Chapter Text
Bucky comes to sit next to him after he’s rescued from the Raft. Says, “Hey.”
Sam’s got his mannerisms down to a tee, says, just hitting this side of friendly: “Hey man, heard they’re sending you to Wakanda to get fixed up. Apparently it’s much more than just goats and sheep herders there.” Sam’s not particularly surprised; T’challa’s tech is so advanced it can only come from a society to match.
“Yeah.” Bucky’s smile is a little woeful. “They promised to help. It’s better than the alternative, anyway.” He nods at Sam’s neck, the bruise around his throat. “Did I hurt you?”
“Been hit harder.” Not meaning it that way, but Bucky flinches. Sam pretends he doesn’t notice, pretends he could be talking about anything else. “Avengers get hit a lot.”
“I guess.”
Sam really just wants to be left alone, to wrap his head around how he's a fucking war criminal now, on the run. Can he call his family? How long will this last? He suppresses a sigh instead, says: “I’ll be fine. Worry about fixing yourself up. Wasn’t you, anyway."
"No, but that's no excuse."
"I kinda think it's about the only acceptable excuse, isn't it?"
Bucky shakes his head, then says: "Thanks for sticking up for me, it can't have been easy, considering."
They're comrades-in-arms, in a way, now. Sam is determined to hold tight to everything, swallow everything. He’ll maintain it till his grave, if only Bucky will play along. If he could convince Bucky to play along.
"It wasn't just for you. And you're Steve's friend. I trust him."
Bucky's silent for a while, and Sam thinks it's over, but then he says, soft: "What happened between us, when you came looking for me."
Sam keeps his expression perfectly calm. He only has one shot at this. “Yeah, you gave me some kind of a chase. Steve was pretty disappointed.”
“You didn’t tell him,” Bucky says, and sounds relieved.
“Well, you wouldn’t come in, and I didn’t see any point in telling him, not when you weren’t ready.”
"But I -" Bucky says, all the world like he’s steeling himself. “I hurt you,” and he’s sitting up straight on the seat, horror and disgust rising on his face. “The things I did.” He looks as if he’s about to cry. A memory hits Sam - his blood, the scent hot in the air, drops gleaming dark red against a silver arm - and he shoves it aside, the way he's done these past couple of years. It's different though, with Bucky sitting next to him.
Sam takes a moment, then says, "Hey, man, you must be remembering it way worse than it was.” Rolling his eyes like Bucky's being overly dramatic. "It wasn’t that big a deal, please. Mostly my pride was hurt."
Bucky frowns at him, unconvinced. “But I hurt you.”
“Yeah, sure, you kinda fucked me up a little. Wasn't a big deal, I did keep chasing after you.” Sam waits for Bucky to attempt to articulate himself. Knows he can’t. How do you put words to what went down between them?
Sam knows if he says anything, tries to persuade Bucky that what happened wasn’t that bad, the jig’s up. Raises his brow in confusion instead. He can do this, yeah. Has years of practice convincing people far less screwed in the head than Bucky that everything's fine. Sam’s fine. What happened between them? Nothing, that's what.
Bucky searches his face for a long while before the tension eases, and he nods. “My brain was really messed up at the time,” he says, as if trying to console himself.
Sam gives Bucky a friendly pat on the thigh, says, “Still is, but you’re gonna get all the help you need, okay,” before standing, going to the front of the jet to talk to Nat. Relief flooding through him, that at least the conversation's over. They'll drop Bucky off at Wakanda and Sam will never have to see him again.
He turns around briefly and Bucky has his eyes closed, face completely expressionless. Sam’s not sure he bought it, but in the end the only thing that really matters is they never ever talk about it.
Bury it, until it dies.
*
Sam draws imaginary lines, when this first starts. Barnes - Bucky, Steve calls him. With such fondness. Bucky.
Bucky grabs him as Sam walks into an alley after him, one hand gripping his shoulder and the other one pressed against the base of his spine. Both fucking hurt, but it's just pain; Sam can take it.
Sam tries to hold on to friendliness, says, "Hey, you remember me, right? I'm that guy you threw off a bridge. Sam, Sam Wilson. But I'm also Steve's friend. I want to help."
All Bucky does in response is shake him like a rag-doll, and then spin him around. Their bodies are pressed together, and that's a hard-on, unmistakable, pressed against Sam's thigh. "Bucky-"
"Shut up," Bucky says, shaking Sam again, like he could break him. Sam wants to fight, but he's not here to fight. In any case he's sure he'll lose.
Another shake, and Sam vision goes black briefly, as he's slammed against hard brick and the wind is knocked out of him. "Stop it," Sam says. "Hey, man. I just want to talk."
"You shouldn't be here," Bucky says. "Go home. Just fucking go home, and leave me alone. Please. And my name's not Bucky."
"Listen, just listen-"
And then metal fingers around his throat, squeezing. "Don't make me hurt you," Bucky says, fingers slowly tightening, and before Sam passes out he thinks: This isn't him being hurt?
But. Lines. This is fine, he can handle a little violence, for sure.
And Bucky being hard, that's not going anywhere, for sure.
*
The next time he sees Bucky it’s in a restaurant in Lisbon. Well. Restaurant is stretching it a bit. It’s a place to eat, that’s all. Sam takes a seat across from the man and he starts to rise from his seat in alarm. Sam holds his hands up in a gesture of peace. “Hey, I just wanna talk. I’m Sam, by the way.”
Bucky sits down after a moment, when Sam thinks he’s going to bolt. “I know who you are,” he says.
“You do?”
“You told me the last time we met. In Braga.”
“Right,” Sam says. Good. He remembers. What else does he remember, Sam wonders. "So you know my name. What should I call you?"
Blank stare.
Sam doesn’t wanna push it. Nods and asks, polite: “What’s good here?”
“Nothing,” Bucky says, and there’s a small smile playing across his face. “But it’s food.”
Sam orders something, and it arrives pretty quick. Bucky’s right: it’s not good, but it’s food. Sam’s eaten worse. Though not much worse. "Beer any good," Sam asks.
"I didn't order any beer." Bucky scowls. “It has no effect on me. You’re really fucking annoying.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Good looks make up for it though.”
Bucky’s scowl only deepens, for all the world as if he’s going to reach out and slam Sam’s head into the table. If they were alone he probably would have already.
Then he blinks, glares at Sam as if he doesn't get who he is, or why he's there. Another blink, and he rises silently from his seat. Walks out, as if Sam's not even there. Sam thinks of following him for a moment, but decides against it. Sits and eat his food despite its mediocrity, and of course Bucky left without paying. Sam clamps down on irritation, orders a couple of beers before he finishes. It's not good beer, either, but at least with a couple of bottles down his throat the food is marginally more tolerable. Marginally.
*
Some encounters go better than others. Mostly, nothing he says gets through. Bucky reacts with anger, reacts with rage, anguish, fear, disgust. Face twisting sometimes, as if he's in pain, even if Sam’s just speaking to him. Sam stops calling him by his name, stops mentioning Steve.
It doesn’t make a difference.
Bucky reacts with violence, and at some point Sam just starts to accept it. Anticipate it, even.
Responds with as much kindness as he can spare. Even as what he can spare gets less and less with each passing day, each fruitless encounter. It’s just that little bit frustrating, that’s all.
*
Sometimes though, Bucky's lucid, even pleasant. Obviously Bucky's cognizant enough to be able to survive being on the run, clothing and feeding himself. He's not stealing, as far as Sam can tell, so he somehow has access to funds, knows how to navigate payment for goods or services provided. On some fundamental level, he's functional.
He even starts to consistently recognize Sam whenever Sam shows up, even though he's always gone the next day after Sam makes his presence known, and Sam never knows if he's going to respond with violence, or tolerance.
Sam buys him coffee as they walk down the winding streets of Bilbao, or past the canal in Castile, or just down an ordinary plaza in Toledo, makes casual conversation that's ignored, usually, or he's given grunts in response. Sam also makes jokes, and occasionally the corners of Bucky's mouth quirk up, as if he wants to smile, or laugh.
Once, Sam goes into an ice cream parlor in Madrid that sells popsicles to get something for himself, and no more than a few minutes later Bucky steps in after him. Sam manages to hide his surprise, says, "I'm getting the peanut butter dipped in chocolate. What would you like?"
Bucky says, "Same, I guess." Pauses, and screws his face up slightly. "No chocolate, or peanut butter."
"Right, something completely different then." Sam smiles at the proprietor, patiently waiting. "There's coconut. Or tequila."
"Tequila," Bucky says, after a beat.
They eat the ice cream outside, after Sam pays, reluctantly, for the both of them. Steve's extended him a budget - Sam doesn't ask where the money's coming from, just that it's adequate - but it's not exhaustive, and also not the first time Bucky's made him pay. Still it's not like the ice cream, or the coffee, costs a lot.
Bucky makes a face when he bites into the popsicle, says, "Cold," as if it's a surprise.
"Yeah, ice cream tends to be that," Sam replies. "Hence the 'ice' bit. Hey, you remember your favorite flavor as a kid?"
"I," Bucky says. Stops, for a moment, and Sam thinks he's lost him. But then he says, as if he's discovering the memory for the first time: "Yeah, wasn't this. Strawberry, that was what I liked."
"They have that - you can get it if you want to after you finish this. Don't expect me to pay though."
But Bucky only bites down on his lower lip. Allows the stick to slip between his fingers, where it lands with an icy splat on the ground. Shoots a spiteful glare at Sam as if it’s Sam’s fault, somehow. “You should fucking go home,” he says. “I don’t want you here.”
He grabs Sam's wrist, twists so that Sam's own ice cream falls to the ground, then releases him abruptly and walks away, leaving Sam, arm aching, to clean up after him. Well, great. Again.
Still, taken together, all of it is better than nothing. It gives Sam hope. It makes him think: he can still do this, he can still get Bucky to come in, with some effort.
Sam pushes to the back of his head the nagging thought: that Bucky had found him first, and Sam hadn't known he was being followed. It must have been a coincidence, that's all.
*
Except that it's not. Bucky starts to find Sam about as often as Sam finds Bucky, sometimes almost as soon as Sam gets off the train in whichever city or town Bucky's chosen next. Their encounters are still frustratingly circular, still with the same odds of ending with a friendly parting of the ways or violence or Bucky simply just running off. The only consistency is that Bucky now always greets him with a genial nod, even if that geniality doesn't always last.
Sam's unease deepens, even though it shouldn't. It should be a good thing, that Bucky's now seeking him out. They're connecting, at least on some level. And Sam sees glimmers of an actual human being sometimes; Bucky mentioning things he remembers from his childhood, or places. Not Steve, nothing particularly important. But they add up, and they matter. The more lucid he is, the better odds Sam has of bringing him home.
But it bothers him. A sign of a fixation isn’t great. Maybe another approach is needed for now. Maybe he should just leave Bucky alone for the next few days, let him be. So that’s what he does, stays in his room and orders room service, since now Bucky seems able to seek him out wherever he happens to be outside. Bucky moves on after three days, and Sam considers just leaving him be, but that feels like quitting. A day later, Sam packs his things and quietly follows.
*
On an empty street corner in Valencia, as Sam’s trying to Google Map directions to his hotel, Bucky moves to stand next to Sam. “Haven’t seen you,” he says, and sounds faintly accusatory. His face is blank but there’s tension crawling beneath it that sends Sam’s hackles rising. A moment later it’s gone, as Bucky lights a cigarette.
“Nice city,” Sam says. “Love the water.”
Bucky makes a face, but doesn’t say anything. They watch a man across the street walk his dog as Bucky smokes. Sam nods at it, even though he quit years ago. Silently, Bucky passes it to him.
Sam inhales deeply, savors its guilty familiarity. "How you liking Spain," Sam asks. "I love it, although my Spanish is a little rusty, I gotta say. I do better at the Germanic languages. But really nice weather. Great food."
Bucky tilts his head, looks up at Sam from under long lashes. Sam tries to take another drag of the cigarette, but when he puts it to his mouth Bucky grabs his wrist and takes it from him, says, irritably, "That's mine."
"Not big on sharing huh. That's alright, I get it. Just pay for your own coffee next time, maybe." Bucky's fingers are still wrapped around his wrist. Sam tries to pull away, but Bucky holds tight, drags Sam toward him. The kiss is the last thing Sam's expecting. It's brutal, Bucky biting down on Sam's lip until he draws blood.
They’re both breathing heavily when Bucky breaks away, because Sam can’t, not with Bucky's hands on his face, holding him still. The cigarette's on the ground, Sam notices distantly, still burning.
Sam puts his fingers to his mouth in surprise, says, "What the fuck, man. That's out of line."
Bucky's lips are stained red with Sam's blood, mouth open. All the world like a startled deer. Does he know what he just did? Sam takes a wary step back. Then another. Bucky doesn't move, just tracks his movements with a sharp, accessing gaze. Sam says: “I’m just gonna leave, okay? I’ll see you soon.” He almost makes it. Thinks he does, until Bucky’s arm reaches out and snags Sam by the collar. “Let me go, hey?”
But there’s an odd, distant expression on Bucky’s face. Sam tries to pull away, but he can’t, and a moment later Bucky transfers his hand to the back of Sam’s neck, pressing down to where it hurts. So strong it’s barely human at all. “Bucky,” Sam begins, rising alarm making him forget for the briefest of moments.
“Don’t call me that,” Bucky says, and Sam’s immediately sorry, but it’s too late, as Bucky's expression shifts to rage. Sam glances around, but no-one's within earshot, and within two seconds Bucky's shoved him back and propelled him into a nearby alley. Even with his wings and weapons, Bucky had still taken him down, pretty easily. He doesn’t really stand a chance here, but he decides to give it his best shot anyway.
Bucky grabs his wrist again as he reaches for his Sig. Disarms him easily, shoves him down to his knees as he tucks Sam’s gun into the back of his jeans. Sam tries to get up, but Bucky puts an end to that with a painful twist to his wrist.
Okay, fine. But surely Bucky can be reasoned with. “Hey man, let’s just talk about this -" The words die on his lips as Bucky takes out his cock, and Sam just blinks, too surprised to do anything but stare.
How do you go from having a conversation with a man to having him shove you in an alley and expecting you to - what? Blow him?
Seriously?
“Hey, let’s just talk, okay?” Sam tries again. The backhand sends him onto his hands, and yeah, the guy isn't playing here. It's outrageous, completely insane. Sam's not about to go down on him. It's ridiculous.
Especially the part where Bucky doesn't seem to think Sam has a choice in the matter.
Sam tries for the knife he has strapped to his boot, but Bucky grabs and tosses it casually into the corner. Hand on Sam's wrist again, twisting painfully, dragging him back up to his knees. "Are you fucking crazy?" Sam asks, furious now. "Get your hands off me. I fucking mean it."
A hand on Sam's jaw and then metal fingers are in Sam's mouth, forcing it open. Sam tries to bite shut, finds he can't; the metal makes his mouth water, and before he can even orient himself to react, Bucky's shoving his cock, hard, down Sam's throat.
Sam can't fucking breathe, choking and hitting at Bucky with his free hand. Bucky shoves out a little, giving him that little bit of space to inhale before thrusting again. It's not in any way consistent, so Sam never knows when he's going to get air into his lungs again. They're burning, and then they're not, for only a moment.
Tears are wetting his face and Sam feels drool on his chin, but at some point he realizes he's actually doing it, he's taking it. Like a champ, says a voice in his head, and it sounds like Steve. Sam would laugh, if he wasn't currently choking on a brainwashed super soldier's cock. It's fine though, Sam's just riding it now, almost enjoying the sensation of his vision whiting out and then coming back in every time he's allowed to breathe.
Until Bucky abruptly pulls out all the way, comes on Sam's face. Some of it gets caught in Sam's mouth and he swallows as he's gasping in air, then sputters. Sam tries to regulate his breathing, wipes at the come on his mouth with the back of his hand in disgust.
What the fuck just happened? Sam tries to get a sense of his bearings, but everything seems very tenuous and slippery. He focuses on his breath - yeah, that’s it, that helps.
Bucky steps back then and tucks himself in. He tilts his head at Sam curiously, as if wondering who he is, and how he came here to begin with.
"Fuck," Sam says, wincing at how hoarse his voice sounds. He doesn't want to move; thinks he can't. Shock - is that it? He's in shock. He should move.
Bucky stalks forward, hauls Sam to his feet by his throat, then slams him into a wall. Sam tries to kick out, but Bucky jams a knee between his legs. The hand that's not currently choking Sam reaches for his fly and undoes it efficiently. He takes out Sam's cock, and the way he looks down at it with near clinical disinterest as he jerks Sam off is almost funny, if anything was funny right now.
Sam can't stop looking at him, even as he tries his best not to make any noise, tries not to tilt his hips up into Bucky's hand. Somehow, he's better looking up close. Lips pink and soft, lashes thickly framing his eyes. As if aware he's being watched, Bucky lifts his head. Stares at Sam for a bit, as Sam bites down on his lower lip.
Sam can't prevent his body's reactions, knows Bucky's going to make him come. Can feel it begin to build. He'll be damned if he's going to show any kind of outward pleasure, but he can't help himself when Bucky leans forward and kisses him again, mostly teeth.
Sam whimpers against his mouth. Comes. Bucky releases his grip on him a moment later and Sam falls to the ground, boneless and gasping. Hating Bucky. Hating himself. "Get the fuck away from me, Bucky," Sam says as Bucky advances, all the world like he wants to offer Sam a hand to pull him to his feet.
"I told you not to call me that," Bucky says. He stops, blinks in confusion, before his face turns calm and blank.
And then he's gone.
Sam tries to stand, but can only manage to lean back on his heels. Touches his face, and his fingers come away wet and red. Great. Just, fucking great.
*
Sam returns to his hotel room and packs, considers telling Steve he's coming home. Steve had made clear this whole thing is off the books, not Avengers approved, for reasons Sam only understood once he'd finished reading Bucky's file. Sam's mostly on his own here. Are you sure you want to do this, Sam? It may not be safe, Steve had said, in that way that he had that meant he would absolutely understand if Sam said no - which meant Sam absolutely did not want to say no.
Who wants to let down Captain America? Certainly not Sam.
Sam thinks of that alley weeks ago: Bucky's hand around his throat and his cock hard against his thigh. Sam's been nothing but friendly, offered nothing more than his company. But memorizing Bucky's file and his own training doesn't mean that Sam's getting it right at all; there's no playbook on what HYDRA did to Bucky and Sam's going by ear, mostly. He should have paid more attention to the signs, set clearer boundaries. Been more careful with how he interacted with the man. Not pushed him so much. His name. Yeah, maybe this is on Sam, then.
In the bathroom Sam brushes his teeth vigorously, gargles with mouthwash before he examines his face. It’s not great, but the bruises, his split lip, will heal in a few. He'll be fine. He just won’t allow it to happen again. Can't allow it to happen again.
Sam's throat fucking hurts.
*
The next morning, as Sam's leaving his hotel, still halfway deciding on buying a ticket home, Bucky's standing outside, a cup of coffee in his hands. He offers it to Sam in silence, his face passive and calm.
Sam says, "Thanks," and winces at how hoarse he sounds. Has to clamp down on annoyance: Bucky's the last person he wants to see right now. Maybe tomorrow Sam wants to see his face. Maybe never. Maybe Sam should just fucking call it, right now. But Bucky jerks his head toward the main street, and after a moment Sam nods.
They walk, and it's fine. Sam remains silent, stays a careful distance from the man and drinks his coffee. They end up walking down a pristine, if crowded beach. Bucky looks deeply out of place as he gingerly stands on the sand while Sam takes off his sandals to wet his feet, finds himself grinning a little. “No beach clothes, huh? Get some shorts at least, man.”
Bucky looks annoyed. Casts his gaze about, says, “Can we go?”
Sam wants to tell Bucky he’ll leave when he damn well feels like it, but any conversation with the man is a small victory, and they’re in public. Bucky can’t do anything here. He probes at the cut on his lip, feels the strength of Bucky’s teeth, biting down on him. Has to close his eyes briefly as he swallows against the pain of his raw throat. “Let’s just stay here for a bit, come on. The weather’s nice.” Sam sits down on the beach, knees up, starts brushing sand off his feet. After a moment, Bucky follows him down.
"This is okay," Bucky says, after a while, and sounds surprised. "I like the water, I think. Not the ice."
"Yeah, I hate snow too," Sam says, snorting slightly.
"Winter reminds me of," Bucky doesn't finish his thought, just clenches his gloved metal fist, then lapses back into silence.
They return back to Sam's hotel after a while, after Bucky starts sighing in consternation and Sam decides he's tired anyway. As they walk in almost companionable silence, Bucky says, "Think I'll leave Spain. Germany, maybe." There’s a fond expression on his face as he shoots a look at Sam that sends a frond of anxiety up his spine, chased by something he can’t quite identify.
"Birthplace of the Nazis," Sam says, unable to help himself. "Fitting."
Bucky's gaze sharpens, but only for a moment. "I'll be seeing you, Sam."
It's the first time Bucky's said his name, and Sam blinks after him as Bucky walks away, retreating into the distance.
Sam packs his bag, buys a train ticket to Germany. Thinks: he’ll just give it one last shot; if it doesn’t work out, he’ll go home.
*
Nothing happens in Dortmund, or in Düsseldorf. Bucky searches Sam out, and they go for idle walks, share coffee and beer. Sam just talks, and Bucky actually interacts, smiling sometimes as if Sam amuses him. There’s something about the way the edges of his lips curve up, sharp, like the pointed end of a knife. Sam tries not to think about the taste of Bucky’s mouth on his, his cock down his throat. Mostly he succeeds.
Bucky smokes like a chimney; offers his cigarette to Sam the second time they meet, but Sam declines politely, says, “I’m good, thanks,” even though he kind of wants one. Bucky ponders for a bit, then takes out the pack and offers it to him.
Sam takes it after a moment, and they smoke in silence while they walk. Bucky does the same thing the next time, and it becomes a habit. Sam only ever smoked in Afghanistan, and, well. This isn’t a war, but maybe it kind of feels like one.
*
In Dresden Sam gets thoroughly lost, Google Maps completely fubared, until Bucky shows up.
Tells Sam, as he leads him to the monument he’s been looking for without Sam saying a damn thing about where he’s headed: “Allies bombed this place heavily during the war. It was rebuilt a bit weird.”
“Yeah, makes sense,” Sam says, a bit testy. “How’d you know what I was looking for?”
No response.
“Hey, man,” Sam says, again. Trying for friendly this time. Offering him his patented, meant to disarm, smile, “You stalking me or something?”
Too late, Sam realizes they’re alone, as Bucky suddenly stops, face turning mutinous. His eyes narrow before he grabs Sam by the wrist, tugs him behind an old brick monument. “Hey, stop,” Sam begins, but he’s ignored. In an instant, he’s on his knees, peering up at Bucky’s furious face. There’s joy in there too, as he grinds down on Sam’s wrist and Sam can’t suppress a bark of pain. He doesn’t even know what had set Bucky off. The question? What the fuck, seriously.
He thinks, as Bucky reaches for his fly, he’ll fucking bite down, that’s what he’ll do. But then Bucky releases his wrist to wrap metal fingers around Sam’s throat and says, very calm: “Do it, and I’ll snap your neck.”
Sam believes him. But Bucky seems to have other plans besides shoving his cock in Sam’s face. He drags Sam up with the same hand, and Sam thinks maybe he's come to his senses, right up to the time when he spins Sam around and presses him against the back wall of the monument. Tugs his pants down and rams into him, just like that. Sam’s not prepped, not ready, and he thinks he screams, thinks he loses consciousness for a bit.
Returns, convinced this is a bad dream, but no, Bucky’s still got his cock in him, his breath warm against the nape of Sam’s neck. “Hey,” Sam says, raising his hand, slamming his palm desperately against the brick. “Get away from me. Get your hands off me. Get off me.”
Bucky ignores him. Keeps on fucking Sam as he tries not to scream again from how much it hurts. And then Bucky wraps gloved fingers around Sam's cock, and the pain shifts, mingles with an almost unbearable heat that coils up Sam's spine as Bucky jerks him off. Finally Bucky grunts, shudders. Squeezes Sam's dick, and then Sam's coming too, hard and splattering the brick in front of him. A soft exhale, and then there’s only Bucky's harsh breathing before he pulls out of Sam and steps back.
Sam can’t stand anymore, falls to his knees. Everything fucking hurts; he thinks Bucky maybe cracked a rib or something, just from pressing against him so hard.
There’s a loose brick next to the wall.
Blindly, Sam reaches out. Right now, he maybe just wants to inflict some violence. Manages to wrap his fingers around it before a boot lands on his hand. Just casual, but Sam can’t move. Feels his bones grind down, the edge of the brick cutting into his skin.
Sam doesn’t want to look at the guy, focuses on not showing any outward signs of pain, not crying out. Maybe if he can reach for his gun - Bucky had taken it and tossed it casually aside at some point. It's too far away though, even if he could bring himself to move, considering how much it'll cost. Dimly, he notices that there's blood flowing out from under his trapped palm, staining the brick.
Bucky lifts his heel after a while, and a moment later he’s crouching next to Sam, taking Sam’s wrist into his hand.
Sam turns his head, his humiliation sharpening to rage, but whatever he’s about to spit out dies at the look on Bucky’s face. It’s soft and almost innocent, like a child’s. He reaches out and pats Sam tentatively on his head, says: “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
What the fuck?
Sam doesn’t want to deal with this. Wants to sit in his shame, Bucky’s come and his own blood between his legs, nurse his bleeding hand, and be left the fuck alone. But he can do that anywhere, and away from here seems like a brilliant idea right about now. On a hunch, Sam pulls his hand out of Bucky’s grasp and shuffles back, says, soft, “I’m going to leave now.”
Small nod. Bucky glances around like he’s not entirely sure where he is - like there's nobody fucking home at all - and Sam takes his chance to stand. Wonders briefly if he can get Bucky to come with him in this state, but there’s no telling how long it’ll last, and honestly Sam just wants to leave; doesn’t think he can bear a second more of this. Pulls his pants back up and backs away, slow. Leaves Bucky just crouching there, staring into space. Lost, like he looks in that picture Sam has of him in the cryo-chamber.
Completely and utterly lost.
*
It’s done. Sam’s going to go home. In his hotel room, he takes a long, hot shower, grimacing as blood-tinged water pools beneath his feet, and then packs hastily. Steve’s messaged him to ask him on a status report; Sam has a group chat with both him and Romanoff, but she’s usually quiet.
Sam’s not replied yet, but now just sends a short message saying: Coming back. Explain when there.
Except sitting on the bed, his gun held loosely in his hand, he can’t bring himself to move. He can’t push what happened out of his head. Bucky’s hand on the back of his neck. Bucky’s cock, like iron in him. Bucky making him come harder than he’s ever had in his life.
Everything hurts; his entire body is throbbing, and he wants nothing more than to bury himself under the covers and never emerge again. He gives in to the impulse in the end, lies down and falls into a dead sleep within minutes. Wakes up disoriented and it’s dark outside. Sam panics for a wild moment before he recognizes where he is and takes several breaths until he calms down.
There’s a message on his phone. From Steve. It says: I’ll be waiting. Thanks, Sam.
It’s the thanks that does it, really. Thanks. For what, precisely? All Sam seems to have done is make things worse. That’s blindingly clear, now.
Clearly Steve should have sent someone else; someone more qualified than Sam to deal with whatever the hell’s going on with Bucky.
Sam should have done that after the first time it happened, and he hadn't. He’d just kept on following Bucky, thought that if he could find the key to not triggering whatever madness had gripped him that time, the same thing wouldn’t happen again, right until it did. Now it's like he's complicit in whatever's going on.
It’s not even Bucky's fault, mostly - is it Bucky's fault? Is he even self-aware? How do you scan for that? What’s driving the man? - and that’s the worst part, really. Sam desperately wants someone to blame here, but the only person he can settle on is his own self.
Another message, and surprisingly it’s from Romanoff: Everything good?
It’s only two words, but Sam feels like she’s asking him a deliberately loaded question. Like she knows something’s up. It wouldn’t surprise him; she’s very, very good at reading people, even through short, ambiguous texts apparently.
Sam sends a short thumbs up in reply. Just that.
The cut on his hand has reopened, probably from Sam clenching his fists so hard. He peers at it. No stitches, but it does need to be properly cleaned and bandaged. It’s dark but shops should still be open; Sam contemplates calling room service, asking for what he needs, but it feels too much like he’s hiding.
Of course, Bucky’s lurking outside. Did the guy just put himself in reserve mode while waiting for Sam to emerge from the hotel? Sam stops about six feet away from him, says: “What the fuck do you want?” Knowing he shouldn't, but fuck if he doesn't give a shit right now about being nice.
“How’s your hand?” He nods at the handkerchief Sam's wrapped around it, now stained red.
“None of your fucking business,” Sam says.
In response, Bucky grabs Sam's wrist and undoes the handkerchief, clucks in disapproval at the seeping wound. "It's easier if you don't struggle," he says. "Just let it happen."
"What," Sam says, and fury rises in him. "Do you want me to just take-" he can't say it out loud, snaps instead, "Fuck you, Bucky." Bucky's eyes flash danger, but Sam doesn't care. Regrets it a moment later, when the grip on his wrist tightens to where tears come to his eyes. There are people around them, but no one even notices. Fair enough, considering how Bucky's grip absolutely reads casual.
Maybe Sam should yell for help or something, but he's pretty sure this will play out the same here as it usually does back home, so he doesn't.
"Let me go," Sam continues, as Bucky starts dragging him away to the alley next to the hotel. "Hey look, you win okay? I'm going home. I'm going away like you asked, you don't have to do this anymore."
At that, Bucky stops, turns slowly to face Sam. "No," he says, soft.
"What do you mean no," Sam says, confused. "It's what you wanted, isn't it?"
Bucky shakes his head. "No. I want you to stay now. You don't get to leave."
What the hell. Bucky resumes dragging him into the alley, pushes him up against a wall. It's dark, even with the streetlight, and he can barely see Bucky’s face as he presses up against Sam, kissing him hard until his lip splits opens again. Sam shoves at him and Bucky punches him in the side of his ribs. The pain is blinding, and Bucky has to hold him up while he tries to regulate his breath to manage it until it recedes. His hand on Sam's crotch, undoing his fly to wrap a hand around his cock.
Bucky jerks Sam off with jarring, brutal efficiency, makes him come embarrassingly fast, pleasure and humiliation rising in him as he arches up into the touch despite himself, the pain from the punch only heightening it. Bucky releases him, steps back, sending Sam to his hands and knees on jellied legs. Takes out his own cock and jacks himself off, coming almost immediately, mostly on Sam’s head, splattering him with warmth.
Sam stares at Bucky's boots. They're the same boots that kicked him off the helicarrier. Those bruises lasted for days; somehow, Sam knows the bruises from this will last much longer. It pisses him off. It all fucking pisses him off. Sam twists his head to stare up at an impassive face, dimly lit by the streetlight, staring calmly down at Sam. He just wants Bucky to react to something. Says: “You fucking happy now? You fucking done? Steve would be so proud of you right now."
"Steve," Bucky says, and his face tightens, briefly. He looks shocked for a moment, eyes surveying the scene as if he's just come across it. Sam wonders what he's seeing. If he even sees Sam at all. Then he says, as if Sam's not spoken at all: "I'm going to leave now. I'll see you soon, okay?" Reaches out to pet Sam on the head before he walks off, all the world as if nothing had happened, nothing at all.
*
Sam buys a plane ticket to D.C. anyway. If he manages to make it home he can deal with everything else later; and on the off-chance Bucky follows him, well. At least he can get Steve to call in some kind of tac team, or Steve himself, to come in and take Bucky in. He’ll also have home advantage; here he’s alone and completely outmatched.
He almost makes it to the boarding gate. Blames himself, in the end, for wandering too close to what looks like a small security office. The sudden grip on his bruised wrist is starting to feel familiar as he's yanked in, propelled into a wall. Sam can’t be armed on the plane, but he tries to land a punch anyway, earns himself a slap and then a shove that knocks his breath out. Bucky takes his boarding pass, and then his passport.
Sam says, once he can breathe again, “Hey, give that back." Starts to actually freak out a little, because he needs the passport if he's ever going to go home. It's fine, it's fine, there’s an embassy here. He can get a replacement, not a big deal. If Bucky will let him. “Give it back.”
Bucky tucks both into his coat pocket. Says, a little vexed: "I told you I don’t want you to go anymore.”
"Yeah, and I told you I'm going home. So I'm going home. You're welcome to come along if you like. I can get you a ticket."
Bucky says, completely ignoring Sam's words: "You're not very good at chasing me, you know that. I watched you through my scope for weeks.” He puts an index finger in between Sam’s brows. “Single shot through the head, it would have been so easy.”
For some reason, this sets Sam off. He kicks violently at Bucky's shin, growling. Bucky winces, then punches Sam in the belly a second later, spinning him around to face the wall. His voice is still amused though, affectionate and warm, as Sam tries to steady himself, the pain worse because Bucky had hit him over existing bruises. "Don't be mad, you caught me anyway." A kiss to the nape of Sam's neck.
"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Abruptly, Bucky releases him. Sam decides to just stay where he is, until Bucky sighs in some disappointment and turns him gently around. Looks thoughtful, before he lifts Sam up as Sam struggles against him, snapping, “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Bucky just tuts, sits him down on top of a waist-high cabinet. Sam kicks out as he covers Sam’s mouth with his hand, then tries to bite. Manages to grab hold of a fleshy part of Bucky’s hand, breaks the skin before Bucky’s other hand tightens around his throat, threatens to cut off air supply.
They stare at each other for a hot moment, until Bucky squeezes so tight Sam has no choice but to open his mouth, clutching uselessly at Bucky's wrist as he fights for air. Bucky stares at the neat row of bloody teeth marks in some amazement before clucking in disapproval. Leans forward and bites Sam on his jawline, close to where it meets his neck. Sam flails as pain blossoms, made worse by Bucky choking him. Finds himself on the edge of passing out, but a moment later Bucky loosens his grip and Sam can breathe again. Feels blood flowing down his neck.
Sam says, once he’s taken in a few grateful, painful, gulps of air: “You petty fucking bitch, Bucky.”
Bucky snarls, baring bloodstained teeth at Sam. Whatever, it’s his name, he best get used to it.
Sam tastes Bucky’s blood in his mouth and wants to spit on Bucky's face, but Bucky seems to be anticipating that and he readjusts his hold on Sam’s neck before he undoes Sam’s jeans, draws his cock out. He’s not even hard, but that's fixed in about three seconds, leading Bucky to nod in satisfaction as Sam’s body betrays him, again. It’s just physical, it’s meaningless. But telling Bucky that would probably be pointless, so he doesn’t.
"We’re you this fucked up before HYDRA got their hands on you, I wonder,” Sam says, because he just wants to go home, and now he’s completely enraged. Also his throat fucking hurts. “Steve thinks you're an angel of some sort, like you fucking fart sunshine, but if I could go back in time I bet your comrades would have some choice fucking tales about you, huh?"
"Your fear response is fascinating," Bucky replies, sliding his fingers up and down Sam's cock, slow.
"I'm not fucking afraid of you," Sam says, indignant.
"Maybe that's the problem. You should be. I wanted you to go away at first, but you wouldn't. I told you not to come after me.”
"I'm trying to go away now. You'd get what you wanted if you'd just let me get on that plane." He suppresses a moan as Bucky speeds up, then swipes a metal thumb across the head of his cock. "Fuck," he spits out, despite himself.
“You’re not leaving.” Bucky sounds as if it’s completely reasonable that Sam should stay here because Bucky wants it. Sam wants to kick him again, in his dumb face this time, but the guy’s got his hand on Sam’s cock here, and that’s about the only part of himself he’s not willing to risk getting bruised or broken.
“How long you think you can keep running? Someone will find you eventually.” HYDRA may be gone, but Sam doubts it’s dead. And the Winter Soldier is a deadly, efficient weapon. Ha - if only Sam had thought about that before getting on that first plane chasing after him, he might not be here right now, trying to keep it together while getting jerked off by said weapon. “What are you gonna do if they decide to get their pet assassin back?”
All Bucky does in response is lower his head, his mouth hot over Sam's cock. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, leans back against the wall. Bucky’s not particularly skilled at giving head, but Sam comes fast anyway, biting down on his lip so hard to keep from groaning his split lip reopens yet again. He’s always been loud in bed, and it's been remarked upon with fondness often enough; Sam just enjoys showing his appreciation of pleasure given, that’s all. But not here, not like this.
When Sam opens his eyes, Bucky’s staring at him. “Did you enjoy that?”
“What?” The question’s so out of left field Sam’s fully stunned, too flustered to immediately respond. But Bucky looks like he’s just waiting for a response, and finally Sam says: “If I say no will you stop this and let me go home?”
Bucky’s confused frown means he hadn’t fully considered the implications of his question. He goes still for a moment, circuits obviously frying, then takes Sam's passport out of his pocket and passes it to him wordlessly.
Not his boarding pass. Sam says, tired: “Thanks.”
"Munich,” Bucky says.
“What?”
“I’m going to Munich next. Don’t say I never did anything for you.” A kiss to Sam's forehead, and then he's gone.
*
Steve messages Sam to say: Hey, did you miss your flight?
Sam doesn't know how to respond: what’s there to say? I tried to get on the flight but your ex-boyfriend shoved me in an office and gave me a barely adequate blowjob and now I don’t think he’s gonna let me leave?
Maybe Sam should ask Steve to come to Germany; just tell him Bucky’s unstable and only Steve can get through to him. Sam doesn’t know if Steve can again, but it’ll be something at least. But Romanoff might come along, and she’s too good: one look at Sam and she’ll know. Sam doesn’t think he can handle that.
All this, and Bucky could still just disappear. He might also find out about it somehow and completely flip, slit Sam’s throat before Steve gets here, or kidnap him and put him in the trunk of a car to take him god-knows where. Bucky seems to know where Sam is at all times, unerringly.
The paranoia crawls up Sam’s neck, and he spends a good fifteen minutes rummaging through his small luggage searching for a tracker of some sort; of course he finds nothing, but he still feels like he’s being watched.
Sam feels trapped, here, now. Feels Bucky’s hands on his body, his imprint on his skin. He can’t shake it off, no matter how hard he tries.
And who knows, Steve may just confirm Sam’s worst suspicions: That Sam could have stopped it; done something different to stop it. Because Sam’s trained for stuff like this, and should have done better. How could Sam have failed so completely in handling the situation, from the start?
The reply he sends Steve in the end is short: Found another lead. Update you later.
Steve sends him another message, it says: Hey, take a rest if you need one. Maybe come home first, can always try to pick up the trail later.
Sam laughs at that for a bit, and then deletes the message without responding.
*
The next time he sees Bucky, he’s shoved into a bathroom stall in Munich, face pressed up against graffiti. He’d been avoiding Bucky for a few days, despite feeling compelled to follow him to the city, staying in his hotel nursing a mild cold, aching bruises and absolute misery. Of course this would happen five minutes after he steps out for some fresh air and maybe some beer.
One of the spray-painted lines on the bathroom tiles, scribbled in bright-red German, goes:
God sent us here to die
And that sounds about right, really.
Sam tries to fight when Bucky first grabs him, but it's useless.
And it’s the casualness with which Bucky disarms him, the way he takes away Sam’s gun to tuck into his jeans and deflects Sam’s attempts to defend himself with a knife effortlessly that gets to him, more than anything.
Reminds him of being a grunt in training, getting tossed to the ground by his CO who told him, and everyone else: “You’re young and you probably think you’re hot shit, I’m here to convince you that you’re absolutely not.”
It was humbling at the time, and it’s humbling now, years later, with Sam well-trained and experienced and still completely helpless against a man given super serum and brutally shaped by Nazis into a weapon.
Sam's hard as Bucky fucks into him, fingers gripped into his hips. It hurts, and it feels like blood on his skin; Sam glances down and yeah, it is, Bucky’s fingers making dark grooves in his flesh.
“Stop,” Sam says, for maybe the third time tonight. “Just stop.”
“Jerk yourself off,” Bucky commands.
“Fuck off,” Sam says. Bucky grabs Sam’s hand, puts it to his cock. Sam just leaves it there, then drops it when Bucky releases him.
Bucky huffs in annoyance and pulls out, spins Sam around and lifts him up, fucks into him again. Somehow this is worse, seeing Bucky’s face, brow furrowed in concentration. There’s an odd sort of innocence to it, which would be sweet if he wasn’t currently forcibly shoving his cock into Sam. Why is Bucky doing this? Sam has no fucking clue.
Bucky wraps his own hand around Sam’s cock now, and finally seems pleased. Keeps thrusting into him, and eventually, Sam starts to feel the orgasm build, overriding everything else. He comes hard and hot and desperate, shaking. Bucky follows suit, grunting slightly. Sets Sam down on the toilet seat after, surprisingly gentle.
Sam focuses on a cracked tile on the floor as the adrenaline winds down, unable to look at anything else as blood rushes through his ears. The world beyond this is hazy, inconsequential.
Until Bucky asks, snapping Sam abruptly out of it: “Why do you keep fighting?”
“What?”
“You can't win, but you keep fighting.” Bucky sounds confused, which isn’t anything new.
“Why, because you rolled over for HYDRA you think everyone’s the same," Sam says, pushed into annoyance because Bucky's forcing him to converse when he wants to do anything but. He's being cruel, and unfair; Sam probably knows better than Bucky himself does that what was done to him isn’t something you can resist, but right now words are the only weapons Bucky has left him with.
Bucky doesn’t react the way Sam expects. Instead he just tilts Sam’s head up with a metal index finger, says, soft: "I like this best about you.”
Sam slaps his arm away. “Fuck off, Bucky.”
A backhand, and Sam had been expecting it, really. Sam’s decided to stop caring about mentioning Bucky’s name. Or Steve’s. Or any of it. He doubts it makes a difference whether he does or not: Bucky will fuck him up anyway. At least like this Sam can anticipate it. The blow rocks Sam’s head to the side, and he thinks maybe Bucky’s broken him, somehow. Because the feeling of his skin cracking open at the impact feels like victory, more than anything else. “Asshole,” he says. “Why don’t you just let me go home?”
Bucky sighs and grabs Sam by the neck, fingers probing at his wounded cheek clinically with his other hand, and ow, ow, fuck him, seriously.
“This doesn’t need stitches. Good.” Bucky pauses. “And I told you, I like having you with me, now. It was boring, the past few days when you were sick.” Small frown, as if his own boredom perplexes him. “You were in Afghanistan, weren’t you?”
Sam ignores the question. Says instead, while trying to jerk his head away: “Maybe you should pick up a hobby or something if you’re bored. I heard knitting’s all the rage nowadays.” Bucky releases him, and Sam tries to stand, but Bucky’s in his way. “Would you fucking move.”
Bucky just pulls him to standing, sorts the two of them out neatly. Sam sways on his feet a little. Feels like he could throw up.
Someone comes into the bathroom, and they both shift to alertness. Sam decides to just lean against the stall as they wait for the guy to leave. It’s probably gross, but it feels too cool against his skin for him to care right now.
“You didn’t answer my question,” Bucky says, when they’re alone again.
“Yeah, I did a couple tours there. What of it? Don’t tell me, you were there too?”
“Standard assassination of high ranking military officer.” He speaks as if processing information from a computer in his head. “No mention of Samuel T. Wilson on record. But you were PJ. Superman training. Not as good as how the Russians train, but good enough. Too bad they didn’t give you the serum too, you might stand a chance against me.”
“I don’t want the fucking serum. And I’m not here to fight you. I never was.” It doesn't surprise him that Bucky has all this information on Sam. Only that he remembers it.
“Your family in Louisiana must miss you.”
“What?” Sam lifts his head in sudden alarm. Whatever the fuck kind of game Bucky's playing here, that’s between the two of them. “You leave them the fuck out of this. You go near them I’ll fucking kill you. You even think about them I’ll fucking kill you.”
Surprised, almost hurt blink. “I was just making conversation. They’re of no consequence. Why would I hurt them?”
“Making conversation? Is that where you think we’re at now? You drag me into places and threaten and fuck me and then we have post-coital conversations? Are we going to exchange friendship bracelets next? Because hard pass, thanks. And leave my family out of any of this. I'll end you.”
“Fine,” Bucky says, his face hardening, almost imperceptibly. “We don’t have to talk.” He wraps strong fingers around Sam’s wrist, yanks him close. Increasing pressure, and Bucky’s eyes are hungry, drinking Sam in as he winces despite himself, gasps despite himself.
“Get your fucking hands off me,” Sam says, knowing it’s hopeless.
Bucky releases him after a while, leaving Sam to rub at his wrist to try to get the ache out. Bucky seems to find satisfaction in that, nodding slightly in approval. Dick.
“Where you going next,” Sam says wearily, in the end, as Bucky seems content to just stand there, watching him silently. “So I don’t have to waste my time figuring it out.”
Bucky just pats him on the cheek. “What would be the fun in that if I let you follow me so easily?” Kisses him then, fucks his mouth thoroughly like he’s laying claim to it, to all of Sam, holding Sam’s chin with his hand so Sam can’t do anything but take it.
And then he’s gone, leaving Sam stunned and alone, as always.
*
In Afghanistan, Sam was the guy who kept on going with the odds stacked soundly against them, even when it was the smart, sometimes the only sane, play, to consider it a loss.
But he never fucking could, and back then it had cost him Riley, on a mission they should have called, but Sam had been determined not to lose that convoy. Lost his wingman instead, and had to live with his own complicity in the death of someone else.
And now, here he is, again, unable to do the smart thing and fold when he should have. Making it worse, not better.