time you need me, okay?” Sam says, aiming for gruff and manly and landing at devastatingly sincere. “I got you. I’ll put you back together, recalibrate your gears or whatever. You don’t have to sleep in bloody shirts. Really Buck, do not try to sleep in bloody shirts.”
“A shirt’s a shirt,” Bucky says, with the shrug of a guy who’s been through worse. “But okay.” He looks over his shoulder into the mirror to check the damage and, seeming satisfied with what he sees, gives Sam a goodnight pat on the arm and heads to bed.
“Someday you’ll find out about pajamas,” Sam says, low enough that only Bucky’s super soldier hearing lets him hear it.
“I’ve heard of pajamas,” Bucky says, offended.
Sam says, in the quietest holler he can manage, “Go to bed!”
-
Wizards are fucked up. Not that Sam particularly loves killer robots or corrupt government officials or freaky ass lizard-looking aliens, but there’s a particular fuckedupness to evil wizards. He’s grateful and all that Dr. Strange was around to send these ones literally to a different dimension(?!), he just wishes they’d taken their weird curse magic back with them, and not left Bucky - like this.
“You can hold his hand, if you’d like,” Strange says, giving Sam a long look as he waves his hands in complicated patterns in the air over Bucky’s chest like he’s making invisible origami. Now that Sam’s seen real magic, he understands it even less.
Still, whatever Strange is doing is working. Sam hadn’t known, at first, what was wrong when Bucky fell to his knees once the fight was finished; he couldn’t see any obvious wounds until he got closer and the red scrapes on Bucky’s throat bloomed brighter, lit from within like the sun was inside him, in patterns that might have been beautiful in stained glass or ink. Strange had elbowed him aside, sworn and set immediately to stripping Bucky to the waist, his cape swooping around to carry Bucky over to the nearest flat surface that hadn’t been destroyed in the fight.
The wounds extended from his throat down his chest, curving into the dips of his hipbones in lines straight and winding. The patterns were complex, architectural, the magic carved into his skin like Art Deco ironwork. Even as Strange began to fix him Sam could see the wounds trying to close themselves, like his body would swallow the magic if it could.
It’s clear Bucky’s trying not to either pass out or writhe too much, though it must hurt awfully. His eyes stay locked on Sam like that’s what’s keeping him anchored in place.
“You think it’ll help?” Sam asks Strange, not looking away either. “I don’t want to interfere with your…sorcery.” Something passes through Bucky’s eyes at that, a flash of amusement in the midst of this that Sam takes as a victory.
“I think it’ll help you,” Strange says pointedly.
If there’s one thing Sam doesn’t need right now, it’s a bitchy wizard giving him shit for caring about his partner. He spares Strange the briefest glare before taking Bucky’s right hand in his, and the immediacy with which Bucky clutches him back makes Sam regret not doing it from the jump. It makes Bucky breathe easier, Sam can tell, and fixing him a little makes Sam want to fix him a lot, setting his other hand carefully on Bucky’s hip, thumb cresting the bone right beneath where the marks stop.
Strange draws the magic out slowly but steadily; it rises from each carved line like licks of flame, curling up and then dissipating into golden smoke. Whatever he’s doing has no effect on the depth of the cuts; they just start to bleed a bit, rich red replacing that hot brightness until the air is clear and each cut is just a cut. So many of them. Bucky’s head thumps softly back against the surface of the desk, his grip on Sam’s hand loosening just enough to make Sam realize how tense he’d been.
“I’ve seen these runes before, they were trying to possess him,” Strange says, which is great, because Sam was hoping this could be more traumatizing somehow. “The magic is out, he just needs antiseptic now and to rest. He heals very fast, doesn’t he?” he asks Sam.
“He’s right here,” Bucky says, sounding groggy but irritable enough to make Sam feel relieved. “Thanks, Strange. I’ll be fine.”
“Of course,” Strange says, turning his attention to Bucky. His eyes sweep over him, impersonal. “Tell me if you scar, it wouldn’t be wise to have these marks on you forever. Otherwise, you should go home.”
Strange draws one of his weird portals in the air and Sam carries Bucky through it out of this science fiction life and back into Bucky’s apartment. “I can walk, you know,” Bucky says. His head lolls to the side, coming to rest against Sam’s chest, which makes his statement not very convincing.
“And I can fly,” Sam says, carrying him bridal-style into his bedroom. “We’re very accomplished people capable of all sorts of things.” He lays Bucky down onto his bed. The sheets are black, the comforter is black. Sam has chosen to interpret that as an interior design decision and not Bucky selecting a color that wouldn’t show bloodstains, because they have talked about that, goddammit.
“I can take it from here,” Bucky says. His hands flutter around his belt like he means to take his pants off, but he gives up pretty quick. It doesn’t look like he’s still bleeding as far as Sam can tell, but he’s looked better.
“Take what from here? Passing out?” Sam asks. “Don’t, by the way. I’m going to get some things to clean you up so I don’t have to haul your ass into the shower.” On the way Sam gets out of as much of his costume as he can. Next time he’s in Wakanda, he’s going to ask about an upgrade to tearaway stripper vibranium armor.
He comes back to Bucky’s bedside in his t-shirt and a pair of Bucky’s sweatpants he snagged from where they were folded on a chair. He has alcohol and a couple of clean cloths from the cupboard. Bucky greets him with a soft, “Hey,” and a smile like he’s happy to see him. “You staying here?”
“Sure,” Sam says, pulling up a chair. Bucky’s managed to get his belt and pants undone, but didn’t get around to pushing them very far down, so he just looks fucked up and completely obscene. Sam’s not here to appreciate what on anyone else would be a blatant thirst trap, so he ignores the pale stretch of skin between Bucky’s hipbones and concentrates on seeing to the blueprint of the Chrysler Building carved into his torso.
Bucky either has an incredibly high pain tolerance, or HYDRA trained the ability to express physical pain out of him; either way, he barely makes a sound as Sam carefully cleans him up, until all the blood has been cleared away and Sam can see the worst of it.
It’s all raw-looking, ugly now: an insult to see Bucky’s body treated so cavalierly as a canvas. Calligraphic curves create the deepest wounds, framed by shallower lines that are disappearing as Sam watches, thin cuts mending themselves into red afterimages on Bucky’s pale skin.
“Which ones feel the worst?” Sam asks. He keeps his hands close, making it easier for Bucky to guide him where he’s needed. Bucky does, his grip weak but not frighteningly so, placing his fingers over Sam’s and leading him to the deepest cuts over his ribcage. Sam keeps his touch light, feeling the curve of each rib under his palms, fingers framing each split encouraging them to close. Bucky’s skin knits back together like it was waiting for the chance.
It takes awhile, Sam mapping his way over Bucky’s chest and stomach, watching the slashes striping Bucky’s collarbones disappear with relief and some satisfaction. The marks on his throat are faded by now, a distant memory of what they were when Sam first saw them, but still Bucky guides his hands up, his eyes slipping shut as Sam tightens his grip just enough to coax the tiny scratched swirl on his clavicle closed.
Bucky exhales, long and deep, and Sam lets him go with reluctance. He’s not completely healed, still red and sore-looking in places, but it’s a far cry from the carved horror of an hour ago. “Thanks, Sam,” Bucky says, managing to summon up a smile. He already looks better, less drained. “You think anything’ll scar? Am I doomed to be possessed by an evil wizard?”
“Nah,” says Sam. “I think we’re stuck with you for now.” He gives Bucky a look over. “Nothing but abs as far as the eye can see. Still want me to stick around?” As convenient as it is having Bucky living in the same city now, Sam’s place is still a little drive away. He’s tired. And while he’s only had to do this for Bucky a few times, every time it’s hard after to tear himself away. He tells himself that it’s just his training that makes him need to check in, ensure that everything’s healing properly. He’s just being a good medic. He’s not clingy.
“Might as well,” Bucky says, not sounding as casual as he’s probably trying to. “We have to report back in the morning anyway.” He pats the bed beside him, turning those soulful blue eyes on Sam like there’s no other possible option in the world but for Sam to climb in, like Sam didn’t personally see to it that Bucky got himself a comfortable, nice-looking couch specifically in case Sam needed to crash on it. “I’ll try not to get too cuddly.”
“Uh huh,” Sam says. “Bucky ‘Big Spoon’ Barnes out here lying straight to my face. After all I’ve done for you. You can finish getting yourself undressed too, I know you’re not that weak.” Though they’ve had plenty of time to chit-chat about everything and nothing, some things Sam’s only learned from working with Bucky in the field. One: If you fall asleep anywhere near Bucky, whether that’s in the same rickety safehouse bed or in a ridiculously cold cave in the Alps, you will wake up tucked under a surprisingly and pleasantly warm metal arm. Two: Although healing saps most of Bucky’s immediate energy, afterwards he’s generally well enough to get up and keep moving if he needs to. Dude is just lazy and has no compunction about taking advantage of Sam’s good will.
True to form, Bucky complains, “Strange said I gotta rest,” but he rolls out of bed anyway and gets his pants off, stretching ostentatiously like he wasn’t just a pitiful magic-scribbled super soldier in distress practically moments ago. Sam’s grateful Bucky has the whole fast-healing thing going on but regrets that the serum was unable to make him not annoying. “You want a glass of water?” he asks as Sam gets into his bed, which doesn’t feel as weird as he thinks it should.
“Yeah, you do something for me for once,” Sam says, snuggling in. At least they’re nice black sheets, even if they make Sam feel like he’s bedding down with a vampire.
“Everything I do is for you,” Bucky says, and takes his healed up black underpants-clad self into the kitchen like it’s whatever and that’s a normal thing to say.
Sam stares at Bucky’s bedroom ceiling and doesn’t feel any type of way about it.
-
Generally speaking Sam is not overly interested in helping Spider-Man’s twerp ass out with anything, but here he is in Queens about to divebomb a giant sand monster. He’s sorry about telling Bucky yesterday, when Bucky was drinking him under the table at their favorite local bar, that he was getting a little bored. This one’s on him.
“I think it’s working!” Peter Punk-Ass Parker announces in his screechy little voice as he bounces from wall to wall busting open water mains and truly fucking up the fifteenth floor of this office building in progress. The sand monster is turning gradually into a mud monster. It makes Sam want to go home and clean. Just clean anything.
On the patchwork floor of a future cubicle farm Bucky gamely aims a firehose at Mr. Sandman or whatever the fuck this guy calls himself. Sam sideswipes the angry rolling dune of him with a wing and gets a big yell from an oversized mouth area for his troubles, while Peter flings webs at it and creates a frankly really gross webby mud situation out of what Sam is pretty sure is still a human being.
He’s about to holler at Peter to pull back when Sand Jerk forms a big sand fist and smacks into Bucky with it. It sends him flying through the air, where he hits a concrete pillar and then falls into the starless night.
Seconds, that’s how long it takes for Sam to dive and catch him before he hits the ground. They are among the longest seconds of Sam’s life, from the moment he sees Bucky falling through the air beneath him to when he grabs Bucky in his arms far too close to the ground for his liking.
He takes them in for a soft landing, feet coming to rest gently on the concrete with their arms wrapped tightly around each other, Bucky clutching him back just as hard. Sam just holds him there, his heart racing, everything forgotten but the wrenching terror of seeing Bucky disappear into the dark.
“You good?” he asks after what feels like an eternal stretch of time with Bucky pressed against him, Bucky’s ragged breathing against his ear. He pulls back to get a look at him and feels what’s wrong the moment before he sees it; his cheek is wet where it was pressed to Bucky’s, wet from the bleeding gash on Bucky’s temple where he hit the pillar, long and jagged down to his jawline.
“I hate falling,” Bucky says. He sounds vague, his eyelashes fluttering and face pale under terrible shining red. Sam can feel him waver on his feet, guides him back until he can lean against the brick alley wall with Sam’s hand cupped around the back of his head. “You’re bleeding,” he says, touching Sam’s face, metal to skin, where his own blood is smeared.
“It’s not mine, Buck,” Sam says, his voice breaking through the middle of it. Everything’s gone quiet behind them but for the rush of water from broken pipes several stories up. Sam knows he has to go back to the fight, check on Peter, he knows that. “You got a little scrape. Gonna hold you together, okay?”
“Okay,” Bucky says, too low, woozy. He sways a little, so Sam crowds him closer to the wall, holds him up. Bucky’s hand slides down to his neck, curls around and stays there.
Sam grounds himself in the familiar feel of warm vibranium. It’s Bucky, and he’ll be fine, Sam knows this. He knows it as he carefully cups Bucky’s face, curving his fingers around the cut, gripping just tight enough to guide it closed. Bucky sighs and leans into Sam’s hand, his head falling forward until their foreheads bump. It seems to startle him, and he pulls back, looking at Sam like he’s afraid he’s done something wrong.
“You’re fine,” Sam tells him. He checks on the cut, clocks the second hand-slow mending of it and guides Bucky back to where he was, needing the warmth of him, needing to feel him breathe. “Tell me how it feels.”
“Feels good,” Bucky says. His breath comes a little faster, color rising back in his pale cheeks. Beneath his thumb Sam can feel Bucky’s pulse pick up, except - no, that’s his own pulse.
Sam touches him just for the sake of it now, for the reassurance that he’s there and close and safe. He strokes Bucky’s jaw for the stubble rasp against his thumb, cups the back of his skull to feel Bucky’s short hair between his fingers. He’s had ample opportunity to look at Bucky but never from this close, so he takes his fill: sees the wild blue of his eyes, the creases around them and shadows beneath; the flushed planes of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his mouth. The cut mends between his fingers, vivid pink under red, fading further in the spaces between each heartbeat.
Sam cannot lose him. He needs Bucky, and though he knows in many ways he has him - his regard, his companionship, even his devotion - he’s greedy for more. And that’s what it is, simple greed to ask more of Bucky even as they’re already so tied together, unfair to ask him to accept that hunger on top of everything he already gives to Sam.
Under his hands Bucky is whole again, healed. Sam means to step back but Bucky won’t let him, following his movements like they’re dancing, his eyes on Sam’s face searching and desperate. Sam tries to let him go but Bucky captures his wrists, threads their fingers together, skin and metal.
Whatever Bucky needs, Sam will give him; he waits to be guided.
Bucky takes Sam’s face in his hands and kisses him.
There is nothing else. Just Bucky’s mouth on his, kissing him like it’s something he’s taking for himself, like he needs to steal it. He kisses Sam like he’ll never get another chance to do it, and Sam needs him to know he can have everything, always, pulls Bucky to him as close as he can and kisses him back and hopes he understands. He kisses Sam until he’s breathless, until Sam has to pull back for air because maybe Bucky has some sort of super soldier super kissing thing going on but Sam is still working with normal person lungs over here. He keeps his hands on Bucky though, keeps him close, can’t go far with Bucky smiling at him like he’s lit up from within.
“Oh wow!” Peter lands on the concrete next to them with a sprightly little thump. “Were you guys just kissing? That’s awesome. Representation is so important.”
Bucky must really be feeling good because he actually laughs at that. “Man you gotta shut up,” Bucky says to him, voice even more sincere than Peter’s. “Honestly.”
“Totally!” Peter says. “Just wanted to let you guys know that the enemy is, uh, vanquished. Whole pile of wet sand now, really interesting. I wish I knew how he got like that, do you think maybe he fell into radioactive quicksand? Then went evil? Or, misunderstood. I guess that’s an ethical question I’m still grappling with. Anyway, thank you for coming to help me. Mister, uh, Bucky, Winter Soldier? Sergeant? I’m glad you didn’t…you know. Kinda scary for a minute there.”
“You done, kid?” Sam asks. He can hear sirens getting closer only just now, which is amazing considering the racket they were making fighting a sand monster at eleven p.m. “I can finish up here. It’s a school night, go home.”
“Yes,” says Peter. “Thank you so much. I do have calculus homework. Thank you. Uh, I’m so happy for you two. Really great. Gay rights!” He aims a spindly arm up, shoots out his weird web stuff, and bounces out of sight onto the next rooftop.
“We don’t have to answer his texts, right?” Bucky says. “Like nobody says we have to.”
Sam just pulls him back in close and laughs.
-
After a cool month and a half or so of successfully avoiding android claws, artistically slicey wizards, and inconveniently placed concrete, Bucky is finally bested by a carrot.
“Shit,” Bucky says in the kitchen, where he’s been cooking while Sam works on a mission report, Sarah finishes up accounting for the week’s sales, Cass does homework, and AJ makes the salad because he likes to help Bucky fix dinner. “Fuck. Uh, sorry, AJ. I mean, darn.”
“I’ve heard swear words before, Uncle Bucky,” AJ says. “Uncle Sam used them a lot when he was training with the shield.”
“Hey,” Sam says, getting up to investigate the situation. He’s been trying to ignore how good it smells in the kitchen because he needs to finish this report rather than checking on dinner via wrapping his arms around Bucky’s waist, kissing him on the cheek, letting Bucky serve him a bite, and then lingering around watching Bucky stir soup with a ridiculous grin on his face until he’s drafted to set the table.
“It’s fine,” Bucky says, standing over the cutting board with its half cut carrot. He still holds the knife in his metal hand, which is probably why his right thumb has a cut in it that Sam hopes is bleeding more dramatically than seriously. It does make tactical sense for Bucky to learn to be ambidextrous, which is why he’s been practicing. But a carrot?
“Is it fine?” Sam asks, because Bucky will still straight up lie by habit about any pain he’s experiencing unless he’s totally incapacitated. Sam is working on teaching him to just be like “ow” when he needs to be but it’s slow going. “Man I thought you were good with knives,” he adds, taking Bucky’s bleeding hand in his and looking it over before guiding him to the sink to rinse it off and check how deep the cut is.
“I am,” Bucky says, then lowers his voice, “Just not necessarily with, you know, using them to chop vegetables.” They both watch the blood rinse away only to immediately be replaced by more blood. Turns out mastering 101 Flippy Little Knife Tricks does not translate directly to skills in the kitchen. “It’s not too bad,” he says weakly.
“You okay?” Sarah asks, always sensitive to even the most low-key ruckus. She touches Bucky’s shoulder, leaning between them to have a look. “Sam, go see to him.”
“I’m fine,” Bucky says again, looking at the stove as if it might betray him and his carefully constructed soup if he gets out of its sightline. “It just needs to simmer for five more minutes.”
Sarah, having already assessed the scene and identified what needs to be done, retrieves a wooden spoon from the drawer and pokes Bucky with it. “I got it, go.”
“The salad is looking good,” AJ reports to everyone.
“It’s gonna be a great salad, buddy!” Bucky says to him over his shoulder as Sam directs him to the first floor bathroom.
Under the late summer sun streaming through the window the cut doesn’t look too bad, about an inch long but shallow. Sam tucks up behind Bucky in the narrow space, holding Bucky’s hand in his to guide it under the faucet. Bucky’s no help, settling back against him with a sigh as Sam reaches up to get alcohol from the cabinet. He stays quiet as Sam tends to him, Sam’s chin leaning on his shoulder while he carefully cleans up the cut.
Once satisfied that it’s in better shape, Sam coaxes Bucky’s hand up, cupping it between his to help it heal. They watch the cut close, or at least Sam thinks they’re both watching it until he realizes that Bucky’s looking at him in the mirror, maybe has been the whole time. Bucky’s cheeks are flushed, his gaze heavy-lidded. It’s fucking distracting. That look is always distracting, and Bucky knows it, but Sam also knows that Bucky can’t help it, which is even hotter, good god.
“Been a minute since I had to fix you up,” Sam says. Sometimes he has to start a little conversation literally just to stave off the urge to jump Bucky right then and there. For real, they need to eat dinner. They can’t sneak off and fuck like teenagers. Well they can, and have, and do sometimes, but Bucky made kind of a big deal out of trying this new recipe and Sam is looking forward to complimenting the hell out of it so he can watch Bucky get all pleased.
“Feels good when you do,” Bucky says, in a low murmur that does nothing to quell the immediacy with which Sam wants to fuck him. Bucky brings their hands to his lips, kissing Sam’s fingertip, his knuckle, the soft space between his forefinger and thumb that brackets Bucky’s now-healed cut.
Sam threads their fingers together, fingertips pushing at the soft spaces between each knuckle because he knows Bucky likes it, that even holding hands manages to be a turn-on for him because Bucky is an old-fashioned romantic. He likes cooking for Sam, and buying him flowers and candy, and slow dancing. Loving Bucky has been a slow rush, unexpected and sweet, a courtship that took its time down a winding path before Sam was suddenly, inexorably in the grip of it. The need hasn’t let up. Sam can’t imagine the need ever letting up.
He guides their held hands to Bucky’s cheek, turning him enough to take a kiss from his soft mouth. With the fraction of his mind not taken up by wanting he tells himself this’ll be enough, just an easy little kiss, the angle too much of a strain to ask for more. But then he opens his eyes and is caught by the pale arch of Bucky’s throat seen in the mirror, their hands together on Bucky’s jaw, and he has to guide Bucky to turn in his arms so he can take another kiss, then another.
Bucky’s hands slip under Sam’s shirt to touch bare skin, Bucky always taking as much as he can get at any moment, and Sam kisses him hard to let him know he can have everything he wants. Sam’s come to love the feel of metal fingertips pressing into his skin, the inescapable reminder that it’s Bucky touching him, Bucky with him, nobody else.
Well, hell. As usual, Sam has fucked up an opportunity to not get himself entangled in Bucky’s sexy everything. He pulls away with no small amount of difficulty but doesn’t go far, resting his forehead against Bucky’s so they can both catch their breath. Dinner is absolutely ready by now, and Sam is definitely hungry for more than just his boyfriend, the honeytrap.
The slide of Bucky’s hands touching as much as they can before they leave Sam’s waist manages impressively to make even pulling away from him a pleasure. Unable to let him get too far, Sam catches his healed hand and raises it to his lips, leaves a kiss where the red score in Bucky’s skin is already fading to nothing.
“Thanks,” Bucky says. Sam doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know that the soft, smitten look on Bucky’s face is matched by his own.
-
“Something occurred to me while we were eating dinner,” Sam says, leaning in his bathroom doorway, fresh out the shower with a towel around his waist as he watches Bucky undress for bed.
Bucky pulls his shirt off over his head, making more of a stretch of it than strictly necessary, angling his body towards Sam so the lamplight really catches each defined little muscle on him from chest to hipbone. Bucky likes to be looked at now, which is great on a personal growth level and also nice because he likes to be looked at by Sam in particular, and thus makes it worth Sam’s while. “Was it that my cooking is incredible?” he asks, all guileless like he doesn’t know he looks like a whole snack himself standing there with his hair ruffled, barefoot in blue jeans.
That was undeniably one of the things that had occurred to Sam, yes, which was why he had told Bucky in detail already the ways in which dinner was excellent. Bucky has become wildly shameless about fishing for compliments, to Sam’s great amusement. “You know it is,” Sam says, pushing himself off against the doorframe, letting the movement put a little sway into his walk. He doesn’t mind Bucky looking at him either; he likes the way his eyes get darker, lashes lowering, likes how Bucky bites his lip as if Sam can’t get to him soon enough.
Bucky’s hands go to his belt buckle, fumbling quick like undressing has suddenly become a more urgent task than the sultry little strip show he’d been pretending he wasn’t doing before. He manages to get his belt open, hanging loose around the undone top button of his jeans, and then Sam gets close enough for him to get ahold of and there it goes, Bucky just can’t help himself - he hooks his fingers into the edge of Sam’s towel and drags him close. It unbalances him, Bucky wavering as he brings them together so Sam’s laughing a little when they kiss.
To be fair, most anyone interested in sex would have a lot of need banked up after seventy years without it; still, Jesus Christ is Bucky ever eager for it. It is outstanding for Sam’s ego and occasionally exhausting for his dick. One of the only real trials of dating Bucky has been that Sam has to continue to work and live his life and be a superhero while knowing that Bucky is quietly but extremely up for it at any given moment. It can be tough to focus on anything else while knowing that sex with Bucky is generally on the table as an option. Sometimes literally, depending on the location of the table and whether or not they’re in a room with a door that locks.
There was absolutely something Sam was going to tell him before Bucky got pretty fresh for an old man. Was it as interesting as Bucky arching up into the press of Sam’s teeth to his throat? Was it about Bucky making quick work of the towel around Sam’s waist before manhandling him onto the bed with an unnecessary but hot show of super soldier strength?
“What occurred to me,” Sam says, attempting to grasp back onto the thread of conversation as Bucky finally kicks his way out of his jeans and settles between Sam’s legs, kissing his thighs, “is that you like it when I help heal you up.”
“Mm-hmm,” Bucky says. He looks up at Sam, curling his hand around Sam’s cock like a challenge, like he knows how easy it is to distract him. He is correct. Sam’s been half hard since Bucky clinked their beer bottles together on the dock, stood up, and suggested they head to bed with a dweeby-but-charming meaningful eyebrow raise. “I like all the things you do to me. I like all the things I can do to you. With you. I think we really have something here. Do you wanna go steady?” He strokes Sam nice and easy, a casual fondle because he’s a real fucking tease when he decides to be.
“Shut up,” Sam says. Though it took awhile for the kissing to happen - like, an embarrassing amount of time, in retrospect - Sam’s pretty sure they’ve been going steady since Bucky met his family and settled in like he’d been there all along. “Come here,” he adds.
Bucky moves up with a grin and a little prowl, hands braced on the bed as he leans in and meets Sam in a kiss. He lowers himself carefully, all restraint when he wants to be, settling over Sam without putting his full weight behind it so their bodies only touch where Bucky lets them touch. Sam goes with it for a moment, content to let Bucky take what he wants until their cocks slide against each other, Bucky’s leaving a wet little smear of pre-come under Sam’s navel.
Sam abruptly needs more, want slamming into him with an unexpected ferocity that has him arching up into Bucky, their bodies colliding and making Bucky gasp against his mouth. Sam takes advantage of his surprise, rolling them over, curving his hand around the back of Bucky’s head to protect him from the impact of - well, just the pillow, but it lets him control it too when he kisses Bucky again on his pretty mouth, when he lowers himself down onto Bucky to feel as much of him as he can.
Bucky’s a picture under him, every time; Sam’s favorite view is Bucky kissed breathless like this, cheeks flushed and lips bitten red, ready for Sam to have him. “It does feel good,” Bucky volunteers, his eyes lidded like he’s already half-wrecked, just waiting to be taken all the way there. He reaches up, touches Sam’s face as if he’s grateful to be able to do it, and Sam leans into the touch. “When I’m healing. It always did, feeling the pain become something else. But when it’s you doing it, holding me together, fuck, Sam. It’s like there’s nothing else, just your hands on me. Taking care of me.”
The flush on his cheeks has traveled down to his throat, his chest: no longer just desire but a blush. Bucky’s vulnerability hits Sam harder than a kick off a Helicarrier, Bucky opening himself up like this. “I got you,” Sam says, wild with the thrill of it, kissing Bucky’s cheek, his mouth, his forehead like a benediction.
“It’s like all I can do is be yours.” Bucky looks up at Sam, his eyes blue-grey like a storm’s inside them. “I just wanna be yours,” he finishes, quiet between breaths harsh with need.
Sam never thought of himself as one to be on some possessive shit but holy fuck, holy fuck. Trust Bucky to turn Sam’s light inquiry into his possible healing kink into a freight train of feelings. “You are, Buck,” Sam tells him, trying not to get choked up about it. He’s suddenly deeply grateful to have been left with Bucky in Steve Rogers’ Home for Abandoned Sidekicks, grateful that Steve didn’t listen to him before they took down SHIELD. Bucky’s his partner, his best friend. Bucky’s the love of his life. “You are,” he says again, hauling Bucky close, taking kiss after kiss, “you’re mine,” he murmurs, touching every inch of Bucky that he can, happy to claim him.
“God,” Bucky says, sounding as overwhelmed as Sam feels. “I really need you to fuck me right now. Please,” he adds, like this’ll be a night Sam makes him beg for it - always fun, but tough to pull off when Sam needs him just as badly, which is most of the time.
“Anything,” is all Sam can say. It’s a real physical effort for him to even tear himself away far enough to grab the lube from the bedside table, but he manages. Bucky’s shifted over by the time Sam’s back in place, on his front beneath Sam, his legs spread and ass up. Mine, Sam thinks.
“Wanted it like this earlier,” Bucky mumbles into the pillow. Sam strokes down his back, kisses his shoulder as he lets his cock rest between the cheeks of Bucky’s ass, thrusts a bit just to feel the slide of it over Bucky’s needy little hole. “Wanted you to just bend me over the bathroom sink, god.” Sam gets a few fingers wet, rubs over Bucky’s hole, teasing him as much as he can stand it before sinking a finger into him. Bucky’s tight but eager, already forcing himself back onto it like Sam can’t get inside him fast enough. “Wanted it the first time too,” Bucky admits.
“Yeah?” Sam says, encouraging, granting Bucky a little more stretch, two fingers stroking inside him as best he can with Bucky working his ass back onto them as much as he is, trying to get even more.
“That motel room, after I got clawed to hell,” Bucky says, his eyes slipping shut as he rests his cheek on his metal arm, letting Sam see him. “I wanted you so bad, I had for so long. Your hands on me, it felt so fucking good. I thought you wouldn’t want to touch me anymore, after you saw it. But then you did, and I just wanted you even more.” He reaches down, hips shifting further back to drive Sam’s fingers deeper, grasping his cock and stroking like it’s not the first time he’s touched himself thinking about it.
“I was trying very hard to remain professional,” Sam admits, staring down at Bucky writhing beneath him, three of his fingers buried in him as deep as they can go. Thank fuck he got over that. Sam truly had a habit of dating coworkers, a habit he was trying to get out of until Bucky kissed him and he realized maybe one last time would be fine. “I didn’t want to hurt you.”
“You can,” Bucky gasps, and Sam’s heart skips a beat, his cock twitching in his free hand at the need in Bucky’s voice, the desperation. “Hurt me, fuck me, heal me. Whatever you want, I can take it. I’m yours to take, do it hard.”
Sam swears and takes his fingers out quick enough to make Bucky whimper. He lets his cock drag over Bucky’s hole once just to watch, to feel it, then pushes in, not as slow as he usually would, not taking care to let Bucky adjust - given permission, he’s as hot for it as Bucky is, can’t help but grab him and pull him back, his hips smacking into Bucky’s ass as he splits Bucky open.
The broken noise Bucky makes underneath him does things to Sam that he’s going to have to think more about later, spurs him on to nudge Bucky’s legs further apart, strained enough that it might hurt someone else but it just makes Bucky raise his ass higher, shoving himself back onto Sam’s cock.
Sam leans in close, then closer until he’s got Bucky pinned under him, fucking him hard and deep, each thrust rough enough to drag more helpless little sounds from Bucky’s throat. They have to be quiet, here, and Sam spares a moment to appreciate that at least at Bucky’s apartment he can really get Bucky moaning for him, though what they really need to do is get themselves a place on the water with no neighbors.
Sam’s so glad he’s working out enough these days to have really built up some stamina. He drapes himself over Bucky’s shoulders, pounds into the tight heat of him, going at him hard enough that he might actually need another shower after this if he can untangle himself from Bucky’s usual insistent vibranium-armed post-sex cuddles.
Bucky’s keeping up a low litany of words half smothered in the pillow, curses and pleas and Sam’s name, his hand working under them as he gets closer to coming. It’s music to Sam, something he could listen to all day, Bucky coming undone for him.
Sam wants it then, urgently, braces himself as he fucks Bucky full. “Mine,” he says, low into Bucky’s ear; it makes Bucky cry out, hoarse and wrecked, clenching down so hard as he comes that Sam can’t help but follow him over the edge, coming hot and sudden deep inside him. It feels like it lasts forever, like he’ll never stop filling Bucky up. Sam could not have predicted that the best sex of his life would take place in his forties but he is loving it.
“Oh my god,” Bucky says finally, after Sam’s been laying there still atop him for an indeterminate amount of time. Could have been a few minutes. Could have been years. With all the strength left in him, Sam rolls off of Bucky and onto his back, letting his right hand fall to land and rest on Bucky’s shoulder. “I love you. I know we’ve said that before and that you’re aware, but I love you.”
“Love you too,” Sam says, looking over at him with a tiny smile, about all he can manage this exhausted. Bucky shuffles over, looping an arm around Sam and slinging a leg over his hip, kissing Sam’s shoulder before settling in with a pleased sigh. There goes that shower. Love is a trap.
Sam’s grateful to be caught in it.
-
Their next job goes wrong. Sam’s first clue to that end is that he’s waking up in a dusty warehouse, where he’s pretty sure he didn’t mean to fall asleep. Also, his arm hurts very, very badly. He tries to raise his head from where it’s lying on what feels like a leather jacket, but he’s stopped by a familiar metal hand on his chest, gently pressing him back down.
“Medevac is coming,” Bucky says, appearing in Sam’s line of sight, slightly blurry because Sam's vision is swimming a little. “You got cut and passed out. The guy with the big knife did it. I killed him.”
“Oh, great,” Sam says. When he focuses, he can see that Bucky is wearing just his tac vest with nothing underneath. It’s weirdly sexy. Sam would very much like to pass back out. “You lost your shirt.”
“I wrapped your arm with it,” Bucky says, which explains the pressure around Sam’s forearm which he can now see is wrapped with strips of black t-shirt. It’s soft, Sam can tell that somewhere under the pain. Sam’s glad he invested in some nice soft shirts for Bucky. It doesn’t feel like the cut hit anything vital, he probably just lost a little more blood than he can usually spare. “Hey, stay awake okay? We’ll be out of here soon.”
“The fight,” Sam says, pushing through the feeling of vagueness that indicates he probably also managed to get a concussion. “Did we win?”
“I killed everybody,” Bucky says. He doesn’t look sorry about it. “So yes.”
Sam hears a helicopter in the distance, getting closer. That’s good. “Thanks for fixing me up,” he says.
“I always will,” Bucky says. With help on the way, Bucky visibly lets himself break a little, his hands wrapped around Sam’s, holding tight. “You know that, right? I’ll take care of you too, however I can. I love you. You’re mine.”
“I know,” Sam tells him. “Buck, of course I know.”
“And we should move in together. It’s stupid that we haven’t yet.” The helicopter lands somewhere outside, and Bucky turns to yell, “In here!” through the open door. “We can get a place near Sarah’s. And we should get a cat, I know you like cats.”
“I do like cats,” Sam says, smiling up at him. The pain is sharper, which means he probably won’t pass out soon, which is great news. But also, ow.
“And I’ll take some first aid courses, learn as much as I can,” Bucky says, fast like the boots on the ground outside have come to cut off his romantic monologue. “Anything you want.”
“Just want you, Buck,” Sam says, soft as hell for his sincere-ass boyfriend with his bruised, dusty face. “And maybe some stitches.”
“I will learn to sew,” Bucky pledges.
There’s a rush of activity, Sam hauled up between Bucky and Torres, who listens to Bucky explain first Sam’s injuries and then, with mild alarm, how exactly the insurgents who attacked them got so busted up.
“Wounds, your costume, your shirts,” Bucky says, low in his ear as they guide him to the helicopter. It is almost definitely an attempt to distract Sam from the pain, and it's working, Sam managing to smile at Bucky pausing being the strong silent staring type to be a chatterbox for Sam’s sake. “I’ll stitch up anything.”
They pass by the big knife guy sprawled out on the ground looking unsurprisingly like he got on the wrong side of a super soldier’s temper and Torres mutters, “Geez, I’m glad Sergeant Barnes is on our side.”
“Me too, man,” Sam says to him as they climb into the helicopter, Bucky making sure to sit as close to Sam as he can, still shamelessly holding Sam’s hand. “Me too.”