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Sam doesn’t speak Bulgarian well enough to understand what the alpha is saying to him, but the man’s darkened pupils and leering grin give him a pretty good idea.
“I’m fine,” he says in English, trying to sidestep the guy. “Ne govorya Bŭlgarski. Sorry.”
The alpha, who’s a few inches shorter than him but almost twice as wide, blocks his path. Another man crosses the street to join him—also an alpha, Sam’s heightened sense of smell informs him immediately.
Shit. The knife he’d slipped from his boot to his sleeve the second he’d felt the stirrings of his heat presses cool against his wrist. The pistol concealed beneath his jacket offers a comforting weight.
But he’s still over a kilo away from the shitty weekly rental he’s crashing in. Steve had thought Bucky might be going after some gangs in the area with rumored HYDRA ties, and Sam had stupidly decided that he’d poke around at night, trying to see if he found anything to hint at Bucky’s presence.
If he used the weapons, he could probably get away. But how quickly would police respond? The thought of being jailed while going through a heat causes a sick dread to churn inside him.
“American?” says the first alpha. He says something to his friend in Bulgarian, and they both laugh.
“Yeah, that’s me,” Sam says evenly. Idiot American who apparently got sold sugar pills instead of suppressants.
It’s too dark for him to be able to see if the alley next to them is a dead end or not. Doesn’t really matter: he’s only been here for a day; he doesn’t know the rural town well enough for shortcuts.
He can make a dash for it. Cross the street, and then just bolt—but probably the alphas will take that as an invitation for a chase, and if they catch him it’s going to be his own fucking fault—
The second alpha steps closer. Sam automatically backs up.
“Pretty,” says the man. He reaches out a hand—not to grab Sam, but like he wants to cup his cheek or something which is just as bad, and Sam jerks backwards and lets the knife fall into his hand; he’ll flash it and hopefully they’ll leave him alone, and if not he’ll—
All at once, both men are jerked backed into the alley. Sam hears more than he sees their skulls cracking against the side of the building, followed by the sick wrenching pops of two arms being dislocated.
What the fuck.
He shoves the knife in his belt and yanks out his gun instead as the two men drop to the ground.
Their assailant takes a moment to kick them both in the nuts, one after the other. He says something in Bulgarian as he does. And that’s not a language that Sam has ever heard that voice speak before, but—
Even before he turns to face Sam, Sam knows.
“What the fuck,” he says as Bucky Barnes steps out of the alleyway.
His voice comes out thin and tight. The adrenaline, the rush of fear from being confronted, the heat licking inside him and making slick bead between his legs in spite of everything—it all combines in a nauseating rush. Sam stumbles against the side of the building, bracing himself against the stone. Too cold and too hot all at once in the still September night.
Sam raises the gun in warning. Bucky stops a couple of meters away.
He studies Sam for a moment, and then lifts his hands, as if they’re both pretending that Bucky couldn’t kill Sam without a single weapon.
“You’re in heat,” says Bucky.
Of all the ways Sam imagined them meeting—of all the things he thought the hopefully-former Winter Soldier might say to him—this somehow never crossed his mind.
“Yeah,” Sam says. “I noticed.”
Bucky nods. “Let me walk you back to your apartment. The locks on your doors are good. You should be safe there.”
What.
“The locks on my doors are—how do you know that?”
Bucky tilts his head and frowns a little. “It’s. Dangerous. For omegas to travel by themselves.”
“You know it’s not 1940, right? I’m not some swooning damsel who needs a big, strong alpha to protect him.”
The absurdity of the conversation, when he’s standing in an otherwise abandoned street with slick starting to coat his thighs and two men who approached him with what probably weren’t honorable intentions lying on the ground, isn’t lost on him.
It’s not lost on Bucky either. He glances over at the two moaning bodies, then back up at Sam.
“I had it taken care of,” Sam says, lifting the gun just a little.
“I know you did,” Bucky says. “But most of the places I go are dangerous. You shouldn’t follow. And since you do, I have to watch out for you. I don’t want any more blood on my hands.”
He looks back in the alley, and then adds, “Innocent blood, I mean.”
Sam takes a deep breath. His head pounds, he’s desperately thirsty, and he wants nothing more than to be back stateside, curled up in his own bed with a cold towel lying over his eyes and a fake knot filling his hole.
But he can’t have any of those things, because he’s a thrill-seeking dumbass who’s spent months chasing an ex-assassin, who this whole time was apparently watching out for him. In more than one way.
And if Bucky wanted to hurt him, he would have done it while Sam was still regaining his bearings, and easier to overpower. Probably.
Sam clicks the safety back on, holsters his gun, and starts walking. Bucky falls in line with him. Not touching, but close enough that anyone who might pass them would probably see them as a pair.
“For what it’s worth,” Bucky says after a moment, “I know you could have done in those two.”
“Thanks,” Sam mutters. He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, on the off chance that Bucky won’t notice they’re shaking.
“Really,” Bucky insists. “I know you can take care of yourself. I’ve seen you.”
“I also don’t need an alpha to stroke my ego.”
Bucky glances at him, and in the light of a passing streetlamp, Sam thinks he sees his lip quirk up. “Sorry.”
Sam huffs and shakes his head. The reality of the situation is starting to crash into him now that the adrenaline rush has died down.
He’s… in heat. His first heat in almost four years, because that fucking pharmacy had stiffed him on his suppressants. And also, he found the Winter Soldier. Who happens to be an alpha. Which Sam knew intellectually and also from their brief previous encounters, but which is a fact that really hits different with the dude right next to him.
Bucky smells exactly like what he would expect from an ex-assassin alpha who’s been running around the globe without ever bothering to take a shower. Heady sweat, a touch of blood that’s hopefully from the concussions he just gave those two alphas, something vaguely smoky.
His personally scent, though, is basically absent. Probably wearing some heavy-duty blockers to make it harder for HYDRA to track him.
Still, what Sam can smell isn’t entirely unappealing. And the fact that he could even think that means that his heat is definitely hitting hard now.
“I’m sorry I tried to kill you before,” says Bucky.
Sam closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath, and counts to ten.
“For a guy that’s spent months running away from me, you sure are talkative.”
“Are you going to tell Steve about this?”
Sam tries to get a read on Bucky’s face, but it’s as neutral as his voice, at least from what he can see.
“I dunno. I mean—yeah. Eventually. He’s my friend; I’m not going to lie to him. But I’m not gonna strongarm you into coming back to America with me, though. And I mean. I kinda have some things to take care of before he and I talk next.”
As if on some fucked-up cue of fate, a hot pulse of arousal jolts through his lower half. Sam grits his teeth and doesn’t miss a step. He hopes against all odds that Bucky’s supersoldier sense of smell somehow doesn’t pick up on the fresh slick dripping down his legs.
Bucky doesn’t comment—not on Sam’s almost-definitely perceivable need to get fucked, nor on his answer about Steve. He just lets out a quiet hum, then glares at a passerby across the street who was scenting the air and glancing over at them.
“Do you not want me to tell Steve?”
Bucky’s silence hangs heavy and deliberate in the space between them. Finally, he says, “I don’t know.”
And there’s a whole baggage claim’s worth of unpacking to do in those three words. Which Sam absolutely doesn’t have the time or energy for right now. So he just nods, and focuses on putting one foot in front of the other until they’re standing outside the shitty little apartment that a nice old woman rents out by the week.
“You don’t have to worry about anything,” Bucky says. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you.”
The lighting is a bit better out here. Bucky really does look unshowered, his greasy hair longer than it was back in DC. His cheeks seems hollower too, and—
“Why is there ash on your face?”
Bucky reaches up and runs his fingers over his forehead, raising an eyebrow when they come away dirty. Like he thought Sam was lying or something.
“I burned down a mobster’s safehouse. A couple of miles away. He was a good friend of HYDRA’s.”
“Was he inside?”
“What was left of him.”
Sam decides not to ask. “What did you mean, you’ll make sure no one bothers me?”
Bucky tilts his head to the side, shifts the bag he’s carrying. “I told you. You’re an omega, you’re alone, you’re in heat. And we’re in a town where at least half the alphas are probably HYDRA loyalists. Or at least, they were willing to look the other way. I know you can handle yourself, but it’s not safe.”
“I get that. But what are you going to do? Pee outside my door to scare off anyone who comes sniffing around?”
Bucky’s head-tilt steepens. “Do you think that would work?”
Jesus Christ. Sam wraps his arms around his midsection, too hot and too desperate to get something filling his hole to keep having this conversation.
“I got a couch. Just come inside.”
That snaps Bucky’s head back up, his eyes widening. “You want an alpha you just met to come inside?’
“I want you to come inside my apartment, not me.”
Sam’s mother always told him his tongue was two steps ahead of his brain. He desperately hopes that she’s not watching him from Heaven right now.
Bucky stares at him, and then—
He laughs.
It’s a rough, rusty bark that cuts off almost as soon as it’s out in the air. Something like wonder passes across Bucky’s face. And even through the haze of his heat, Sam finds it in him to wonder: how long has it been since he laughed at all?
“Okay,” says Bucky. “What the hell. You promise you’re not gonna call the Avengers to swoop in and take me away?”
Sam opens up the door of the building and starts up the narrow staircase. Admittedly, he does want to keep Bucky close so that he can have more time to figure out how and when to tell Steve about this. He always figured that if he actually caught Bucky, it would be because Bucky wanted to come back with him.
But he’s a man of his word. And even if he wasn’t, he’s still not some sort of fucking bounty hunter.
“Man, I don’t want any of the Avengers seeing me like this. Trust me.”
“Guess I gotta.”
They stop outside Sam’s door, the one with the sturdy locks. As Sam slides the key in, Bucky adds, “You really shouldn’t trust me, though. It’s dangerous.”
“You’ve been following me following you for months. If you had bad intentions, why wait ‘til now?”
There’s an obvious answer, of course, in the form of the slick that’s started to leak out his briefs and trail down his leg in a damp, itchy trail.
Sam knows he’s taking a risk, inviting Bucky in like this. But he’s always been a bit of a risk-taker, and if the reward is that he can get Bucky to at least talk to Steve and tell him he’s okay, then it’ll have been worth it.
Plus, he’s also always trusted his gut. And while his gut is mostly just telling him that he needs to shove his fingers up his ass right this second, it’s also saying that bringing Bucky in is the right thing to do.
“Besides. Steve always said you were the most honorable omega’s man in Brooklyn. I don’t think he’d have kept being friends with you if you were the type to take advantage.”
“Steve doesn’t know all the things I’ve done,” Bucky mutters as they step inside.
Sam flips on the light with one hand, shuts the door and locks it with the other. “Are you trying to make me regret this?”
“No, I mean—I’d never do anything like that. Never.” Bucky shakes his head, his hair swinging in a greasy curtain around his face. “But you gotta be careful—”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m a helpless little omega who can’t take care of myself. I get it. And you smell like you haven’t showered since Washington. The bathroom’s over there.”
“I just mean—”
“You staying here is contingent on you actually using soap. Otherwise, I’m throwing you out and taking my chances on my own.”
Bucky huffs and shakes his head, but he actually makes his way towards the bathroom. He pauses at the door.
“I know you aren’t helpless. But like I said. You’re here ‘cause of me. And if you get hurt, it’ll be because of me too. Even if it’s not at my hand.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it. Anyway, my landlord stocked the place, so there’s white people shampoo in there too. You need it way more than I do.”
“Are you always like this, or is it just the heat?”
“Guess you gotta stick around and find out.”
He thinks Bucky smiles at that, though he closes the door too quickly for him to be sure.
“I’m gonna be hanging out in my bedroom,” Sam calls after him. “Do us both a favor and don’t bother me ‘til I come out.”
He takes a minute to grab some supplies. Spare towels to line the bed, though he knows his scent is probably going to cling to the mattress no matter how many precautions he takes. He fills both his water bottles to the brim, and pours a couple of cups of water for good measure. His emergency protein bars are already in the go bag underneath his bed.
Last, he empties the ice cube tray into a spare dishtowel. The cubes won’t last that long, but he’ll enjoy them in the mean time.
By the time he actually gets into his room and shuts and locks the door behind him, the entire area below his navel is burning with an intensity much greater than he remembers from his previous heats. It’s been… must be three, going on four years since went through this last, when he was switching up his suppressants. He tends to go hot but quick. Hopes that’s still the case.
His clothes are lying on the floor without him consciously intending to undress, the spare towels spread across the mattress. Sam bends down and digs through his backpack until his hand lands on the small zippered pouch.
Lying on his back in bed, he draws his knees up and finally, finally shoves two fingers inside his hole. His muscles clench around them, his body trying to milk the intrusion. He gives it a moment, chest heaving.
His dick is pressed flush against his abdomen; he traces his thumb up its length and shudders. Overstimulated just from chafing against his underwear.
His body doesn’t relax, exactly, but his hole stops twitching quite so much, and he takes that as a sign that he’s free to start fucking his fingers in and out. The scent of his slick hangs thick in the air. He tries to spread it evenly over his walls, though there isn’t much point: there’s so much of it that it doesn’t really matter.
The heat in his belly threatens to spill over as he works a third finger in. A few more thrusts, and—
No. Sam pulls his hand away, wiping the excess slick off against his thigh. He desperately wants to come, but he needs a knot. He’s more than capable of having multiple orgasms, he knows this for a fact, but the subsequent ones are never quite as satisfying as the first.
The dildo that he pulls from the pouch isn’t much to look at, silicone with a vague attempt at realistic texture. But it’s a satisfying seven-and-a-half inches, with a thick girth.
He doesn’t bother with finesse. The bulbous head catches on his rim at first, his hand shaking as a dash of fire flares from his navel, down through his channel. Fresh slick pulses out as he pushes the fake cock inside, a moan slipping out his lips. Somewhere in the back of his head, he hopes Bucky isn’t listening; mostly, he’s too preoccupied with how good, how right it feels to finally be filled.
The feeling only lasts for as long as it takes Sam to lie back against his pillows and close his eyes. The moment he tries to breathe, his body demands more. And who is he to deny himself anything?
The angle is inelegant, but it gets the job done. The job, in this case, being to fuck his hole with the fake cock, driving it in and out and ignoring the strain on his wrist.
Like with his fingers, it’s enough until it isn’t. The urge to come burns hot, prickling inside and outside. He thrusts the cock in one last time and squeezes the base, pumping until the knot fills up and stretches his hole, and then—
He cries out as the fires inside him boil over, his hole spasming, cock jerking as his release splashes across his belly. He wraps one hand around it and jerks up and down, too dry, should’ve grabbed the lube, but it gets the job done, another orgasm rippling through him, more of an aftershock than anything.
Sam falls back against his pillows, chest heaving. His mouth feels dry, throat kind of sore, like maybe he just made a whole lot of noise that he wasn’t entirely conscious of. But there’s a knot bulging just inside his hole, and really, isn’t that all that matters?
His heat simmers down, at least for the moment. He has the presence of mind to reach over and grab a handful of the ice cubes he’d pilfered from the kitchen. He lines them up between his abs, placing two right below his nipples.
The chill that sinks in makes him shudder, almost as good as another orgasm. Sam wraps the rest of the ice cubes in the dishtowel and lays it over his eyes. It isn’t long at all before he’s asleep.
Sam blinks awake, automatically reaching down to deflate the knot and pull the dildo from his ass. It makes an ugly squelching noise that has him grimacing as it comes out.
The dishtowel had slid from his eyes at one point and now presses damply against his cheek, doubtlessly leaving a gross wet patch on the sheets. Maybe he should care, but his head feels hazy, almost feverish. The muscles of his stretched hole pulse. He’s not meant to be empty right now.
He pushes away the biological imperative long enough to down one of the cups of water. Then it’s back on the bed. This time, he lies on his side, legs curled up as he pushes the cock in and out. His first orgasm rolls through him before he can even think to inflate the knot. The second one, once he’s as filled as he properly can be right now, leaves something in him unsatisfied.
Sam presses his cheek to the thin pillow, drawing up his legs and then wincing as the movement shifts his cock against the towels he’d put down to try and keep his slick from seeping into the mattress. He knows what his body wants, of course. Not just a knot, but an alpha. Or an alpha’s come, at least.
But it’s not getting that. Even though he does keep Plan B stashed in his bag, just in case, there’s no alpha—
Okay, there’s no alpha except for the one who’s… sitting on the couch? At the tiny table, watching TV from a screen that looked like it remembered the Soviet Union?
His head feels clearer now that he’s come again, the first wave of his head ebbing some. And with that clarity, he finally has more space in his mind to ask himself what the fuck was he thinking, inviting a virtual stranger into his space while he was almost helpless with heat.
Christ. There’s a gun within reach, but this still could’ve gone—could still turn out—very badly.
It’s this concern that keeps him from falling back asleep. He waits a half hour or so, until he thinks his body is as satisfied as it’s going to get, and then works the dildo out.
After a minute of acclimating to the emptiness, Sam stands on shaky legs. He downs another glass of water, then pulls on his pants and a loose shirt. He fastens his ankle holster before he warily steps out.
The apartment is a tiny thing: a minuscule den with the couch and TV, the kitchen, and then the bathroom where his knees bump the shower curtain while he sits on the toilet. So of course, he spots Bucky sitting on the green couch the moment he steps out.
Bucky glances over. His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t say anything besides a quiet, “Hey.”
“Hey,” Sam responds. He blinks. Unlike in the bedroom, the curtains aren’t drawn all the way, so he can see how sunlight spills in. Just a bit before noon, if he had to guess. He must’ve really slept after that first time.
“You need anything?” asks Bucky. He doesn’t move an inch.
“Bathroom,” Sam says. Which is right next to the bedroom, so he slips inside before Bucky can answer.
He relaxes more once there’s a lock between them again. Which—maybe isn’t fair to Bucky, who hasn’t done anything, but this is one of those scenarios where Sam thinks he’s perfectly justified prioritizing his feelings over fairness.
After relieving himself, he figures that he might as well shower while his head is clear. The cold water is a blessing against his skin, especially when he bends over and lets it flow against the inflamed rim of his hole. That almost has him moaning again, but he’s got enough presence of mind to not want to do that while Bucky is sitting right outside.
As he shuts off the water, he notices that the shampoo that had come with the apartment has actually been used, its level a little lower. Huh. Apparently Bucky had taken his words to heart.
Sam dries off, then balls the towel and washcloth up and shoves them in his hamper, a mostly-pointless gesture, considering that Bucky is probably intimately familiar with his scent by now. Then he pads out of the bathroom. Still hesitant, but the shower had helped clear his mind further, and—well, Bucky could’ve very easily taken advantage of him before. He knows the whole quote about how past performance is not indicative of future results, but…
His gut the night before had said to trust Bucky. And as Sam steps away from the bathroom, Bucky still sitting on the couch, he sees—
A towel? He stops in front of the door to his bedroom where the bundle rests on the floor.
“A cold compress,” Bucky says. “I refilled your ice tray.”
“Oh,” Sam says. He blinks, then bends down and picks it up. The dampening cloth is cool against his hands, the cubes inside clicking together. “Thanks?”
Bucky just nods.
“Okay,” says Sam. “I’m gonna get back to—”
He jerks his thumb over to the bedroom.
Bucky nods again, glancing away. He’s… blushing? Maybe? Sam can’t tell for sure, and part of him wants to make a comment about it, because what the fuck has his life turned into, that the freaky masked dude he fought in the streets of DC is sitting at his kitchen table with his cheeks turning pink at the thought of all the sex Sam is having with himself.
But the fact is that his body is telling him that he really should get back to the masturbating. Like, now. So instead of saying anything, he just slips inside the bedroom and shuts the door behind him.
With his hands still clean from the shower, Sam takes the time to send a quick text to Steve. Not saying anything about what he’s actually been up to, or the company he’s been keeping, of course. Just something to let him know that he’s alive.
Back on his slick-stained bed, he reaches into the towel and pulls out an ice cube. The chill of the shower hadn’t lasted long at all, his skin starting to flush, albeit for reasons very different than Bucky’s.
Nope. Not thinking about Bucky.
Sam reaches down and presses the ice cube between his legs. The sensation of freezing cold against the soft skin makes him shudder for a moment before he acclimates enough to relax, the cold a welcome relief against the fire burning beneath his surface.
He keeps skimming the ice around his hole, teasing it around the rim, occasionally dipping in, until it’s reduced to nothing but a puddle and a chill left lingering on the pads of his fingers. He can feel the slick beading between his channel again and so, with a weary sigh, he picks up his dildo and gets back to business.
The cold compress he drapes just below his ribs, so that it’s kinda like the Wall from Game of Thrones, an icy barrier designed to keep his heat from creeping upwards and invading his head.
The fact that that comparison occurs to him at all means that it probably isn’t working very well. Still, it’s a nice, cold weight, and the fact that it feels good is all that really matters.
Most of the day slips away like that, in a mess of slick and come. He loses track sometime after the fifth orgasm. Sometimes, he falls asleep with the fake knot still stuck in his ass, his body too exhausted from the rush of hormones to cling to wakefulness even without an alpha pressed up against his back. Other times, he stays awake at least long enough to sip some water and scarf down something from his quickly dwindling stash of protein bars.
It’s past midnight by the time he stumbles out of his room next, groggy and so desperate to take a leak that he doesn’t even scope out whether or not Bucky is still in the darkened apartment.
But, when Sam finishes his shower, he realizes that he must be. Or else someone has broken into his apartment to… cook dinner?
Nope. When Sam steps out of the bathroom, the mouthwatering scent of charring meat flooding his heat-heightened senses, it’s Bucky he sees at the oven.
Bucky glances up at him as he flips the eggs on the stovetop. “Hey. You up for eating something?”
For once, the hollow inside of him isn’t demanding a knot to fill it up. “I—yeah. Thanks, man.”
Bucky waves his answer away. “This’ll be done in a second.”
Sam crosses through the tiny living room and into the kitchen. “Are those the sausages I bought in the oven?”
“Kebapche,” Bucky replies. “Yeah, I’m heating them up. And I got some toast in the oven too, to go with the eggs. Carbs and protein. It’ll help.”
Bucky has long eyelashes, Sam notes. His hair is much less greasy.
“Thanks. You had anything to eat?”
Bucky opens up the oven and retrieves a pan neatly lined with rows of meat and bread. He uses his metal hand to get it out.
“I got some stuff in my go-bag. It’s not all guns and grenades in there.”
He deftly stacks the food onto a plate, sliding the eggs atop the toast before passing it over to Sam.
Sam pushes it back. “You’ve only had, what, beef jerky and granola bars? Eat with me.”
Bucky frowns, sliding the plate back across the counter. “I’m not stealing your food.”
Sam rolls his eyes, refusing to let himself thing about the absurdity of the conversation. “You’re my guest. You can have some food.”
Bucky’s face settles into a scowl, his jaw tightening. “I’m not a guest, I’m—”
“Yeah, yeah, you’re here to scare away all the other alphas who want a piece of my poor, helpless ass. You’re in my house—my shitty rental apartment, anyway—that makes you my guest. And I gotta feed my guests. You can take the man outta the South, but you can’t take the southern laws of hospitality out of the man.”
Bucky stares at him, then huffs out a sigh and grabs a second plate. He slides off one piece of toast and one sausage, which almost definitely isn’t enough, if his appetite is anything like Steve’s. But Sam lets it go.
Fat bursts from the crisp meat as he bites down into it, melting against his tongue. He leans against the counter, eyes closed, savoring the taste of rich meat and garlic.
“I gotta say, the best thing about chasing your ass around Europe has been trying all the food. I had these cheese dumplings with plum jam in Chișinău that I haven’t stopped thinking about.”
Bucky snorts, finishing his mouthful of toast and egg before he answers. “Glad you’re getting something out of this shitty vacation.”
“Lot of new stamps on my passport too. Some nice souvenirs to send back to my sister.”
“At least one of us is enjoying it.”
Sam almost says something like, If you’re not enjoying it, you can come back stateside with me, but he swallows back the words at the last minute. He’s got probably another day left of his heat, if he’s lucky—it’s only been a day since it started, but his were always on the shorter side of normal, and the couple of times he missed a dose of suppressants were no exception. His head should be clearer for that conversation.
Instead, he asks, “So. What’ve you been doing with yourself while I’ve been… y’know?”
“Sitting on your couch, mostly. Not much on TV. Started reading a couple of books, but I’m still looking for something interesting.”
Sam nods. There were a handful of paperbacks lying around the apartment, none of them in languages in which he was literate.
“And I patrolled around the place a couple of times. No one’s tried to bother you. So far.”
“…Thanks, I think. Am I gonna get a call from my landlady about the weird alpha who’s been skulking around?”
“This town mostly minds its own business, as long as you got money to grease some palms. That’s one of the reasons HYDRA set up shop nearby. And I haven’t been ‘skulking.’”
Bucky has finished eating by now. Sam leans in to slide another sausage onto his plate. That earns him a glare, which he responds to with his widest, most innocent-looking eyes.
The brief moment of closeness confirms to him what he’d thought: Bucky still has scent blockers on. He supposes that it’s a kind gesture, even though he’s pretty sure he’s got enough self-control to not yank down his pants at the first whiff of alpha.
“I do appreciate this,” Sam says. “You keeping an eye out. It’s unnecessary, but. And also the cooking.”
Bucky just shrugs. “You got other things on your mind. Besides, I almost killed you.”
The words make Sam raise his eyebrows. He mulls them over as he finishes his last slice of toast.
“That what this is about? You being here is what, some kinda penance for what happened in DC?”
“Jesus, no. I didn’t mean it like that. Just—” Bucky shrugs again. “I already told you, I’m here because I want to make sure you’re okay, because I’m the reason you’re here. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Still doesn’t explain the cooking.”
“It’s been over a day since you last ate. It’s the nice thing to do.”
Sam makes the executive decision to accept the answer, mainly because he’s not sure what other answer he’s looking for. Also because he can feel his heat starting to lick at his insides again, and he isn’t wearing any sort of pads or absorbent briefs, and he doesn’t want to start dripping on the kitchen floor. Especially not in front of Bucky.
“Well. Like I said, I appreciate it.”
Bucky just nods. He reaches out a hand towards Sam’s empty plate, and Sam lets him take it.
“I gotta go…”
“Yeah,” says Bucky, and then, “Oh. Wait.”
He opens the freezer and pulls out a now-full ice cube tray. “We’re out of dish towels, but I filled this up for you. If you wanna stick ‘em in the towels I gave you earlier and leave the tray outside your door, I’ll get it ready for next time.”
Sam takes it from him, the plastic chilly against his fingers. “Thanks. Like I said. You need something to eat, just take it, all right? Least I can do.”
Bucky nods once more.
Sam returns to the dark cave of his bedroom, the scent of his slick a thick, palpable presence. He does as Bucky suggested, replacing the ice cubes in the towel with this fresh batch and leaving the tray outside.
The hours that follow are much the same as the ones that preceded them. His body demands to be filled, and he sates the craving as best he can with silicone and, once, with his fist and a fuckload of lube (although honestly, probably not as much lube as he would’ve thought—his muscles are as exhausted as the rest of him, and they yield easily to the presence of four fingers. It takes a bit more effort to press his thumb in, but once he does, his palm slips inside, and he’s coming hard enough to see stars. It’s hell on his wrist, keeping his fist inside while his passage reflexively tightens around it, trying to milk it dry. But once his hand slips out and he’s cleaned it as best he can on the spare towels lining the bed, he slips into a sleep deep enough that he wakes up feeling clearheaded, even as his hole aches to be full once more.)
He stumbles out a few more times to use the restroom, his head not quite as clear as it was in his previous forays outside. Bucky always leaves more ice by his door, along with glasses of water and small plates filled with thick slices of bread, salty slabs of goat cheese, and chunks of spicy dried meat. He never approaches Sam directly, and their conversation is mainly limited to quiet “Heys.”
Approximately 56 hours after his heat began, Sam wakes up and just—knows. It’s done.
He lies flat on the definitely-ruined mattress for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. Despite repeated showers, his skin is still sticky with slick and dried sweat. The room smells like a porn set; he hopes the other apartments have their windows closed, because he can’t in good conscience leave without airing the place out.
He sits up and grimaces, not enough endorphins flowing through his blood to distract him from the pain in his ass. There was probably something biological about the way that he always forgot how awful the ends of heats were. Hormone-induced amnesia that made it easier to remember the ecstasy of multiple orgasms than the ache of having something shoved inside him too many times to count.
He dresses himself and heads to the door, shaking out his limbs in an attempt to work the stiffness out.
As Sam heads outside, he calls, “I’m decent—oh.”
Bucky isn’t there.
It takes him only a moment to be certain, given how small the place is. He isn’t sitting at the table or lying on the couch, and the bathroom is dark and empty. Sam doesn’t see his bag anywhere.
He swallows, not sure why he’s feeling so disappointed. Of course Bucky could smell when his heat had broken, and of course he wouldn’t stay around longer than he felt obligated to. Sam couldn’t blame him for that, not really.
By the time Sam has finished with his shower, he’s no closer to thinking of a good way to explain this all to Steve. Yeah, I made contact. No, I didn’t tell you right away because I was too busy jerking off. No, he’s not here with me now—I don’t know where he went—
He steps out of the bathroom distracted, still running through scenarios in his head.
“Hey,” says Bucky.
Sam jumps. “Jesus!”
“Sorry,” says Bucky, not sounding it. “I, uh, I could tell when your heat was over. So when I heard you waking up, I figured I’d go get breakfast.”
He nods at the paper bags on the table. “There’s a bakery not too far from here.”
Sam walks up to the table and peers into the bags. The first contains some sort of phyllo pastries, the next, some sort of fried dough with little containers of jam, and the third, some sort of small meat pies.
“Thanks.”
He sits at the table, carefully not wincing at the press of wood against his overtaxed hole. He pulls out one of the phyllo pastries first, admiring the honey-gold top and the flaky layers. “These look good. You going to eat?”
“Sure.”
Bucky sits across from him and takes out one of the pies. They make quick work of the food as the morning light gradually brightens around them.
By the time they’re on the last two pieces of fried dough spread with blackberry jam, Sam figures he can no longer avoid the conversation.
“So,” he says, forcing himself to look at Bucky.
“So,” Bucky agrees. There’s a spot of powdered sugar at the corner of his lip.
He’s not throwing Sam any bones. Asshole.
“So what do you want to do now?”
Bucky looks away, cramming the last of his bread in his mouth and taking an obnoxiously long time to chew it all. Sam suspects it’s on purpose.
“HYDRA is still out there,” he says finally. “And as long as they are, I have to take them down. I know—believe me, I know I’ve done some awful shit. And at the end of all this, I need to give myself over to them—the American government, the UN, Interpol, whoever—to hang. But I can’t do that while I’ve still got a mission.”
“Jesus,” Sam says. “Okay, so first off, there’s not going to be any hanging. Or guillotines, or shooting squads, or whatever. No executions, is what I’m saying.”
Bucky smirks, bleak and humorless. “I know what I deserve.”
“…okay, so putting that aside for a minute: there aren’t going to be any executions because Steve won’t let there be. And don’t even try to argue with me on this; you know I’m right.”
Sam doesn’t say, And I’d be right along with him. It feels true. It also feels like too much, right now.
“Steve…”
Bucky trails off, staring down at the crumbs on his plate. Sam waits.
“Steve doesn’t know me,” Bucky says finally. “He knows who I was. I don’t…”
He laughs once, sharp and bitter. Sam remembers the first night, how he’d laughed at Sam’s stupid comment about coming inside. There’s a stark difference in the two sounds.
“I don’t think he’d want to know me. If he knew everything I did.”
“Come on, you gotta know that’s bullshit.” Sam leans in, continuing before Bucky can argue. “I’m sure you know about all the data Nat dumped online. And if you’ve been keeping tabs on HYDRA, you knew Steve’s been going after the bases he can find. He’s found a lot of records of the shit they made you do. Not all of it, but a lot. Steve’s an idealist. He’s not stupid. He knows you got red in your ledger, and he wants to see you anyway.”
“What are you going to do?” Bucky asks abruptly. “Now that you’ve found me.”
It’s a question Sam’s been thinking about too, when his mind was lucid enough to ask it.
“Go home, I guess.”
Something unreadable flashes in Bucky’s eyes as he slowly nods. Sam wishes he wasn’t wearing scent blockers, though probably he’s got enough control that his smell wouldn’t reveal much about his emotional state.
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah. I mean. No sense in you staying. It’s too dangerous.”
“…Were you hoping I’d stay? And, what, tag along with you? Help you blow up mobsters’ houses?”
Bucky looks away, his hair—which is starting to get greasy again; dude’s gotta take a shower before he leaves, whatever his destination is—forming a curtain that renders his face unreadable.
“No,” he says, and for some reason, Sam thinks he’s lying. “No, that wouldn’t make any sense. It’s too dangerous for you here.”
“That’s not really the issue. I’m a big fan of danger. But I got family back in the US. My sister, and my nephew. I haven’t seen them for months. And—I mean, I believe in what you’re doing, I really do. But there’s a lot of risk in operating outside the law, especially when it comes to, y’know, murder and arson.”
Bucky nods. They sit in silence for a moment before Sam decides to try pulling on a different thread.
“You know, there are a lot of HYDRA bases in the US that need to be blown up. And if the Avengers are behind it, it’s not really outside the law.”
He hopes. He honestly isn’t really sure of the legality of the whole masked vigilante thing, but he figures Stark’s got good enough lawyers to make it seem legal, anyway. Steve hasn’t encountered any issues with all the bases he’s taken out.
Bucky glances back up on him. “It was hard enough getting out of the US once. I don’t know how I’m gonna get back in without being arrested. I can’t exactly go through airport security with this thing on me,” and here he nods at the metal arm. “Unless I smuggle myself on a cargo ship. Which I could do again, but it wasn’t much fun coming over like that.”
Sam pulls out his cellphone and lays it on the table. “Easy. I call Steve now. He gets Stark to send a jet. You’re in.”
“Nothing’s ever that easy,” Bucky replies, his eyes locked on the phone.
“Fine,” Sam says. “No, it won’t be easy. I can’t guarantee the feds won’t find out that the new Avengers intern is secretly the ex-Winter Soldier. But nothing’s guaranteed, okay? Interpol could catch your scent tomorrow and have you arrested this time next week. No matter how many blockers you wear to cover your scent.”
“I don’t wear blockers,” says Bucky.
Sam stares at him. “Huh?”
He’s about to point out that that’s literally impossible; he just spent two days with his sense of smell in overdrive, and he never hit on Bucky once.
But then Bucky tilts his head, sweeping his hair aside with his left arm. At the same time, he flips up his right wrist and pulls his sleeve down just a bit.
Oh.
Sam sees them now, in the morning light streaming through the curtain. A pale, thin scar behind his ear; an almost identical one on his wrist.
They took his scent glands from him.
“Yeah,” Sam says, swallowing down the rage and the grief that the sight makes him feel. “Well. It was just a metaphor. Point still stands.”
Bucky smiles a bit at that, shaking out his hair and pulling down his sleeve. “Yeah, I figured.”
They sit in silence for a moment, and then Bucky glances up at him.
“If I go with you,” he says slowly, and the words echo like the starting gun of a race. “If I go with you. I would actually be going with you? You’d be around?”
Sam nods, the adrenaline rushing through his ears almost keeping him from hearing his answer. “Yeah. I mean, not always; I’m entitled to some vacation time from Avengers shit every now and again, but in general—yeah.”
On a whim, he reaches a hand across the table. “I’ll shake on it.”
Bucky looks at the hand, then back up at him. Then, carefully, he reaches down and wraps his right hand in a firm grasp around Sam’s.
The feel of warm skin against his own, when he’s spent two days with only silicone and his fingers—it makes something jump inside of Sam, some desire he thought was sated. Not the hunger of slick and heat, but something much deeper.
They shake twice, and then Sam places their clasped hands back down on the table.
Bucky lingers for just a moment, staring down at their entwined fingers. Sam thinks he can feel his pulse jump, though maybe that’s his own heartbeat he’s feeling.
“Okay,” Bucky says, drawing away and looking up at Sam, a determined edge to his eye. “Okay. Call Steve.”
Sam grins, and reaches for his phone. “Okay.”
Three rings, and then Steve’s voice. “Sam? What’s up?”
Sam looks over at Bucky looking over at him. His face is unreadable, but his eyes are steadily locked on Sam’s as he nods, just a little bit.
“Hey,” Sam says. “I’ve got some news…”