Archive of Our Own

There are lots of downsides to living in an off grid safe house. The plumbing is questionable, sometimes non-existent. They're usually at least an hour away from any sort of civilization, which means if they don't have food in the house, they're not eating anytime soon. Right now, the most pressing issue is that their current joint has spotty power. They've only been here two nights, and Bucky is already itching to pack up and move onto the next place. 

Steve, ever the responsible one, said no, Bucky. We need to be careful, Bucky. If we move around too much we're bound to get noticed, Bucky.

And, okay. Bucky gets it. It's a hard life being a fugitive, and he really doesn't want the feds or whoever on his ass. He also doesn't want to risk Stark hunting them down. Steve's assured him that Stark wouldn't actually hunt them down, but Bucky doesn't want to risk it. He'd be pretty sore too if someone killed his mom, whether it was technically their fault or not.

At least he thinks he'd be sore. He doesn't really remember his ma but he gets a pang in his chest that aches dull and deep every time he tries to remember her, so he guesses he loved her something fierce. 

He could take Stark in a fight if it came down to it, suit or no suit, but for Steve's sake Bucky hopes it doesn't happen. Steve's forgiven him for a lot. Killing Howard was one thing, that was the Soldier, but killing Tony is a whole other thing. 

Bucky doesn't think Stark is all that special but he’s caught Steve staring at him with big puppy eyes like he hung the fucking stars and the fucking moon more than once before everything fell apart, so. Bucky tries not to think about it. 

Anyway, this safe house, which is more of a safe cabin, or a safe shack, has spotty power and the little coffee maker Bucky packs up and takes with them to each new house won't turn on. 

He unplugs it and plugs it back in. Nothing. 

He leaves the kitchen and tries it in the outlet in the living room. Nothing. 

Bucky wants to kick the stupid coffee maker in his rage, but knows he'd miss it later. He kicks the couch instead and the leg gives out completely. Now they've got a lopsided couch and a coffee maker that won't work until the stupid spotty power decides to make an appearance. 

“Jesus Christ, what did that couch ever do to you?” 

Bucky turns to glare at Sam, who's just sauntered into the living room in a pair of dark gray sweats and a loose tee shirt. He looks far too happy for someone who got three hours of sleep last night. 

“The power's out again,” Bucky says, like that explains everything. 

“Right on. Fuck that couch,” Sam agrees, and moves into the kitchen. “Hey, where's the coffee maker?” 

Bucky resists the urge to scream and/or kick something again. 

“Oh, well, fuck,” Sam says when it clicks. “Get a fire going then. We can make it the old fashioned way.” 

A fire. Great. Like Bucky didn't think of a fire when there's a little wood burning stove right there. 

Usually starting a fire wouldn't be a problem. But he hasn't had caffeine yet, so he's irritated and tired and doesn't feel like it, quite honestly. Bucky flops down on the lopsided couch. 

“You start the fire,” Bucky says petulantly. 

“You were up first.” 

“Make Steve do it.” 

“Steve's out getting more food.” 

Great. Bucky can't remember how close the nearest convenience store is to them, but it'll be a few hours at least. Which leaves Bucky and Sam alone.

It's not that Bucky doesn't like being alone with Sam, it's just… complicated. 

Sam is like Steve in a lot of ways. In the way that he's stupidly brave and aggravatingly noble. He's like Steve in the way he'll throw himself mindlessly into danger if he thinks he's got a chance to save someone. He's sure of himself, and he's strong, and he's always talking about this abstract bigger picture he and Steve think Bucky doesn't understand.

But he's unlike Steve in a lot of ways too. While Steve can only see the good in people Sam looks at everyone faults first. He's guarded. He's careful and calculated. He doesn't trust easily. 

He doesn't trust Bucky at all, it feels like. Sure, they've made a little progress. Being wanted criminals on the run together sort of bonds you like that, but Bucky still feels antsy around him. Like he needs to prove to Sam he's not the Soldier anymore. 

Which he can't even prove to himself. He's got so much Hydra in him he can practically feel it oozing from his pores. He can feel Hydra in his mouth when he catches himself slipping into Russian, saying things he hardly recognizes. He feels Hydra in his head every time he starts to panic. He can't escape the feeling, it lingers in the back of his mind and constricts his chest, and no matter how many times he tells himself it's okay, they don't own you, you're free the fear lingers. It catches him randomly. Eating dinner with Sam and Steve, or in the shower, or reading late at night. The blood freezing, stomach dropping anxiety that his mission is taking too long. He'll need to get back to his handlers before he gets punished. 

He doesn't trust himself to sleep. He doesn't trust where his mind will go. When he does doze off, after all the caffeine, and exercising, and reading don't work anymore, he goes back to the facility in nightmares. Sometimes even hearing the code in his dreams is enough to make him feel blurry and out of it and terrified when he wakes. Sometimes it's worse. Sometimes he wakes up thrashing and reaching for his knives. 

He doesn't trust himself to sleep next to Sam or Steve. He barricades himself off in his own section of the house every night. Steve doesn't like it. Steve would much rather coddle Bucky. Tell him it's not his fault, and these things take time, and try to lull him to sleep with fingers in his hair. 

Sam doesn't mind it. If you think it's the best decision, it's the best decision Sam had told him through the door one evening, when this whole thing first started, while Bucky pushed a dresser in front of it so he couldn't get out in the middle of the night without making noise and waking them up. 

Sam wanders back into the living room and seems to decide the fire argument isn't one worth having and starts throwing firewood in himself. It takes a few minutes for him to get it all set up, and actually light the thing. Even longer for the water in the kettle to boil. 

Bucky watches him the whole time. Sam's too tuned in to the task at hand to notice the eyes on him. 

Bucky likes the way Sam's fingers drum on whatever surface is closest when he's bored and he likes the way Sam looks in sweatpants. He likes the way Sam looks with bags under his eyes and he likes watching Sam's fingers fumble with a match. 

Bucky's been doing it since they met. Watching Sam, quietly wanting. It's been so long since he's been allowed something as simple as that, he wasn't allowed to want goddamn anything as the Soldier. They had him convinced they could read his mind. Not even his thoughts were sacred. 

Now he takes pleasure in his thoughts. His own little freedom. A personal act of rebellion. Hydra still owns most of him, but they don't own that. So he lets himself want Sam to his heart's content. He thinks about Sam's strong arms holding him down and Sam's big hands grabbing onto his hips. He thinks about Sam's big fingers, and his calloused palms, and what his lips would feel like on his mouth, and his neck, and… elsewhere. 

Those thoughts are still new. Newish. It's been hard to think much about sex ever since… everything. He knows he used to think about it a lot before, but he doesn't have many memories from before, and he's not sure how much he ever really did. 

He thinks about asking Steve sometimes. Steve would probably know. But part of Bucky is still convinced that him and Steve might have fooled around a time or two, just based off of the way Steve looks at him, and Bucky thinks he'd really hurt his feelings if he said, hey, Steve, am I a virgin? and he lost it to Steve. 

So he guesses he's not, though he hasn't really done anything since he got out of his cryo prison, and he lets himself fantasize about Sam Wilson, who is conveniently on the run with them, and conveniently always too busy to notice Bucky staring at him. 

When the water's boiled Sam pours Bucky a mug and tosses him three of the sugar packets from the box in the kitchen. Bucky holds the packets in his right hand and rips the top with his teeth. He stirs with his right hand, then he sets the spoon down on the coffee table, picks up the mug with his right hand and takes a sip. 

“This sucks,” Bucky says. 

“Yup,” Sam agrees. “We only have the shitty kind.” 

There are lots of terrible things about being in hiding. The food is the worst. He used to get all his food in the form of a protein pill as the Soldier. A few times they forgot to feed him. 

Before that he lived off his war rations, which were awful, and about the only thing he remembers from the war at all. Just eating terrible food from a can and watching his buddies die. 

He thought when he was out he could eat good for once, but he can’t. He usually doesn't get sore about this kind of stuff but he didn't sleep last night. They were up late because they got recognized by a group of security guards who immediately tried to capture them. Steve tried to get them to disengage, but they didn't have a choice after they were recognized. They took out the guys, and then since they're supposed to be lying low and everything they had to take care of the bodies too. 

That made Steve squeamish, so it took them twice as long as it should have. 

“We should talk,” Sam says, after a long silence where they both sip their terrible coffees and wince. 

“About?” 

“Last night.” 

“Don't tell me you're going soft,” Bucky says. He did, like, ninety percent of the cleanup last night. He doesn't know what Sam could be upset about. “You're a criminal now, you need to be able to dump a body.” 

“It's not about that, it's just something I noticed.” 

Bucky waits silently. 

“I noticed you don't really use your hand,” Sam nods toward his left arm. “When we were fighting I noticed you favored your right.” 

“I'm right handed.” 

“Wasn't like that when I first met you.” 

Bucky never had to think about it when he was the Soldier. But now that he's not, it feels like the biggest hold Hydra still has on him. 

He doesn't trust his arm. It's killed more people than he can remember, probably more people than he could ever count. Sometimes he feels like it's moving against his will. Thinking with a mind of its own. It's no surprise to Bucky then when he wakes from his nightmares it's always the metal arm that's outstretched, reaching for a gun, or a knife, or a throat. 

“Not my arm,” Bucky says after a beat. 

“Sure it is.” 

He shakes his head and sets his coffee mug back down on the table. “It's never been mine.” 

“Hydra might have made it, but you control it. It's yours now, it's a part of your body.”

Bucky doesn't know how to tell Sam that none of him feels like his own. Not his body, certainly not the metal arm, not even his own mind most days. So he doesn't say anything. 

Sam doesn't let up. “You can't just go on indefinitely never using one of your arms.” 

“I can try.” 

Sam takes the last sip of his coffee and throws the empty mug at the wall, right next to Bucky's left ear. His hand shoots out to catch it before he can stop it. Before he even realizes what he's doing. Like his hand moved all on its own. 

“No,” Sam says. “You can't.” 

***

Bucky starts feeling like a third wheel. He didn't think Steve was ever going to give him enough breathing room to feel like a third wheel, but a few months into their little endeavor, he does. 

Suddenly Bucky can wake up without Steve pacing anxiously outside the door. He can take a shower without Steve hovering in the hallway outside. He can eat dinner alone, on the back porch of the safe house if he wants, soaking up the warmth of the late summer air and watching the sky go all orange and pink as the sun sets. 

Steve doesn't notice, because Steve's so busy talking to Sam. 

Bucky isn't jealous. He wants Steve to be happy more than he wants anything else, honestly. Seeing Steve happy is what Bucky's wanted since he was a little kid. Even he remembers that. He didn't like that Steve was all interested in Stark. But he didn't like that because Stark made Steve miserable, and Bucky's seen Steve sulking around for days with red ringed eyes because of Stark. 

He's got no reason not to be happy about Steve taking a liking to Sam. Bucky didn't like Sam. He thought Sam was attractive, and he let himself have his little crush, but Bucky would just be kidding himself if he thought he'd ever act on it. 

Steve deserves someone like Sam, and god knows, Sam deserves someone like Steve. So Bucky's happy for them, and he eats his dinner on the back porch alone and tries not to hear them laughing all the way from the living room.

The laughter fades out eventually and Bucky hardly notices when the back door creaks open. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the sky until Steve sits down next to him. 

“I was wondering where you snuck off to. You okay out here?” 

Bucky nods. “Just watching the sunset.” 

Steve is content to let him and Bucky sit in comfortable silence. Usually Bucky would be grateful. People always take his silence as a sign that something’s wrong, it’s so rare that someone indulges him, but he can’t help it. They’ve been in the shitty safe house with the bad power for weeks longer than he’s wanted to. He’s upset. 

“You and Sam are getting along well,” Bucky says. He doesn’t mean to sound so bitter. 

“Yeah,” Steve says. “It’s what happens when you spend a lot of time with someone.” He knocks his shoulder into Bucky’s. “You’d get along with him too if you tried talking to him.” 

“I talk.” 

Steve laughs. “You say a few words here and there.” 

Bucky picks at a loose thread on his jeans. These were his last pair without any holes, but they’re starting to give out at the knees. He pulls the thread anyway. “Seems like you and him talk plenty.” 

“Yeah,” Steve says slowly. “Of course we do. What else is there to do?” 

“Nothing. You’ve just been spending a lot of time with him. Makes me wonder if you’re lookin’.”

Steve’s brows furrow together. “What? No. Buck–no. I thought you knew about me and–” 

“Stark,” Bucky interrupts. “I know about that. I just thought that you and him…” he trails off. 

“Broke up,” Steve finishes dryly. “We didn’t even get a chance to talk about it. Never said the words, but. I guess it’s safe to assume at this point.” 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says quietly. 

Steve throws a fake smile on. “No, it’s alright. I’ve got you, that’s what’s most important to me. I’ve got my best guy back, and I’ve got Sam. I’m alright.” He pauses. “Why are you asking about Sam? You worried about me?” 

“Course I am. I always worry about you.” 

Steve gives him a look that says he knows there’s more to it than that, but he doesn’t say anything about it. Bucky’s finally able to let out a sigh of relief when Steve claps him on the back and leaves him on the porch to finish his sulking in peace. 

***

Bucky can’t get drunk. It’s fine. He’s cool with it. 

He forgets every now and again and tries to drink anyway, then Steve will helpfully remind him the serum took that choice away from him. Just another thing Hydra controls. 

Steve will also helpfully remind him that he’s told Bucky that he can’t get drunk a hundred times already, and does he really not remember, and is he feeling okay, is he having trouble with his memory again? Steve goes on and on when Bucky can’t remember anything, which makes him feel stupid, and awful, and cranks the fog that hangs around his brain up to a thousand. He isn’t sure what exactly causes it. The brain injury from hitting his head when he fell. When they shocked him until all his memories were wiped and reading a list of code words would make him disappear entirely and wake up with blood all over his hands. It doesn’t matter. He forgets. All the time. It is what it is. 

Sam, as it turns out, can get drunk. 

Very, very, very drunk.

So can Natasha, who visits on occasion. 

She brings a bottle of liquor with her and they sit around the rickety wooden table and play poker into the late hours of the night. It’s less playing and more talking with cards in their hands, but they still call it poker night. 

After a few drinks, Sam and Nat are laughing too hard to keep going, and their poker faces are getting worse and worse. It’s endearing, the two of them loosening up like this. Bucky pretends to be studying his cards but keeps sneaking glances at Sam. 

He never relaxes like this. Even when Sam’s in one of his easy going joking moods he doesn’t drop his walls entirely. There’s something stoic about him that never completely goes away. He sees it in Steve too. 

Natasha says something that’s unintelligible to Bucky, but seems to make perfect sense to the equally intoxicated. Sam laughs so hard he snorts and bangs his fist on the table. His eyes crinkle and close when he laughs, and he grins so Bucky can see all his teeth, and he laughs so high pitched it’s more of a giggle and Bucky’s heart clenches painfully in his chest. 

He gives up on the game entirely after that. 

So does everyone else. The cards get abandoned, and they catch up with Nat, get a little glimpse into the world beyond. She’s in the same situation they are, but she’s so sneaky she doesn’t confine herself to the safe house like the three of them do. 

“Have you checked in on the rest of… everyone,” Steve asks, when the bottle is running low and all the pizza is all gone. 

“I’ve stopped by a few times,” Nat says. “He’s fine. Tony, he's hanging in there.” 

Steve nods stiffly. “Good. That’s great.” 

“I'm pretty sure Rhodey is the only reason he gets out of bed right now.” 

Steve pulls a face. “How's Rhodey?” 

Natasha shrugs. “I don't spend a lot of time over there. He seems like he's adjusting. Tony's down in the lab all day, as you could imagine. I really only stop by to check on him. He's never thrilled to see me. I just worry.” 

“Does he ever ask about me?” Steve blurts after a moment of heavy silence. And, yup, that's Bucky's cue to get out of there. If Steve's going to hound Nat about his Stark problems Bucky can at least do the decent thing of making sure no one's there to witness it. 

Bucky gets up from the table and gives Steve’s shoulder a squeeze. “Alright, buddy. We're going to bed. Come on, Sam.” 

Sam looks outraged. “I'm not even tired!” 

“They need to talk,” Bucky says, and as realization dawns on Sam he nods and tries to get up too quickly, stumbling right into the wall and laughing at himself. 

Jesus Christ. He's wasted. 

Sam's a hugger when he's been drinking. He makes Nat get out of her chair to give him a hug goodnight, then does the same to Steve. Then Nat again. 

Then he wraps his arms around Bucky and pats his back and says, “goodnight, man,” his breath hot and wet against the shell of Bucky's ear. 

He needs to shove Sam off so he can't feel the way Bucky shudders. “I'm coming with you. No more drinking for you, alright?” 

Sam laughs again. He tries to take another few steps and falls right back into the wall. This is going to take some work. Bucky lets Sam lean against him and guides him through the house with an arm wrapped around him.

His right arm. Obviously. His left one hangs limply at his side. 

The little cabin they've been holing up in is small. Sam and Steve share a room. Bucky's is on the other side of the house, and Nat takes the couch when she's around. 

He walks Sam all the way to his bed and tries to help him under the covers. 

“Wait,” Sam says. “I'm still dressed.” 

Bucky heaves a sigh and turns around to face the wall. “Right. Okay, get comfy.” 

He hears Sam undressing behind him and tries not to think about him in his boxers, slipping between the covers, all warm and loose from the liquor. 

Sam always makes sure he's dressed before he walks around. Bucky hasn't so much as caught a glimpse of Sam without a shirt on before. It's probably good he hasn't. He needs to get over these feelings he’s been developing. 

It was all fun at first. A little crush while he learned how to want something again. How to want someone. Learned how to feel desire, and longing, and all these things he was too scared to really feel as the Soldier. But now it's inconvenient. It makes him feel jealous, and broody, and it's hard to be part of a team when you're feeling all that. 

He turns back around when Sam tells him it's okay and he's… sort of under the covers. The blankets are pushed down nearly to his waist, and he isn't wearing a shirt, and he's so fucking muscular if he told Bucky he got a shot of that super serum Bucky would believe him. He forces himself to look at Sam's face. 

He's covering his eyes with his hands and groaning. “Is the room spinning?” he asks. “I'm pretty sure it's spinning.”

“You're just drunk. I'll get you water.” 

“Nuh uh,” Sam says quickly. “Stay here.” 

“You need somethin'?” 

“Might throw up.” 

“Oh. Shit.” Bucky grabs the little plastic trash can tucked in the corner of the room and sets it next to the bed. “If you can't make it to the toilet, at least make it here, okay? Don't get any on the blankets, we should be avoiding any extra trips to the laundromat. Just in case.”

Sam mumbles something incoherent in response. Bucky's just about to leave to get him a glass of water when Sam reaches out and grabs Bucky's left hand. 

Sam's holding his hand. Not holding it in the sense that they're twining their fingers together or anything, he's holding it so he can look at it, turning it this way and that to see it from different angles and Bucky is too shocked to move. 

“That's Hydra's deadliest weapon you've got there,” Bucky says quietly, after a pause. 

Sam ignores him completely and asks, “can you feel it?” 

“My hand?” 

“This,” Sam runs his fingers across his palm. 

Bucky shakes his head. “No. Well, sort of. I can feel pressure. I can feel that you're touching it, but it doesn't feel the same.” 

Sam grabs Bucky's right arm and positions Bucky how he wants him, arms out, palms up. Sam runs a gentle finger over the palm of his right hand. Bucky shivers at the touch. 

He repeats the action on his left palm. “It feels like I'm wearing a pair of really thick gloves. I can tell it's there, but it doesn't feel like anything.” 

“That's interesting,” Sam mumbles. He's still laying down in bed. He's hardly moved this whole time except reaching out to touch Bucky's hands. “I've been wondering, but I didn't want to ask. I expected it to be cold, but it's not. Well, I guess it's a little cold, but it's almost as warm as the rest of you.” 

Bucky lets his arms fall back to his sides. It's been a long time since someone's touched his arm, and even then it was only ever to open it up and work on the wiring. He had let Steve feel it, because he had been curious, and then he told Bucky that Stark would love to take a look at it, potentially do some upgrades. Maybe even make a new one entirely. 

Bucky had been stupid enough to get his hopes up. 

“A lot of soldiers struggle when they come back from the war.” Sam’s eyes are closed now. He’s nearly asleep. “I know a few good support groups I could take you to when we can go home. Good physical therapists. It’s a big deal to lose a limb. It’s okay to ask for help.”

Sam’s so earnest about the whole thing, even while he’s completely exhausted, Bucky’s chest aches with it. “It’s not that,” Bucky says, shaking his head. His arm is hardly the worst thing he lost in that war. “I’m not hung up on the loss, buddy. I hate that Hydra made it for me. Hate that they made it for me to be their weapon.” 

Sam doesn’t say anything, just shifts around under the covers, fast asleep. 

“Good night,” Bucky mumbles, and leaves the room before he can start overthinking it. Sam had distracted him with his biceps, and his pecs, and his heavy lidded eyes. Bucky won't let him get so close anymore. It’s too dangerous. All it would take is one wrong move. Sam could jerk his arm too quick, or Steve could drop something in the other room and the loud noise could startle him, and then he could be thrown right back into the Soldier and it would just take one little twitch of that damn arm and it would be around Sam's neck and Bucky could snap it in a second. He's done it before. He's done it without batting an eye, and he won't let Sam near that side of himself, he won't. 

He waits until Steve goes to bed and Nat passes out on the couch before he makes himself a coffee (the power's working, thank Christ) and reads one of his battered paperbacks until the sun rises. 

***

Now that Nat's back with them (and not wasted) she doesn't let them all sleep at the same time. They take shifts staying awake, making sure someone in the house is always alert in case anyone were to find them. 

Steve and Bucky volunteer to take the responsibility on their own. The serum makes it so they don't need to sleep as much. It wouldn't be difficult, and Bucky hardly sleeps anyway, it makes the most sense. 

But Nat feels safest when she's personally making sure the coast is clear and Sam's too proud to lay back and rest while everyone else takes a shift but him. 

It's Sam's turn, technically, but Bucky's trying to convince him to go to bed. He's looked exhausted ever since they started doing this and Bucky's up anyway. He's wired, actually. He wouldn't have a problem staying up three more hours until Steve trades him out. He could go the whole night, honestly, but he'd have to convince Steve when he was up and that would be even harder. Steve was more stubborn than Sam, but it was close. Arguing with either of them didn't usually get you anywhere. 

They're in the living room. Sam's taking advantage of one of the rare nights the power's working without fading in and out and has a movie on the tv. 

Bucky doesn't like movies. It's too much future all at once. He's on the couch opposite Sam scrawling notes in his journal. He got a new memory today. Steve laughed so hard over something Sam had said at breakfast he choked on a piece of bacon and all of a sudden Bucky could see him, fifteen and scrawny bent over a trash can at Coney Island, throwing up the snowcone Bucky bought him. 

“What do you write in there anyway?” Sam asks. Bucky nearly drops his pen in surprise. They hadn't spoken at all since the movie started. 

“Trouble with my memory,” Bucky says flatly. “When I remember I write it down. It helps. Don't always keep the memories very long.” 

Sam jabs at a button on the tv remote and turns the volume down a few notches. He gets up from his couch and moves to sit next to Bucky. 

It's his left side. He tenses. 

“What's this memory about?” 

Bucky bites on the end of his pen and sneaks a sideways glance at Sam. He doesn't really share anything from his journal. But then again, no one's ever really asked. 

“Coney Island. With Steve.” 

“That sounds fun.” 

“He got sick and threw up.” 

Sam laughs. Bucky doesn't think he'll ever get tired of hearing that sound. “Did he really?” 

Bucky skims the page he's written to make sure there wasn't anything too personal, then hands it over to Sam. “You can read it.” 

He's never let anyone touch it, let alone read an entry, but it's just Coney Island, it's just Sam, and Steve would forgive him someday for telling other people that story. 

Sam pauses after a few lines. “Were you and Steve, like, a thing? Did you ever..?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Can't remember. Too scared to ask.” 

“It's really detailed. Seems like you were over the moon to be holding his hand.” 

“I was. There's something special about it. Holding hands with a fella for the first time after chasing ladies your whole life.” 

“I know that feeling,” Sam says with a nod. 

Bucky tries to act like that information didn't just completely wind him while Sam keeps reading. He laughs again when he gets to the part where Steve gets sick in the trash can. He closes the notebook and hands it back when he's done. 

“You miss it?” Sam asks after a pause, breaking the silence. “Sorry, that was a stupid question. Of course you miss it.” 

“Hard to miss what you can't remember. Sometimes I think about giving up trying. Just letting it be easier.” 

“What makes you keep going?” Sam's in his sweatpants that drive Bucky crazy, his arm stretched across the back of the couch so it's almost like he's got his arm around Bucky. Almost. 

“I like knowing. Makes me feel like a person.” He laughs dryly, and it's one of the rare occasions Sam doesn't laugh along. He's doing his serious thing, where he sits and looks all stoic and Bucky wants to sink into the cushions until they swallow him whole. “I'm sorry,” Bucky continues. “I know you're here for Steve. I'm not trying to drop a bunch of my shit on you.” 

“I'm not here for Steve,” Sam says, sitting up a little straighter. “Don't give him too much credit. Christ, he'll get a big head.” 

“What are you here for then?” 

“For me,” Sam says. 

Bucky arches an eyebrow. “This is fun for you? Being a fugitive and living in a shack and staying up all night making sure someone doesn't break in and try to kill us?” 

“Of course it's not fun, but it's my choice. I respect the hell out of Steve. If Captain America thinks it's a good idea, I think it’s a good idea. But that’s because I trust his judgement and I know listening to him is doing the right thing. I’m not here for Steve, I’m here because I do the right thing.” 

“What makes you so sure Steve’s right about this one?” 

“Do you know Steve to be wrong?” 

Bucky shrugs. “His judgement gets clouded when he really wants something. It always has. He wants me to be something I'm not, and he won't rest until he gets it. Doesn't matter what it takes.” 

“It's not a bad thing,” Sam tells him. “To know what you want.” 

“I haven't wanted something for seventy years.” 

“I doubt that.” 

“It's true,” Bucky says, even though it isn't. He hadn't wanted anything for seventy years until he wanted Sam. “Don't give me that, though. You don't know what you want either.” 

Sam looks affronted. “I do too know what I want.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow.

“I want to help people. That's what I've always wanted, it's what I've always done. I gave my whole life up to help people, I wouldn't do that if I didn't want it.” 

“Just because it's your calling doesn't mean it's what you want.” Sam doesn't say anything, so Bucky keeps going. “I think you could stand to be a little more selfish.”

Sam's silent for a moment. When he looks at Bucky and finally speaks his voice is quiet and low. It damn near sends a shiver right down Bucky's spine. “It's not that easy, taking what you want.” Sam licks his lips. “What if I'm wrong?”

Bucky forces himself to keep breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He tries hard not to look at Sam's lips. This could all be wishful thinking. He could be misreading this whole thing. “What if you're right?” Bucky whispers, and he barely finishes his sentence before Sam's lips are against his. 

Bucky thought, for one dreadful second, that he wouldn't remember how to kiss. That it had been wiped from his brain with everything else after years of Hydra shocking his life away. 

He's relieved when it comes back to him instantly. It's muscle memory. It's like riding a bike. 

Sam tastes like mouthwash and he kisses Bucky slow and deep, like Bucky's worth savoring. Like he's worth taking his time and tasting every goddamn inch. Bucky opens his mouth into the kiss easily, and he sighs when his tongue brushes Sam's. 

Sam leans forward, Bucky leans back, and before he knows it they're laying across the couch. Bucky remembers being in the backseat of his Ford Model 48, a leg between his thighs, pressing up while his mouth worked just like this. 

He doesn't remember names, or faces, but he remembers lips. He remembers hands undoing his belt and reaching into the front of his pants. He remembers his own hands reaching up skirts. Undoing a few belts of his own. 

He shifts and Sam gasps against his lips. His leg is between Sam's, and, okay, holy shit. Sam is hard against his thigh, the front of his sweatpants tenting, Bucky can see it even in the low lighting. He bites down on Sam's bottom lip, and Sam kisses him harder, and faster, and Bucky's stomach sinks when he realizes that he's cupping Sam's face with both his hands. 

Hydra’s hand and everything. He doesn't even remember moving it. He would never have used his left arm, he wants to be gentle. He's out of control. He's just cupping Sam's face for now, but who's to say he won't blink and it'll be around his throat. He'll blink again and it'll be covered in blood. He'll come to and Sam will be dead and he can't have that. He can't have it, he can't have it, he can't have it. 

“We should stop,” Bucky says, trying to keep his voice even when he pulls away. 

Sam's pupils are blown and his bottom lip is swollen where Bucky bit it and he doesn't want anything more than to grab him again. To run his tongue over the sore spot and kiss him senseless. 

“Are you okay?” Sam asks. He scrambles to sit up. He puts some space between him and Bucky and covers his hard-on with a throw pillow. A real gentleman. “Christ, man, I'm so sorry. I thought I read that right, I thought you were giving me signals, I'm sorry.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly, holding out his hand like he's going to grab Sam's shoulder then dropping it when he realizes he's shaking. “No, no, no, you didn't read that wrong. I wanted to, I wanted that to happen.”

“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “So, why are we stopping?” 

Bucky can't answer. He just keeps breathing. 

“Did I push you too far?” Sam asks gently. “Shit, you just got away from everything not that long ago, this is probably way too fast. I wasn't trying to make you do anything you didn't want to. Obviously I would never–” 

“Sam,” Bucky interrupts. “Please stop talking.” 

Sam falls silent and Bucky drops his head into his hand. He should never have let that happen. He knew Sam was going to kiss him before he actually did. He had plenty of time to get up. To tell him not to. To nip all of this in the bud. But now he knows what it's like to kiss Sam Wilson and everything is so much harder. 

“You don't trust yourself,” Sam says finally. He's not asking, he's already sure of it. Bucky doesn't bother to deny it, but he can't bring himself to nod either. 

“I trust you,” Sam says anyway. “I've got no reason not to.” 

Bucky laughs humorlessly. “You've got every reason not to.” 

“If you were dangerous I would have been hurt by now.” 

“You can't know that.” 

“I feel pretty certain.” 

You don't get it,” Bucky starts, but Sam interrupts him by grabbing his left hand. Lacing their fingers together. Holding his hand. 

“It's this, isn't it?” Sam asks. “You still see it as a weapon.” 

Bucky, carefully as he can, lets go of Sam's hand and lets his arm hang at his side again.

*** 

They spend two more weeks at that cabin. Bucky goes back to, well, not avoiding Sam, but not spending any time with him on purpose either. He still stares when he thinks he can get away with it, but who could blame him. 

They run out of firewood and Sam volunteers to chop more. Bucky spends a miserable fifteen minutes watching Sam get sweaty swinging around an axe before he cracks and goes outside. 

Sam pushes him up against the wooden outside of the cabin and Bucky’s right fist tightens in Sam's shirt and doesn't let go. They kiss for all of ten seconds before Bucky snaps back to his senses and tells Sam, “I'm sorry. I'm not trying to lead you on.” 

“I didn't think you were,” Sam replies, giving him a smile Bucky definitely doesn't deserve. 

When they move safe houses, Nat lines the next one up. She has connections all around the world and she's able to get them something that has both plumbing, and power that isn't going in and out. 

The coffee maker has a permanent spot on the counter and works whenever Bucky wants it to. He can take showers for as long as he wants and the water never gets cold. It’s an alright set up. It’s about as close to perfect as they can get while being on the run like this. 

They go on a few missions. Take down a few terrorist organizations. Nothing new or exciting. It all fades into a blur, the same way it did as the Soldier. He’s been moving from one battle to the next since ‘41 and he’s gotten tired of waiting for things to change. He doesn’t even hope anymore. He just grins and bears it. It’s better now than it ever was before, at least. Now he has Steve, and Sam, and Nat on occasion, and when he remembers things he can write them down and he can tell Steve all about it and he knows they aren’t going to wipe him again. He hardly trembles anymore when the memories come. Things are good. 

He’s on the couch writing in his journal. Sam’s next to him. So close they could touch if Bucky reached out. He’s watching the tv with the sound off. It’s Sam’s turn to keep watch, but Bucky isn’t sleeping tonight and he was getting stir crazy in his bed. 

The last time they were both on the couch like this they kissed. Bucky would be feeling some type of way about that if he wasn’t focused on getting all of the details of his most recently surfaced memory into his journal. It’s one from the war. One of his buddies got blown to bits right next to him and– well, the rest is kind of hard to think about. It’s important, though. The most difficult memories are the most important, they’re the ones that make him feel like he’s back in control. 

He’s tense as he writes. His fingers grip the pen too tight and his movements are short and jerky. His chest feels constricted, and he needs to blink several times, his eyes are goddamn stinging, and then Sam's hand is on his. The right one. The one that holds the pen. “It's alright if you need a break,” Sam mumbles, his eyes not leaving the tv screen. 

“What would you know about breaks?” Bucky asks. His throat is so dry it cracks and it doesn't sound much like the lighthearted joke he meant it to be. “You never take breaks either. Mission, to mission, to mission.”

“This almost feels like a break,” Sam says thoughtfully. “I haven't had weeks in between missions like this since… well, since I first started doing all this. I took some time off after Riley, but. That's about it.”

Bucky arches a brow.

“You don't know about Riley, huh?” 

Bucky shakes his head.

“He was a buddy of mine. He went down while we were out flying together one day.” He swallows and keeps his eyes fixed on the television. “Didn't make it.” 

“I'm sorry,” Bucky says quietly. God, does he know what it's like to lose people you care about. “You oughta lighten up on yourself. Do something relaxing. When's the last time you did something just because you wanted to?” 

Sam makes a face, like he's really thinking about it. “I took a fishing trip a few years back.” 

“Years,” Bucky scoffs. “Jesus Christ. That's why you're wound so tight. You should go fishing.” 

“With what supplies?”

“I don't know, it was just an example. What do you want to do?” 

“Like, if I could do anything?” 

Bucky closes his journal. Tries to force the tension out of his shoulders. “Anything.” 

He feels it again. The shift in the air, like the first time they kissed. The way it gets harder to breathe. Sam's looking at him, his eyelids all heavy and his mouth crooked up at the corner. 

Bucky was good at this once, he reminds himself. He smiles a little. Can't help it. “This is a super corny time to make a move on me, Wilson.” 

“Come on, you walked right into it, asking me if I could do anything. You set it right up.” 

“I should have expected it,” Bucky says quietly. “Don't get shy now.”

Sam smiles again, and then they're kissing. It's not like the last two, where everything was fast and hungry. This one is slow. Thoughtful in a way that makes Bucky's heart leap right into his throat. Sam's lips are soft and wet and Bucky leans into it. He cups Sam's cheek with his right hand. 

Sam's fingers wrap around his wrist and he pulls the hand away slowly. Bucky thinks he's going to pull away, but Sam doesn't stop kissing him. His hand instead wraps around Bucky's left wrist and guides his hand slowly upwards, puts his hand over Bucky's and lets him cup Sam's jaw. 

“This one,” Sam mumbles against his lips. Bucky's first instinct is to pull away. He could in an instant. He's stronger than Sam. But Sam isn't a stupid man. If he had even a shadow of a doubt about Bucky he wouldn't be here, he wouldn't be doing this. He wouldn't be grabbing Bucky by the most dangerous part of his body and letting it cup his cheek, letting it rub small circles on his perfect cheekbones.

“Yeah, that's it,” Sam sighs, and, wow. The encouragement is doing something for Bucky. He isn't sure if it's a Hydra thing, some sort of leftover programming that makes him ecstatic to please, or if it's just the way Sam sounds when he says it, but Bucky wants it again. He wants Sam to say more nice things, to tell him he's doing good, and that he's good and that Hydra didn't completely take everything that was good inside him and toss it out the window. 

“I can't feel you with this one,” Bucky says, pulling back just enough to speak. He can feel the pressure of Sam's palm on the back of his hand, holding him in place, and he can vaguely tell he's touching Sam, can sort of feel the ridges of his jaw and his cheek, but not the heat and the smoothness of his skin, the scratch of his stubble. 

“You've got two hands,” Sam says, grabbing Bucky's other one. He guides Bucky's right hand to his hip and Bucky slips it under his shirt, feels the warm, hard plane of his stomach and the spot where his hipbone juts out. 

It's easy to remember what to do when he's doing it. He has little snippets of memory, flashes of sweet talking girls back in the day. I just want to make you feel good, he'd promise them, in his sweetest voice, and it was never too hard to convince them. In the backseat with his pants unzipped and pushed down just below his ass. A girl in his lap, her skirt lifted up, her panties pushed to the side. He’s glad he can be certain that he isn’t a virgin now. He’s got a few memories back, really he’s got no reason to be so nervous. 

He remembers enough that he knows Sam needs to be closer. He uses his hand on Sam’s hip to guide him into his lap. Sam goes willingly, a knee on either side of Bucky’s hips, and it’s better at this angle. Sam tips Bucky’s head back to kiss him deeper and Bucky’s more than happy to oblige him. His hand tightens on Sam’s hip, Sam rocks against him, and Bucky bites down hard on his bottom lip. 

Sam and those goddamn sweatpants. They’re tight in all the right places and it shows off the tent in the front perfectly. Bucky’s mouth is actually watering as Sam grinds in his lap, panting into Bucky’s mouth and shit it’s all moving so fast. 

“Off,” Bucky mumbles, grabbing at the edge of Sam’s shirt. Sam shrugs it off and throws it aside. Sure, he's seen it before, but he's never gotten to look and holy shit, Sam is gorgeous. He's all sharp contours and big muscles. Huge muscles, quite frankly. He grabs onto Sam's bicep before he can stop himself and is delighted to see that it makes his hand look tiny in comparison. 

He lets his right hand move up and down Sam's arm, then across his chest, resting on one absolutely fucking divine pec. 

Sam grabs his left wrist again and brings it to his chest as well. Now this all feels familiar. Bucky's body remembers better than his brain does. He squeezes and Sam rocks his hips and Bucky's just aching below him. 

He bucks against Sam, can't help it, and the noise Sam makes in response is enough to have Bucky grabbing at his ass instead of his chest. He moves his mouth from Sam's to his jaw, behind his ear, down his neck. He smells like his musky cologne and his skin has the faint tang of salt to it that drives Bucky crazy. He sucks at a spot on his neck for so long he forgets what he's doing and needs to apologize when he finally pulls back, pressing his thumb against the bruise, barely visible just above his collar. 

“Eager,” Sam remarks, and Bucky isn't sure if he should be embarrassed or not. Of course he's eager, it's Sam. 

Sam, who he's been staring at since they ran away together. Sam, who essentially upended his whole life to follow Steve and Bucky into hiding halfway across the world. Sam, who walks around in his tight gray sweats like it's nothing, and lets the edge of his tee shirt ride up when he stretches and yawns, who listens when Bucky wants to talk, and fills the silence when he doesn't. Who hasn't once flinched away from Bucky's touch, no matter which hand he uses. Not since he got to know him. 

It hasn't occurred to Bucky until this moment that maybe this is something entirely different to Sam. Maybe Sam's getting lonely living under the radar. It's not like he can really go out and hook up with someone when he's in the mood. His options are limited to him, or Steve, or Natasha, and Bucky's been pretty open about his attraction ever since they kissed the first time. It makes sense. He doesn't fault Sam for not feeling the same way. 

It doesn't make Bucky want to fuck him any less, either. Maybe that's a bad thing, but Sam Wilson is in his lap half naked. Sue him if he's thinking with his dick. 

Sam must have noticed the way he faltered at the words, because he grabs Bucky's chin with his thumb and his forefinger and tilts his head up until he's looking at Sam again. “I just mean we've got all the time in the world, we don't need to rush,” Sam says, his voice deep and low and Bucky shivers beneath him. 

“Steve will be up to take over guard duty in like, three hours.”

“Three hours is enough time,” Sam says, and kisses him again, slow and open mouthed. He guides Bucky's hands to his waist again and Bucky lets him take charge, setting the pace and deciding where his hands rest. 

Sam's grabbing at the edge of Bucky's shirt next. “I want to see you.” 

Bucky's been considerably more insecure since the scars. He hesitates, and Sam kisses him, lets his fingertips run lightly up Bucky's ribs until he shudders and nods.

Sam already knows about the arm. The scars, angry and raised from where he spent decades trying to claw Hydra’s arm off, might catch him off guard, but if that's enough to scare Sam off he probably doesn't want to sleep with Hydra's deadliest assassin anyway. 

He doesn't fumble when the shirt comes off. He doesn't let his eyes linger on the scars either. His eyes rake right over them, from one side to the other, drinking him in with dark eyes, like the way he looks is doing something for Sam. 

The attention makes his skin crawl, but Sam doesn't let him focus on it for long. He leans forward in Bucky's lap and kisses his neck, along his shoulder. He doesn't stop when his lips meet the cool metal ridge, and they don't linger. He kisses it like it's just another part of him. 

“Is it alright if I touch you?” Sam asks.

Bucky nods frantically. 

Sam runs a hand up the inside of his thigh. Palms him over the front of his sweats. Bucky groans and lets his head tip back. He hasn't been touched like this in a long time. Along with everything else, he forgot how damn good it feels. 

Sam lifts himself off Bucky's lap enough to tug his pants down. He never wears boxers with his sweats, and he squirms when the cold air hits his cock. 

Sam's back in his lap, and Bucky waits for his hand to come back, but it never does. He looks up at Sam impatiently. Here they are, and Bucky's more naked than he's been in front of anybody except his handler at Hydra since he was twenty five, and Sam's not budging. 

“Can we–” 

“Touch yourself,” Sam interrupts him. Bucky's caught off guard. He cocks his head and frowns, and then the words sink in and he flushes, feels his face heat up all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“What?” 

Sam presses a wet kiss to his jaw. Another to the shell of his ear. He lowers his voice, just a whisper when he says, “Go on, I want to watch.” 

Bucky can't do anything but nod again. He was expecting Sam to get a hand around him, to jerk him off quick and dirty, let Bucky do the same to him and then they'd go sleep in their separate rooms, relaxed and sated, but not any closer than they’d already been. And Bucky doesn’t mind that. Really, he doesn’t, but this feels different. Feels more intimate. 

Sam wanting to watch means he’s getting something out of it. Means he’s getting something out of Bucky that’s got nothing to do with his own dick getting touched. He must like the way Bucky looks an awful lot. Bucky hasn’t felt all that attractive ever since everything, and it feels nice to know Sam thinks so. 

He’s feeling all sorts of overwhelmed when he wraps a hand around himself and strokes once, twice, then Sam stops him with a hand on his wrist. “Other one.” 

Bucky stills. So that’s what it was all about. “I’m startin’ to think you’ve got a fetish or something,” Bucky says. 

Sam laughs, low and rumbly in his ear. 

Bucky switches to his other hand, and jerks at the first touch. The metal is cool and hard. It doesn’t feel anything like his other hand, and after a few seconds of jerking himself off with it he’s sure it’s not going to go anywhere. 

“I don’t think this’ll work,” Bucky tells him. 

Sam shifts in his lap, cradles Bucky's face and kisses him again. “Gorgeous,” Sam mumbles. “Christ, Buck, you’re gorgeous.” 

His cock twitches in his hand. Okay, maybe he can do this after all. 

“Keep talking.”  

Sam mouths up Bucky’s neck, whispering against his skin. A nonstop string of praises, all you’re doing so good. Fuck, you look great like this. Just like that, Buck, yeah, I want to see you. 

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and forces deep breaths in through his nose, and out through his mouth. He can feel his orgasm building, a heat that pools low in his stomach and spreads through him, warming him from the inside, making him hyper aware of everything going on around him. Sam’s weight in his lap, Sam’s words tickling the side of his neck. He can still smell his cologne. His hips jerk up and he fucks his fist in earnest. 

“Slow,” Sam whispers against his neck, and Bucky’s rewarded by Sam’s fist wrapping around his own. He sets the pace, agonizingly slow but steady. Sam swipes his thumb over the head on the upstroke and smears a drop of precum around. Bucky moans. 

“We’ve got all night,” Sam says. 

“Three hours,” Bucky corrects. 

“Alright, three hours. It’s not a race.” 

They stay just like that, Bucky jerking himself off on the couch, Sam in his lap, sucking on his neck and occasionally changing Bucky’s pace, deciding when he goes faster, when he goes slower. “You see,” Sam tells him, “it’s alright, it can feel good. They don’t control it, you do.”

After god knows how long, Bucky can’t take it much longer. The muscles in his stomach flutter and his hips buck again. He tightens his fist, and he feels it in his whole body, warm and tingling. “Sam,” Bucky says tightly, “I can’t keep– I’m gonna–” 

Sam shows him some mercy. He replaces Bucky’s fist with his own. He feels so different, his hand big, and warm, and soft despite the callouses. He strokes Bucky fast and tight and Bucky needs to fight to keep from letting out a noise loud enough to wake the whole house up. Sam’s free hand takes a hold of Bucky’s left again and guides it to his mouth. He takes two of Bucky’s fingers into his mouth, wraps his perfect lips around them. He can’t feel it very well, but he’s got enough pressure sensitivity to tell Sam’s swirling his tongue around them. 

The visual alone would be enough, but that coupled with Sam’s hand on him, and the wet spot that’s been growing in the front of Sam’s sweats from where he’s so turned on he’s fucking leaking. 

Bucky’s a goner. He uses his right hand to cover his mouth so he doesn’t cry out when he cums and Sam strokes him through the whole thing, keeps stroking him until Bucky’s over sensitive and twitching and has to bat his hand away. 

“Holy shit,” Bucky breathes. Sam is grinning, all sharp and cocky, and all Bucky can think about is wiping the stupid, beautiful smile right off his face. He grabs Sam by the back of the neck and pulls him closer, kisses him again, teeth first, and Sam moans into his mouth. 

Bucky doesn’t let him back enough to get his pants off. He shoves his hand right down the front, under the waistband of Sam’s boxers and wraps his fist around him. Sam’s breath hitches when Bucky touches him, and Christ, he’s perfect. He’s big, and his skin is slick and hot, and Bucky can’t help himself when he licks a stripe up the side of Sam’s neck just to taste the salty sheen of sweat. 

One of Sam’s hands grabs at the back of the couch, the other grabs Bucky’s right arm so hard he hopes he’ll have a bruise in the shape of Sam’s fingerprints. 

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” Sam says breathlessly. “You’re–you’re fucking amazing, you know that? Fuck, that feels good.” 

Sam gets talkative when he’s turned on, Bucky learns. In any other circumstances this would be great news. Bucky likes Sam’s voice. He likes seeing Sam let his guard down, let his mask slip. Really, this is every wet dream Bucky’s had come true, but they’re on the couch in the shared living space and Steve or Nat could walk out to go to the bathroom at any second. They shouldn’t be doing this here at all, but especially not if Sam isn’t going to keep quiet. 

“You want to come upstairs with me?” Bucky asks, slowing his movements so he’s lazily stroking Sam’s cock, giving him a moment to catch his breath. 

“Can’t,” he pants. “It’s my turn to keep watch.” 

“Steve will be down here soon. It’ll be fine for an hour or two.” 

“Two hours,” Sam repeats, an eyebrow arching. “What exactly are your plans with me, Barnes?” 

Bucky’s thankful it’s too dark for Sam to see him flush. “Come upstairs with me and find out.” 

Sam looks pained when he shakes his head. “Buck, we need to be responsible.” 

And there it is. The same radical selflessness that Bucky loves about Steve, it’s in Sam too. Usually Bucky thinks it’s admirable. He wanted to be just like that, back in the day. The perfect soldier, willing to lay his life down at the drop of a hat. 

Bucky doesn’t want to be a soldier anymore. He isn’t sure he wants Sam to be one either. Steve’s beyond saving, but Sam could probably be convinced. “You deserve a break,” Bucky tells him. 

Sam puts a hand on Bucky’s arm to stop him from moving. He pulls his hand out of his pants, wipes his palm on Sam’s sweats, and ignores the look Sam gives him when he does. 

“We don’t get breaks in this line of work. I know what I signed up for.” 

God, Sam is more stubborn than Steve. Bucky didn’t think it was possible, but the proof is right in front of him. He’s pretty sure even Steve would fold for the promise of sex.

Sam got Bucky to fold before he even got a hand on him. Bucky didn’t want to touch anyone with the arm Hydra gave him. He was happy to ignore it until he figured out a way to claw it off and go without a left arm for a while, but Sam didn’t let him. Sam thought he could show Bucky it wasn’t all bad. It’s not like jerking off with his left hand one time is going to fix everything, but it certainly didn’t feel bad. 

The guilt hits him with the force of a train and Bucky feels like an awful friend and an even worse… god, what would he even call it? Fuck buddy? Bed partner? 

It doesn’t matter. He feels awful. He spent this whole time letting Sam focus on what he needed, what he thought would help Bucky relax and open up and, really, the focus has been on him the whole time when clearly Sam needs this just as bad as he does. Maybe more. 

“I want you to be a little more selfish,” Bucky tells him. 

Sam moves like he’s going to get up. Bucky stops him with a hand on his hip. He runs it up and down his thigh, avoiding his dick so Sam can think. 

Sam seems to be coming to the same conclusion that Bucky had. He shakes his head. “We can’t do this here. You should get dressed, everyone’s home and–” 

“Upstairs,” Bucky interrupts. He sounds wrecked and desperate, and this is as much muscle memory as everything else had been. That’s just what you did with the dolls back in the day. They loved playing hard to get, and Bucky loved the chase as much as anything else. “I’ll make it worth your while, promise you that.” He kisses Sam, quick and wet and filthy. “Just want to return the favor. You made me feel so good, gorgeous. Let me show you a good time, let me take you somewhere a little more private, alright? I don’t want Steve or Nat waking up is all.” He gets his hand on Sam again. He ruts into the touch.

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he’s still rocking his hips, moaning into Bucky’s ear. Bucky takes it as a good sign. “You like that, don’t you? I want to give you more, would you let me?” 

Sam hardly holds out another ten seconds before he’s nodding and mumbling his agreements against Bucky’s neck. “Alright, yeah, I want it. I’ll let you, anything you want, just keep touching me, alright? Don’t stop doing that.” 

Bucky presses his lips to the high point of Sam’s cheekbones. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Gonna show you a good time, alright?” 

“Fuck, alright.” Sam’s just hauling himself out of Bucky’s lap when they hear the unmistakable creak of Steve’s bedroom door. 

Sam’s a deer in headlights. Frozen to the spot with his eyes wide and frightened. Bucky’s already got his pants pulled back up and is throwing Sam back onto the couch. Their shirts are on the floor, but they’re still mostly dressed. Just a little readjusting, a conveniently placed throw pillow for Sam, and the blanket off the back of the couch for Bucky, and it could look like they were just sleeping. Nothing weird. 

Steve's footsteps creak down the stairs and Bucky gives him a weak smile from under the blanket. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Steve rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. “I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Came to see if you want me to switch you out early.” 

“I'm alright,” Sam says stiffly. “I kind of wanted to finish this movie.” 

“Movie's great,” Bucky agrees. 

He sees Steve's eyes flick briefly to the floor where both of their shirts lay inside out and forgotten, but he doesn't say anything. Just yawns and slunks to the kitchen to throw on a pot of coffee. “Mind if I watch with you?” 

“Not at all,” Sam says, catching Bucky's eye across the couch. He looks irritated and uncomfortable. Bucky stretches his leg out and gives Sam's thigh a kick. His wordless way of telling him to loosen up. 

“You want some, Buck?” comes Steve's voice from the kitchen while Sam smacks his foot away under the blanket. 

***

Bucky decides that Sam needs to get laid. 

The same way Sam probably looked at him and thought hey, he needs some help accepting the titanium weapon that Hydra surgically attached to his body after experiencing huge bodily trauma, and then decided that the best way to do it would be through sexual release.

Bucky's feeling all those same things about Sam. Not about the weapon thing in particular. Sam’s never been turned into a weapon. But still. 

He saw a glimpse of Sam relaxed that night on the couch. With his shoulders slumped and his walls coming down. He looked peaceful that night. 

Until they were interrupted. 

Bucky didn't think much of Sam looking stiff and uncomfortable while Steve sat between them, their shirts on the floor, a pillow still pressed firmly to Sam's lap. Bucky had been tense then, too. Desperate to shower but not wanting to make it too obvious. 

The next day Bucky felt great. He let himself fall asleep around seven that morning and didn't wake up until Steve was pounding on his door for dinner. He didn't have a nightmare, either. Just a deep, empty sleep he so rarely got these days. After dinner, he slept again.

Sam, on the other hand, was irritable the following day at breakfast even though he tried to play it off like he wasn't. Bucky saw the hard set to his jaw, the shallow breathing. The way his fingers gripped impossibly tight on the fridge door when he saw that Steve had drunk the last of the milk and left the empty carton sitting tauntingly on the bottom shelf. 

And though his voice didn't waver when he said, “it's cool, man. I was going to have cereal, but it's no big deal, I'll make eggs. Anyone want some?” Bucky could see him about to snap.

It was a week of Sam getting wound tighter and tighter before anyone said anything. It was Steve who broke the silence. Not to Sam, but to Bucky. 

Steve cornered him in the yard one evening while Bucky sat on the back porch scribbling in his journal. He had a new memory, teasing his little sister til she cried and cried and cried. He doesn't feel good about it, but it was him. He doesn't get choosy about what goes in the journal or not. The good and the ugly, it's all him. Every poor decision he made before Hydra took that from him, at least it was his own will. 

“You got something you want to tell me,” Steve asks, slipping out the back door and leaning against the side of the house. That’s how Bucky knows he’s in trouble. When Steve wants to have a heart to heart he’ll sit down. When Steve stays standing and puffs his chest out with his arms crossed Bucky knows he’s about to get scolded. 

“Hmm,” Bucky pretends to think. “Nah, I don’t think so.” 

“Buck,” Steve says flatly. “Level with me, buddy.” 

“I’m level,” Bucky tells him. “I’m super level.”

Steve huffs like this is all very frustrating for him. “I’ll just come right out and ask, then.” 

“Please do.” 

“What’s going on with you and Sam?” 

Bucky expected the question. He’s able to let it wash right over him without so much as flinching. “What makes you think something’s going on with me and Sam?” 

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.” 

“No clue,” Bucky says, chewing on the end of his pen. 

“The other night, when you two were ‘watching a movie’ together on the couch.” He does big air quotes around the watching a movie part, then throws his hands up in the air. “What was that about? I mean, your clothes were on the floor.” 

“My shirt was on the floor,” Bucky corrects. “It was hot, we took our shirts off. Don’t be such a prude, Rogers.” Bucky grins at him. Steve doesn’t crack a smile, but he sighs and sits down on the edge of the porch shoulder to shoulder with Bucky.  

“You weren’t worried about me when you were asking me about Sam, huh?” 

Bucky knows better than to lie to Steve. “No. I wasn’t.” 

“You were seeing if I was interested in him.” 

Bucky knocks his shoulder into Steve’s. It’s his left arm. He hardly cares. “Wasn’t gonna try and get in the middle of anything if you liked him. He’s a pretty big upgrade from Stark. I can’t complain about that.” 

“You’ll like Tony when you get to know him,” Steve says. His face falls a bit after he says it. “Maybe. If things get better, I mean. You guys have a lot in common.” 

Bucky tries hard not to make a face. Steve is his best friend in the world but he’s got questionable taste in men. Bucky feels pretty guilty about the whole thing too. He’s not sorry Steve and Stark aren’t together anymore, but he’s awfully sorry that he’s the reason Steve lost the guy he was going around with. 

“You slept with Sam, didn’t you?” Steve asks quickly. 

Bucky accepts the subject change with grace. “We didn’t do a lot of sleeping.” 

“Oh, gosh.” Steve huffs a laugh and looks away. “I don’t need details, Buck.” 

“We just fooled around. It’s not a big deal. I’m not even sure he likes me.” Bucky leaves out the part where he didn’t even get the chance to get Sam off and now things are somehow more tense than before. 

“You like him though?” 

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees quietly. “I like him. Don’t tell him, alright?” 

Steve throws an arm over his shoulder and Bucky still can’t believe he’s big enough to do that so comfortably now. “I wouldn’t. I’m just checking on you. You’re my best guy, Buck. Gotta make sure you don’t get your heart broken.” 

“My heart is fine. Christ, you’re a sap.” 

Steve presses a kiss to the top of his head and ruffles up his hair real good. Bucky gives him a shove and Steve shoves him back. They wrestle around on the back porch for a few minutes before they’re both red in the cheeks and laughing like they’re boys again. 

***

Seducing Sam on the couch isn’t going to work because Steve has no problem interrupting and he’s pretty sure Sam is scarred now. The incident on the couch wasn’t a big deal to Bucky, but Steve had been helping Bucky get laid since the 40’s. He’s desensitized. 

Sam’s still got a little pride, though. A little shame. It doesn’t matter. Like he said, he loves the chase. 

The hard part is getting Sam alone. Him and Steve share a room, so he can’t just knock. When he’s up on his guard shift is the easiest time to catch him, but Sam usually takes the earlier watch, so when Steve, or Nat, or Bucky switch him out at nearly three in the morning he can barely drag himself up the stairs and flop into bed. 

During the day he’s working. Either on a mission or sitting around the table in the kitchen planning one. Bucky tries to be helpful, but his goddamn brain can’t keep up most days. Steve uses his Captain America voice and tells them all things like neutralize the threat. There will be minimal collateral if we move fast. Engage on sight, and Bucky feels his shoulders square as his body remembers and is filled with the overwhelming, nauseating urge to comply. 

After that he feels sick and his brain goes fuzzy and it’s hard to focus on what he needs to do. 

So, it’s hard to get Sam alone, and it’s even harder to get Sam alone somewhere Bucky can talk to him. And sleep with him, hopefully, but he’s not going to get ahead of himself. 

He starts feeling like he’s stalking Sam. Keeping his door cracked all night so whenever someone wakes up and pads through the hall to use the bathroom he can poke his head out and see who it is. It was Sam, once, and Bucky waited patiently outside the bathroom door for him to be finished, and when he did come out, stretching and yawning, he saw Bucky and jumped half a foot in the air. 

“Jesus Christ, man. Scared the shit outta me,” Sam mumbled in his gravelly sleep voice that made Bucky lightheaded. “Sorry, didn’t know you were waiting on me.” 

And he goes back to bed, like Bucky was waiting to use the bathroom instead of waiting outside the door to try and jump his bones in the middle of the night. 

He isn’t really able to get Sam alone until a few weeks later. 

They have to leave the safe house they’d been staying at, which is a real bummer because Bucky was really starting to like this one. Someone found them, though. A lot of people have been trying real hard to hunt them down, and he guessed they finally succeeded. 

Steve tries not to tell Bucky too much of anything, so Bucky doesn’t know the details. It’s not that Steve doesn’t trust him. Steve spends a lot of time reassuring Bucky it has nothing to do with trust, it’s just that he doesn’t want to stress Bucky out with all this stuff. He hardly lets him help out on missions. 

He’s been real protective over Bucky ever since the serum. It makes Bucky feel awful sometimes, since he used to be the one protecting Steve. Now he hardly remembers those days, and he jumps at small noises, and he’s not able to protect anyone very well. 

But they found where the four of them had been hiding out. It happened while Steve was keeping watch, so he took care of the situation quickly without any back up and they have to book a couple rooms in a shitty motel about thirty miles down the road until they can find somewhere else to stay. 

Nat books them two double queen rooms and gives one key to Steve, and keeps the other for herself. Bucky doesn’t like to room with anyone, but when it comes down to it everyone knows he’s going to go with Steve. 

“Actually, Natasha, I wanted to talk plans with you,” Steve says, handing off his room key to Sam. “We can share for tonight, if that’s alright with you?”

“Yeah, of course,” She glances at Bucky, “that alright with you?” 

Bucky nods. “Yeah. No big deal. Fine by me.” 

The room is small and smells vaguely of mildew. The deadbolt on the door is barely hanging on and there’s a busted lock on the room’s window. The walls are paper thin, the blankets are scratchy, and the carpet has definitely seen better days. 

“Nice place,” Sam says with his nose scrunched up. 

They drop their stuff off and decide that they’re starving. There aren’t restaurants around for at least a couple miles and neither of them feel like going out and risking getting caught again. Bucky volunteers to go get them dinner from the vending machine in the lobby and Sam kicks his sneakers off happily, claiming one of the beds and sprawling out on top of the covers. “Thanks Buck,” he says, “I owe you one.” 

He runs into Steve in the lobby, who’s already got an armful of chips and is watching another bag drop down to the bottom of the machine. 

“You did that on purpose,” Bucky says, leaning up against the side of the machine. 

Steve jumps and nearly drops his chips. “Bucky. Jeez.” 

“You switched rooms so I’d have to be alone with Sam.” 

Steve smiles, a little knowing thing, just barely tugging at the corners of his lips. “You’re welcome.” 

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky says. 

Steve grabs his last bag and steps out of the way. “I’m being a good wingman. All night alone with him, you can finally talk it out.” 

Bucky doesn’t want to talk it out. He wants to work it out the same way they had earlier. On the couch. With Sam in his lap and his hand circling around his dick, but Bucky was lucky for it to happen once, and the odds of it happening again are so low he doesn’t want to get his hopes up. “You suck,” he says stubbornly, and jabs at the button for Cheetos. 

He isn’t sure what kind Sam likes, so he grabs one of everything and hauls it all back into the elevator with Steve. 

“Talk to him,” Steve tells him one last time, before he unlocks the room next door and hides away for the night. Bucky manages to let himself in and only drops one bag in the process. He dumps the rest on his bed and Sam sits up. 

“You buy out the whole vending machine?” 

Bucky scowls and grabs himself a bag of Doritos. “I didn’t know what you liked.”

Sam helps himself to the Chili Cheese Fritos first. “This is still way more chips than anyone needs. We need to get some real food tomorrow. This is hardly dinner.” 

Despite Sam thinking the chips are hardly dinner, they sit on their respective beds and eat through nearly all of them. Sam turns on the TV and puts on Saturday Night Live. Apparently it’s kind of a big deal in the world of television. Bucky doesn’t see the appeal. Sam insists it used to be funnier and tries to explain to Bucky the cultural significance of Peter Dinklage. 

Bucky likes listening to Sam talk. He talks while he chews when he gets impassioned and gestures all around with his hands. Bucky thinks it’s more entertaining than the tv and watches Sam instead. He doesn’t add a lot to the conversation, but he has a great time laying back with a mouthful of doritos, watching. 

When they’re done with dinner Sam takes first watch. He sits in the chair in the corner and stares at the closed curtains. Bucky gets under the covers and tries to pretend to sleep, but he can’t stop watching Sam. He’s tense, the same way he’s been these last few weeks, and his eyes are heavy lidded. He looks exhausted. 

Bucky swings his legs over the edge of the bed. 

“What’re you doing?” Sam mumbles lazily, his chin propped up on his knuckles, his eyes barely open. 

“You’re tired,” Bucky says, grabbing Sam by the wrist and giving him a little tug. “Bed time, Wilson. I’m taking over.” 

“Not happening,” Sam says through a yawn. “You can tap me out at three, you know the drill.” 

“You’re exhausted,” Bucky pushes. 

“I'm hanging in there.” Sam forces a smile. 

“You're too fucking stubborn,” Bucky says, dropping Sam's wrist in frustration. “You never get enough sleep, and you run yourself into the ground trying to do all these missions with Steve, and on top of all of it, you’re an enemy of the state.” 

“A few extra hours of sleep won’t change any of that stuff.” 

“It’ll at least make you less pissed off all the time.” 

Sam stops. He looks at Bucky now, a furrow between his brows. “What do you mean pissed off all the time?” 

“I’ve noticed,” Bucky says, trying to keep the bitter traces of hurt out of his voice. “Ever since, you know, on the couch. You’re tense, and you’re on edge, and I don’t know what exactly I did to piss you off, but at least let me try to help it. We’re going to be stuck together for a while whether we like it or not.” 

Something in Sam’s face softens. The exhaustion is still there, etched into every line, but his ever present mask of stoicism is slipping. “I was never mad. Christ, Buck, I’m not mad at you.” 

“Then what’s all that about?” 

“It’s not–” he takes a deep breath in through his nose, letting his eyes fall shut. Bucky thinks again that he looks embarrassed, which is such a rare sight to see on Sam, Bucky’s almost certain he’s misreading this situation. “I’ve been on edge because I’ve been,” he motions vaguely towards his pelvis. “We started something we didn’t get a chance to finish, and it’s been so long since I’ve been with someone in the first place, I’ve been. You know. Don’t make me say it.” 

Bucky crosses his arms. “I think you should say it.” 

“You know what I mean, man.” 

Bucky closes the distance between himself and Sam’s chair in two swift steps. He plants his hands on the chairs arms and leans in close so he can whisper in Sam’s ear. “You’ve been hot and bothered all this time and you haven’t been able to take care of it?” 

“I’ve tried taking care of it,” Sam says, a little breathless. “Just not what I want.” 

“Yeah?” Bucky goads, dropping his right hand to Sam’s knee and dragging it slowly up his thigh. “And what have you been doing to take care of it?” 

“Jesus,” Sam breathes. 

“I bet it’s not as good as the real thing.” 

“No. No, it’s definitely not.” 

“If this was all you needed you shoulda said something.” Bucky’s hand slides up to rest heavy on Sam’s hip, and Sam squirms in the chair. He wasn’t lying about it having been a while, Bucky’s hardly touched him and he can see the bulge in the front of Sam’s sweats. 

“Wasn’t sure if you still wanted to,” Sam breathes out, his hips arching out of the chair, desperate for Bucky to touch him. “I was worried I pushed too hard. With the– the arm thing.” 

“It’s fine. I needed a push. Now are you going to let me suck your dick or what?”

“We need to stay alert. Clearly we’re not as well hidden as we thought we were.” 

“No one’s going to come looking for us in this shithole.” 

“You don't know that.” 

“You never do anything for yourself,” Bucky says, sinking to his knees in front of the chair. Sam tenses and Bucky uses both his hands to run up and down Sam’s thighs. “You can relax, I’m going to take care of you.”

Sam doesn’t object this time. He rests one hand on Bucky’s shoulder and squeezes it. “If you’re sure,” Sam says, in a voice that’s low and gravelly and goddamn it, Bucky can’t get him in his mouth fast enough. 

“Of course I’m sure,” Bucky says, grabbing at Sam’s waistband and pulling his pants down low on his hips. He’s suddenly very appreciative of the fact that being in hiding has made them all very casual. Bucky doesn’t think he’d have the patience for buttons and zippers, but Sam’s sweatpants give him easy access whenever he wants it. 

Sam’s cock springs free, heavy and flushed and Bucky’s mouth is already watering at the sight. “If you want me to stop–” he begins, but Sam cuts him off before he can finish the sentence. 

“Don’t stop,” he says, with his eyes already closed and his lips parted in anticipation. “I’ve been waiting for this.” 

“How long?” Bucky grabs him by the hips and pulls him forward, so he’s sitting on the edge of the chair, giving Bucky a better angle. 

“A while,” Sam admits, and his hand moves from his shoulder to petting the top of his head. “Since I first saw you, even if I shouldn’t have been thinking about it back then.” 

“That wasn't me,” Bucky says quickly. “How long has it been me you've wanted.” 

Sam's fingers are running through his hair. It's longer than he's ever kept it before. He didn't like it the first few times he looked in the mirror, hardly recognized himself, but he's thankful for it now. Now that he gets to feel the way Sam's fingers run through it, and tuck strands behind his ears. 

“Same answer,” Sam says, arching his hips up and off the chair. “Since I first saw you. Real you, not the soldier.” 

“You didn't trust me.” Bucky says it as a statement, not a question, and he wraps his fist around the base of Sam's cock at the same time.

Sam makes a strangled noise and the hand in Bucky's hair tightens. “No. No, I didn't.”

“But you wanted me.” 

“Don't need to trust you to want to fuck you,” Sam grits out. 

Something tightens in Bucky's chest. He works hard not to let it show on his face. He knew Sam didn't feel the same way. He was fine with that. He had just wanted to pretend, just for a bit, that there were some feelings involved. Sam sure made it easy, scratching his blunt nails across Bucky's scalp in a way that feels so damn loving. He makes it easy to pretend until he opens his damn mouth. 

“I wouldn't have done it,” Sam continues. “I thought you were hot. Thought you were fucking gorgeous, but you were Steve's friend, and I wasn't sure if you were still dangerous. Steve never even let me look at your full file, I had no idea what happened while Hydra had you, if you would ever even want to. I never even thought about making a move until I got to know you.” 

The knot in Bucky's stomach loosens, and even as his breath catches he finds it easier to breathe. “You know me now?” 

Sam lets out a breathy laugh. “Hardly. But I know you're stubborn as Steve is. I know you wouldn't hurt me, wouldn't dream of it. I know how you take your coffee, know what makes you laugh. No fun hooking up with someone you can't laugh with.”

Sam's so damn sweet Bucky can't take it anymore. His own dick is so hard it's starting to ache, and as happy as Bucky is to sit around all night and listen to Sam tell him nice things, he hasn't had blue balls this bad since he was a teenager and he's about to snap.  

He closes his eyes when he takes Sam into his mouth, licking one stripe across the head before closing his lips around him. 

He gives Sam a moment to react, and he does. As soon as Bucky's lips close around him Sam's hips shoot off the chair, and if Bucky had taken him in any further he would have choked. There's far worse things to choke on, sure, but Bucky's got a very personal interest in making sure this is the best head of Sam's life. 

Sam is gorgeous when he's undressed, and his skin tastes like salt and soap, and he smells like heaven, and Bucky can't get enough of him. Even without being touched, getting to have Sam this way leaves him throbbing in his pants and out of his mind with lust. 

More than that, though. Sam deserves it. He deserves the release that comes with an orgasm, and he deserves to feel good, and he deserves nights away from fighting the good fight, he deserves something as simple as an hour of mindless pleasure. And Bucky doesn't care if it's selfish, he wants to be the one to give it to him. 

Bucky puts his left hand on Sam's hip to hold him still, wraps his right around the base of his cock and takes him in further. 

Sam's hand splays on the back of Bucky's head, then tightens into a fist in his hair. “Oh, fuck,” he hisses, and Bucky feels his hips twitch, but he holds them firmly in place. 

It's been a long time since Bucky's done this. He isn't sure how long, his memory has never served him well, but he's pretty sure it's not his first time. It feels familiar and easy, like it's all coming back to him. Even Sam's taste dancing across his tongue feels familiar, except for the parts that are so distinctly Sam. 

Bucky takes him in further, further, and the dark hairs at the base of Sam's cock tickle his nose, and Bucky can smell the traces of his cologne. He drags his tongue up the vein that runs along the underside and swirls it around the head. He's rewarded with a low moan ripped from Sam's chest and another string of expletives. “Holy shit, you're good at that. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Bucky pulls off of him and grins at the praise. He gives Sam a few pumps with his fist and presses his tongue to the slit, swallowing back a bitter bead of precum and revelling in the way Sam shudders below him. 

“You look so good like this,” Sam continues, his voice low and his breath coming in shallow little bursts. “God, you're pretty. You got pretty blue eyes.” 

Bucky's hair is long enough now it gets in his mouth and Sam uses gentle fingers to gather up the loose strands and hold his hair back behind his head. “There you go, gorgeous,” he mumbles, and Bucky thinks giddily that he's in fucking love with him. 

He has the sense not to say it right now, but he tries to show Sam anyway. He takes him down as deep as he can and swallows around him, sucks so hard his cheeks hollow and looks up at Sam from under his lashes. He makes a big show of it as he bobs his head, and works everything he can't reach with his hand. Bucky can take it, but Sam is big. 

Sam, in return, keeps moaning, and keeps whispering praises and curse words underneath his breath, and uses one thumb to wipe the stream of drool that worked its way out of one corner of Bucky's mouth. 

“Buck, I can't– I'm close,” Sam pants, and Bucky pulls off of him, lips pink and parted. 

“Go ahead, I can take it,” Bucky says, and is back on him in a second, hollowing his cheeks out and watching Sam throw his head back. 

“I just, ah, is this all you wanna– I kinda wanted to–” 

“I want you to cum in my mouth,” Bucky says deliriously, then is right back on him, eyes squeezed shut and working Sam with everything he’s got. He’s so hard his own hips are rocking forward restlessly, rubbing himself up against the front of the front of the chair for friction. Sam notices his desperation and shifts one of his legs so it’s in between where Bucky’s kneeling. 

“C’mon, baby, it’s okay,” Sam mumbles. Bucky’s brain short circuits when Sam calls him baby and he forgets to be embarrassed as he grinds against his leg, rubbing himself off against his shin and choking when his cock hits the back of his throat. Sam’s hand tightens in his hair and Bucky can’t help but moan around him, and that’s it for Sam. He holds Bucky’s head in place while he cums. And cums, and cums, and cums. Bucky swallows through the aftershocks while Sam makes wonderful, blissed out noises and lets Bucky keep rocking against his leg. 

“That’s good, baby,” Sam slurs, giving Bucky’s hair a little tug when he’s too sensitive, and Bucky pulls off of his cock. Sam gives his head a soothing scratch with his fingers where he had been pulling and Bucky can’t help the whine he lets out at the touch. 

“C’mon, ‘s your turn,” Sam mumbles, motioning for Bucky to get up. Bucky’s so close, though. The bitter taste of Sam’s cum is on his tongue and in the back of his throat, and he could get off just like this. He drops his head onto Sam’s knee, squeezes his eyes shut, and shoves his own hand into the front of his sweats. He nearly chokes when he finally touches himself. 

“C’mere,” Sam tries again, and he looks so warm and inviting, the way he’s sprawled out on the chair, happy and spent. Bucky’s able to tear his hand away for the two seconds it takes to get up and scramble into Sam’s lap. He’s rewarded by Sam’s hand instead of his own, big and warm, and shoved down the front of Bucky’s pants with no preamble. 

Bucky's spilling all over Sam's fist in a matter of seconds. Humiliatingly quickly, but Sam doesn't make him feel awful about it. Sam presses his lips to Bucky's temple while Bucky shakes through his orgasm in his lap and whines in his ear. 

“Oh my god,” Bucky says once he catches his breath. He collapses on top of Sam, buries his face in Sam's salty neck. “I swear I used to be better at that. I don't remember a lot, but I know I could go for more than a few seconds.” 

“I know all about that.” Sam runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, gently working at the knots he got while his hands were in it. “I remember reading about you in my seventh grade social studies book. Called you quite the womanizer.” 

Bucky snorts out a laugh. “It did not say that.” 

“Swear to god. There was a whole two sentences dedicated to Captain America's best friend. I remember.” 

“At least one of us does.” 

“Don't feel too bad,” Sam tells him gently, “I can usually go longer too. It's been a while.” 

“Wouldn't have been so long if you weren't so damn guarded. You can't get laid if you don't trust anyone.” 

“I'm not interested in getting laid,” Sam says defensively. “I don't do hookups, Barnes. Well. I don't usually do hookups.” 

“That's what this is then?” Bucky asks quietly. He keeps his voice neutral even when he's certain his face is betraying him. It's not a big deal, he tells himself. They need to define things. That's an important first step. 

“Well, what would you call it?” 

Bucky stills when the question is flipped back around on him. If it were up to him it would be the beginning of a long and happy courtship that ends in marriage, but he's got Sam's neck smell filling his nose and Sam's cum drying in the corner of his mouth and he shouldn't be making any important decisions in this state of mind. “Look at how happy you look,” Bucky says instead, finally pulling his head off of Sam's shoulder to look down at him, all content and loose. Bucky brings his hands to Sam's shoulders and digs his thumbs into the muscles. Sam groans and lets his head fall back. “Call it routine maintenance. Next time you get so horny you can't walk straight, let me know. I'll take care of you.” 

He digs his thumb into a particularly tense spot in Sam's shoulder, and he jerks a little, lets out a whine, and Bucky can't help when his cock stirs again. He rubs Sam's shoulders until the knots are all worked out and there’s a slump to them that wasn’t there before. He shifts in the chair, and with Bucky in his lap like this it's not hard for him to notice. 

“Are you hard again?” Sam's eyes fly open. 

“Sorry. You were makin’ those noises.” 

“No, don't be sorry,” Sam says quickly. “Just, already?” 

Bucky can feel the flush creeping up the back of his neck. “Can you… not?” 

“No, I mean, I can. It just takes a couple minutes. And a lot of working back up, you know. It's a serum thing, isn't it? Honestly, I've always wondered but you can't just ask something like that, you know? Especially not Steve–” 

“Stop talking,” Bucky interrupts. Talking about his post-serum libido and all the ways he's so intrinsically different now is quickly turning out to be one of his least favorite topics. 

“How many times?” Sam asks. 

“What?” 

“How many times can you…” he trails off and motions eloquently at Bucky's boner. 

“Who do you think I've been having sex with out here? I don't know.” 

“When you touch yourself, I mean.” Sam's got a heavy hand on Bucky's thigh and he's so turned on now the pressure of it feels nearly burning. 

“You want to find out?” Bucky asks in lieu of an answer. 

Sam nods and wastes no time getting his hands on Bucky's hips, mouthing at his neck. “Hell yeah I do, fuck. It alright if I touch you again, sweetheart?” 

Bucky slips off Sam's lap and extends a hand to him. Sam only looks distraught at the loss of contact for a moment before he takes Bucky's hand and hauls himself up off the chair and into Bucky's arms. 

The kiss is hungry, all teeth and tongues and hands. Bucky pushes Sam back onto one of the beds and crawls on top of him, straddling his hips, boxing his shoulders in where Bucky's hands are on the mattress. He noses at Sam's jaw, sucks the skin on his neck. “I wanna fuck you,” Bucky whispers low in his ear. “Would that be okay?” 

Sam's breath catches below him and he nods furiously. “Yeah, fuck. Fuck me,” he breathes, and it's a miracle Bucky doesn't cum again right there, just from that. 

** 

They get out of the motel the following night. They hop a couple countries over and Nat finds them a new safe house to stay at on a remote island just off the coast. It's not nearly as nice as the last house. The plumbing works okay but the power is iffy and Bucky's right back in the kitchen, turning his coffee maker on and off, on and off, hoping one of these times it will beep and light up. It remains stubbornly dead. 

He's just starting to consider how much trouble he'd be in for waking up Steve and asking him to start a fire and boil the water for him when an arm wraps around his waist and a nose presses into the back of his neck, and if he wasn't pinned so tight he would've jumped half a foot in the air. 

“Jesus, Sam.” 

“I thought I heard you get up,” he mumbles, pressing a kiss to the side of Bucky's neck and letting him go. “For the world's greatest assassin or whatever you sure are easy to sneak up on.” 

“I'm tired,” Bucky says through a yawn. 

“I can see that. Power out again?” 

Bucky nods miserably. 

“You're useless,” Sam tells him without any bite. “Give me a couple minutes, I'll make you some the old fashioned way.” 

Bucky parks himself at the kitchen table and watches Sam work. The new house has big windows, and the early morning sunlight makes Sam's skin glow. He's in a black tank top this morning, and Bucky watches the contours of his muscles while he works, loading up the little fireplace with wood. 

Bucky knows those muscles intimately now. Knows what it feels like for them to hold him, what it feels like to sink his teeth into them to keep from screaming while Sam fucks him. 

They've only had this arrangement for a little bit. It's been just over two weeks since the first time in the motel. But, as it turns out, now that the dam is broken they can't keep their hands off each other. 

Steve and Sam still share a room, so Sam sneaks off to Bucky's damn near everynight. Crawls into his bed and they make out, long and lazy. Sometimes rough and hurried. The first time Sam gives Bucky head he sees stars and is so sated he doesn't need another round and nearly falls asleep with Sam curled up on his chest. He's still determinedly against sleeping next to Sam until the nightmares stop. 

Sometimes they stop there, they get each other off with hands and mouths and then breathe together in a sweaty tangle of limbs. Sometimes they go further. Bucky will fuck Sam into the mattress. Sam likes to take it with his ass up and his face pressed into the pillows. Bucky likes him on his back with his legs spread and his big brown eyes open. 

Sam fucks him too, sometimes. It's a new development for them. Newer than all the other new developments. But Bucky likes it. The first time Sam fucked him he cried and cried and couldn't explain why he was crying. It just felt so damn good, and Sam was right there. On top of him, and around him, and god, he was inside of him and Bucky had never cried during sex before, at least he thinks he hasn’t, but he couldn't stop. He thought he scared Sam away, but he was back in Bucky's bed the next night, teasing and laughing just like always. 

Bucky's in love with Sam. He doesn't say it, because there's a thousand reasons not to, and because Sam might not feel the same way, and because Bucky really, really doesn't want to mess this up. But he loves Sam, and sometimes he sees a little glint in Sam's eye and he thinks desperately that maybe Sam feels the same. But they don't say it yet. 

Sam's dropping off a mug in front of Bucky a few minutes later, with three sugar packets and a spoon. Bucky opens the packs and stirs them in with his left hand. He doesn't even think about it. The metal arm has been bothering him less and less these days. 

Sam sits across from him and drinks his own coffee. He's been sleeping better. The bags under his eyes have faded into something almost undetectable and his smile comes easier in the mornings. 

“You alright?” Sam asks. “You're staring at me.” 

“Have you considered I like what I see?” 

Sam grins crookedly and leans across the table to kiss him. It's soft and easy, like the morning.