Archive of Our Own

Bucky’s mission’s a bust. Was less of a mission and more of a favor for the wizard doctor anyway—scope out the portal situation in Mexico, see if any nasty creatures come out of it, and fight them if they do. Turns out it was some new wizard kid messing around with spells.

The only thing left to do now is wait for his flight back home later that night. The sun’s already beginning to dip and he’s stretched out on the motel’s bed, air conditioning on full blast, watching TV. 

He’s flipping through channels, indecisive, pecking at vending machine chips when there’s a familiar flash of red, blue, and silver on the passing screen. He flips back quickly and lands on the local news, airing the fight at the White House. The building is in shambles; the lawn is on fire, and the president is huge and red and raging. 

Bucky puts his earpiece in and connects to Sam’s line, already smiling as he watches Sam glide across the TV screen and touch his finger to his ear. 

“If you called just to tell me how well this is going, I’m gonna hang up on your ass,” Sam says. He dives from the roof and swoops Kamala out of Ross’ flaming path. 

“Nah, I’d say it’s going pretty good. SNAFU, you know.” Sam laughs on the other end. “Hey, what the hell are you wearing?” Bucky only spots a glimpse of muted blue and a spot of deep red. The style’s more similar to Sam’s old Falcon gear than the Wakandan design with those exposed forearms and gaping neckline. 

On the TV, Sam grins and tugs at his collar. “It’s new, you like it? Courtesy of our recently pardoned friend.”

“So what, the one I got you ain’t good enough anymore?” 

Sam shakes his head, that perfect, pearly smile wide, eyes narrowed. “Just changing it up a little, Buck.”

“Yeah well. Looks unsafe. Your entire forearm is out. Does it even have padding? Kevlar? A cock cup?”

Sam snorts. “Yes, ma, it does. And look at this shit.” Sam pumps his arm along his flank and a massive fuck-off rifle unfolds from his gauntlet. He fires a few rounds at Ross then uses the shield to block the burning tree branch Ross whacks him with. 

“Alright, that’s impressive. Gotta give Sharon a call.”

Sam spins his shield out, hits Ross in the head, and then he and Joaquín perform a nausea-inducing maneuver in the air that knocks Ross right on his ass. The ground and cameraman shake with the impact. Kate catches Sam’s shield on the rebound and tosses it back at him. 

Metal clunks close by as Sam snatches it out of the air and holsters it. “When are you back?” Wanna do beers and Chow Mein? Watch a game or something?” 

“Flying in tonight. Sounds good. You staying over in New York?”

“Rhodey’s going round back!” Sam shouts at someone on the field. “Round back!—Yeah, is your couch still available?” Sam sprints off across the demolished lawn toward the red inferno, huffing like a rhino about to charge at him.

“Couch is always available. The bed too if you’d stop being hard-headed about it.” 

“I like the couch.”

Bucky’s still sleeping on the floor and no one’s going to tell him otherwise. Even Steve agreed with him on that and Steve argued with anything that moved. Sam apparently has a love affair going on with Bucky’s two-seater.

They’ve been up and down between New York and Louisiana for a while now. The traveling’s a pain but it’s nice to have a friend, nice to share a quiet weekend with someone—sitting on the docks with their feet dangling in the water, snacking on Sarah’s fries while Sam tries to explain what baitcasting is or getting dinner from a food truck on Sixth Street then watching the sun set over Brooklyn from Bucky’s rooftop.

“Hang on!” Sam says, then lets out a guttural growl.

The line cuts out for a second and it takes the TV footage a few more moments to catch up to events. When it does, Sam has collided with Ross and driven the tips of his wings into Ross’ chest, toppling him over and stabbing him over and over. 

“Damn,” Bucky says, grinning. “That move never gets old.”

Sam releases with another groan and stumbles back, heaving. Distantly, the onlookers cheer and whistle. The camera cuts from Sam to Ross to the rest of the team, then back to Sam. 

Kamala runs to inject Ross with lurid yellow tranquilizer vials. Ross’ chest rises and falls with rapid staggering breaths, arms flailing to get up as the drugs kick in.

“Fuck,” Sam says, exhaling hard.

“Good job, Cap. You alright?” 

“Yeah, little winded now, though. Could do with that beer.” He stands beside Ross’ slacking red body, hands on his hips, grimacing at the damage around him. 

“Well, the couch is waiting, beer is in the fridge. We’ll probably get there at about the same time.”

Sam shoots a salute off toward the news van’s direction. “See you in a minute, Buck.”

There’s a slight rustle from Ross just then that has Sam looking down, followed by an abrupt jerking movement as he swipes the team off their feet and into the barrier near the news vans.

In the same swift motion, Ross’ massive red hand wraps around Sam’s forearm when he spreads his wings for takeoff. He yanks Sam closer and crushes the wing pack in his other palm, rips the wings clean off. The mangling metal sounds horrific over the comms, distorted like a haywire radio signal. Ross picks Sam up by his wrist and Sam screams in pain, body flailing between kicking and hanging on and breaking free.

Bucky shoots up from the bed. “Sam?” 

Sam dangles in the air, pumping his free arm and unfolding the hidden rifle, aiming it at Ross’ eye, but Ross crushes that too. All that red bulk and metal clamping down on Sam’s bones.

Sam’s screams intensify, horrific and blood-chilling. Right in Bucky’s ear.

“Sam!” Bucky trembles, his stomach twisting, nauseated, miles, and miles away, and unable to do anything but watch it happen on a 25-inch screen. 

A recurring nightmare materializes before his eyes.

In most of Bucky’s dreams, he is a young man falling from a train and crashing into crisp snow, a heavy thud, then haunting silence. In the rest of those dreams, Sam plummets to earth, wingless, then breaks. He tells himself often that they’re only dreams, that Sam is capable and skilled far beyond any combat-abled civilian he’s ever known. He reminds himself each time Sam’s in a fight that the suit is more than sufficient protection, that every fiber of vibranium absorbs impact and directs it away from Sam. Away. That had been his first and foremost request to Ayo. Always away. 

But Sam’s not wearing vibranium today. 

Ross starts toward the White House with Sam dangling by his wrists and struggling. Joaquín flies overhead and tries to grab Sam, but Ross won’t let go of him. It only gets Joaquín smacked into a fence. Kamala chases after them, as big as Ross now, and Kate fires a few more of those yellow vials at him with her arrows.

As Ross staggers about, he flips Sam over his shoulder like a backpack, Sam’s wrists in a vise grip.

Sam’s screams become ragged, wet breaths. “Buck!” he cries out, his voice like nothing Bucky’s ever heard. He’s heard Sam pissed and desperate and sad even, but this is pure terror.

“I’m here,” says and moves closer to the TV, waiting in absolute helpless horror for what Ross is about to do next. “Can you—can you get away?” Bucky says, knowing and seeing by the angle and the pain Sam’s in, that he can’t.

Sam pushes off Ross’ back, straining his arms, which are without a doubt broken now, and lets out a sobbing scream again. 

And then Ross stumbles toward the building’s front steps, groans, and slams Sam down on the ground. 

Sam hits a chunk of rubble that used to be a pillar at the entrance of the White House and his face smacks into the marble steps. Bounces off it before he goes still.

Ross lets out a deafening growl and lifts his fists over Sam’s body.

Bucky’s frozen, watching. He tries to listen for a heartbeat through the comms, but the line distorts. He knows if there is a heartbeat and Ross slams down, there’ll won’t be one anymore. 

He switches the comms over to Joaquín’s line. “Where are you!” 

The shield clunks against Ross’ head just then, zips back up and Joaquín catches it. The blow makes Ross stagger back. He’s struggling to stay upright now. Kamala whacks an oversized fist at him and Kate fires off a blade-like arrow smack bang between his eyes that finally takes him down. 

“I’m here. I’m with him now,” Joaquín says, breathless. “He’s breathing—Get med-vac over here now!”  The TV footage cuts between zoomed-in images of Ross’ body and Joaquín kneeling beside Sam. He touches Sam’s head, then his arm, his thigh. His face twists with panic. “Uh, Buck, this doesn’t look good. This… oh God. This doesn’t look good at all.” 

And Bucky throws up. 

Waiting at the airport is hell. The flight to Washington is hell. 

Joaquín keeps him updated and organizes a flight for Sarah while Bucky’s on the plane. There’s no news yet, just that Sam’s hurt real bad and gained consciousness in the back of the ambulance, only to pass out again. Joaquín’s replies seem frazzled, but he thinks Sam will need surgery. 

About five excruciating hours later, Bucky arrives at the hospital. Sarah’s already there, must have gotten in just a little before him. She’s slumped in a chair, her head resting against a tall planter. He doubts that she’s sleeping, but her eyes are closed. 

“Hey,” Bucky says quietly, touching her shoulder. 

She blinks awake. The second her eyes fall on Bucky, her chin gives a weak wobble. She gets up and he takes her into his arms. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s gonna be alright.” 

She pulls away and wipes her eyes. “He’s in surgery. Been there for almost three hours now. Doctors aren’t saying much, except he’s got multiple broken bones, head injuries—” She clamps her hand over her mouth and tears bubble out again.

“Jesus.” Bucky pulls her in and rubs her back. “Hey, he’s gonna be fine. He’ll be fine. He’s strong.” 

“We—we keep treating him like he’s a god. Like he’s invincible because he’s so good at this,” Sarah says, a sob wracking through her. “But he’s just my brother. He’s not—he’s just my brother. I can’t lose him.” 

“You won’t. You won’t. It’s okay.” In the face of her worry, those words sound more and more like a lie. “Hey, have you eaten anything?”

Sarah rights herself and uses the cuff of her sweater to wipe her wet cheeks. “Was in the middle of making dinner when I got the call. Not hungry anymore, though.”

“How about some coffee? Hot chocolate? There’s a Coffee Bean just down the road, saw it coming in.”

“Yeah, that’ll do.”

“Wait here, I’ll be right back.”

He heads out as fast as he can and picks up two large coffees and a few cereal bars just in case Sarah gets hungry later. There’s no telling how long they’ll be waiting to hear about Sam. He wonders just how bad it’ll be. Wonders if the doctors are silent because Sam’s worse off than everyone thinks. Bucky wonders how much lasting damage there will be. Exactly how hard did Ross slam him against the rubble? Will he be able to walk? Has he sustained neurological damage from the way his head bounced off that marble… brain damage—

He only realizes he’s shaking out of control when the piping hot coffee spills through the lid of his cup and over his fingers. Bucky’s heart starts pounding so hard it nearly hurts. There’s a sharp ringing in his ears and suddenly there’s no more sidewalk beneath his feet, just a black void.

He stumbles into a wall, a shop window maybe, and puts the coffee cups down on the ledge. Steadies himself against the solid surface and forces his lungs to take in air. His body’s in flight mode and shutting down at the same time—he can’t be this vulnerable but he can’t move either.

“Buck?” he hears, “Bucky!” The voice comes closer. Two steady hands come to rest on his shoulder. “Hey, open your eyes. It’s me. It’s Joaquín. You’re okay.”

“Fuck,” he blinks away the fog. His heart’s still pounding. Joaquín guides him to sit down next to the coffee. The ringing in his ears slowly subsides to a buzz. His skin feels clammy. Feels like he could puke again.

“You good?” 

He looks at Joaquín, busted up and bruised. He’s got stitches on his forehead. “Yeah. I think so, yeah. Thanks.” 

“Cool.” A pinch of concern forms between his eyes. “You uh, you worried too, huh?”

“How bad is it? You were there. What are we looking at?”

Joaquín takes a deep breath. “Concussion for sure. Broke his arm.” He’s quiet for a second. “Had bones poking out—”

“Okay.” Bucky feels sickness swirling in his gut. “How did this happen? Why did no one see that coming?” Bucky’s trying not to point fingers at anyone in particular, especially not Sam’s prodigy who is in all fairness only close to a year post-training. 

An awful look of guilt comes across Joaquín’s face. “We worked out how much it’d take to put him down based on how much we thought he’d taken to get that way. Sharon supplied more, but Sam didn’t want to kill him. It arrived late, border issues, and by then—”

“It’s okay. No one’s fault.” Bucky doesn’t mean that at all. It’s someone’s fault, but he’s trying not to be an asshole here. “I gotta get back to Sarah.” 

“Yeah, of course.” Joaquín extends his hand to help Bucky up. “Better?” 

“Better.” He gets the coffee, which is now lukewarm, and walks back to the hospital with Joaquín.

They wait four more hours before they hear anything. All three try to get as comfortable in the waiting room chairs as they can. Sarah gets more and more antsy, her knee bopping restlessly until finally a surgeon emerges through the doors.

“Wilson?” 

Bucky and Joaquín jump up with Sarah as if they share the name, and everyone's heart rates pick up. The surgeon gives a courteous smile. He knows it’s not great news, but he can’t stand to think that it could be the worst kind of news.

“How is he?” Sarah says.

The doctor tips his head sideways. “He is stable. Surgery went well.” 

Sarah looks relieved for a moment before it dawns on her that surgery is the least of their problems. Her face twists into a grimace. “How bad is it?” 

The doctor shares a schooled and sympathetic version of that same grimace. “Cap’s got two fractured metacarpals in his right hand.” He demonstrates exactly where Sam’s injuries are. “The break extends up to his middle and ring fingers and wrist. We’ve had to repair it with a plate and screws. If all goes well, we’ll remove those in a few months.”  

“The left arm?” Bucky knows it has to be the worst news. Ross crushed a whole rifle into it. Wouldn’t surprise him if they had to amputate. His left arm whirs in response.

Surprisingly, the doctor doesn’t have that thick veil of gloom over his face when he answers. “He sustained comminuted fractures of the radius and connected radio-carpal joint, but they were pretty clean breaks. We got away with a closed reduction.” 

“And in English this means?” Sarah says tiredly. 

“Basically, non-surgical bone realignment. If it doesn’t heal correctly, he’ll need further surgery. For now, a cast will do.”

Bucky’s pretty familiar with that procedure, what with being able to heal that fast and all. Still hurts like hell. And it’s not like Hydra or the KGB kept fiberglass on hand. 

Doc’s tone has been calm, like he’s building up to something. While Sarah and Joaquín’s heart rates have normalized somewhat, Bucky still feels uneasy. “What about, uh, brain trauma?”

Sarah whips a bewildered gaze his way, like she hadn’t considered that. Chances are she’s considered it in detail and Bucky just vocalized her deepest fears. 

“A minor concussion, some bruising. He’s lucky.” Doc looks as surprised about that as Bucky is. “The more serious of his injuries is the tibia fracture, though.” There it is. That chilling scene replays in Bucky’s mind—Sam being slammed down like he’s a rag doll. “Because of the damage done to that bone, we’ve had to perform intramedullary nailing, which means he’s got a rod down the bone cavity as healing support. He’ll be in several casts and a lot of pain for a long time, folks. He’s going to need full-time care once he’s discharged, but he’ll be just fine.”

Bucky’s head swims in relief. He hasn’t cried in a good long while, but feels right on the edge of it now. 

Sarah blinks away tears again. Bucky hands her a Coffee Bean napkin and Joaquín rubs her biceps. “When can we see him, Doc?” Bucky asks.

“He’s heavily sedated right now, still in the recovery unit. Best bet is tomorrow morning. You folks should head out and get some rest.”

Fat fuckin’ chance, pal, Bucky thinks. Sarah gives him a pleading look and Bucky gives a subtle head shake that sets her at ease. There is no universe in which he leaves Sam alone in a hospital ever. He’s surprised there aren’t any heavily armed guards outside the door right now like Steve had after Bucky dragged his ass through the Potomac. 

“I’ll get some guards outside the door,” Joaquín says like a little mind reader. Bucky’s beginning to like this kid. “What?” he says, coy from the way Bucky’s looking at him. “He’s a big deal in the Air Force. People dig him. I bet they’re willing to do some favors.” 

Bucky ruffles his hair. “You’re a good guy, kid. Thanks.” 

And that makes Joaquín beam like the sun.

Bucky drives Sarah to a nearby hotel and gets her settled in. He promises to keep an eye on Sam and that he’ll see her in the morning, and then he rushes back to the hospital. It’s alarmingly easy to sneak into the recovery unit without being noticed. Which is all the more reason for Sam to have guards. He slips down a staff corridor, through the supply room vent, and pushes through Sam’s doors without a peep. 

The yellow glow from the hallway pours into the dimly lit room through the blinds. Bucky shuts them and turns the overheads even lower so that the neon green heart monitor is the only light shining down on Sam. 

And Jesus. He’s a mess. His face is swollen; slight bruising doesn’t begin to cover it. There’s an egg-shaped bump above his eye, a gash on his cheek, both his arms and one leg in a cast. Only the tips of his fingers poke out of the plaster. He won’t be able to use his hands much at all, won’t be able to walk. He’s going to hate this. Sam couldn’t sit still if his life depended on it.

Despite all this, he’s still ethereally beautiful, even more so in this muted light. His lashes curl softly against the high of his cheek, his lips parted just so, the start of that beard he’s trying to grow casting a dark shadow along his jaw.  

Bucky reaches out and traces his fingers softly along the curve of Sam’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says softly.

He unfolds a blanket at the foot of Sam’s bed and covers him with it, turns the temperature up just a fraction, then gets comfortable in the chair beside the bed. The nurses come by often and he fades into the shadows easily. No one knows he’s there, not even the guys in uniform who arrived a few hours later to keep watch outside Sam’s room.

He doesn’t fall asleep even though the steady rhythm of Sam’s heart monitor is a comforting lullaby. Instead, he watches that line spike and fall in tune with the beating of Sam’s heart. 

A little after four that morning, Sam stirs, a quick startle of his confined limbs. His eyes shoot open, lost, bewildered.

Bucky gets up, stands beside him, and curls his fingers around the tips of Sam’s, feeling him tremble.

“Hey?” Bucky says, leaning into Sam’s line of sight. “You okay?” 

Sam blinks, eyes focusing, squinting, and then he grins. It’s a bit of a dazed and confused grin though, but his eyes flick wondrously across Bucky’s face like he’s seeing Bucky for the first time. So much so that Bucky feels exposed and self-conscious, a little flushed down his neck. 

“Damn,” Sam says, tongue heavy, eyes locked with Bucky’s. Then, with an absolutely suggestive and completely comical expression, that crooked grin still on his face, he says, “How you doin’?” But it’s all slurred and the wink that follows is so delayed he looks like a drunken sailor.

Bucky snorts. “Alright, I’m calling a nurse.” He hits the assist button on Sam’s bed railing with Sam still gawking at him in awe and then slips into the shadowy corner by the basin.

But Sam’s eyes don’t leave him, even as he merges with the darkness, and it’s got Bucky’s stomach in all kinds of knots. 

“Mr. Wilson?” A tall, lean nurse enters, frowning as she comes to stand beside Sam’s bed. She takes his temperature. “Didn’t think you’d be up so soon. How are we feeling?” 

He rolls his head lethargically to her, pointing with a limp finger to the shadows. “Who’s that handsome man over there?” 

She just smiles, doesn’t bother looking in the direction he’s pointing. She’s seen her fair share of delusional patients coming out of heavy sedation to be certain there isn’t a handsome man in any corner of this room. 

“Hm, let’s call him your guardian angel, huh? How’s that sound?” She checks his chart and administers another round of medication. 

Sam closes his eyes, the remnants of his grin now sleepy and soft. 

“Yeah, okay,” he mumbles, wagging his finger at Bucky like it’s their little secret, and Bucky smiles. 

 
The first two days after Sam’s accident are quiet. He drifts in and out of sleep a lot being doped up on heavy medication and all. 

The absence of his chiding is nearly tangible. Bucky walks into Sam’s hospital room expecting a quip, a remark about his hair getting so long, a stab at his undone bootlaces, and how he’s going to trip over them one day. 

That doesn’t happen. Instead, Sam is asleep, peaceful but uncharacteristically still, and it makes everyone notice the Sam-sized gap in their lives all the more. 

Bucky sneaks out of Sam’s room in the mornings when Sarah arrives. While he dips out for a shower, some clean clothes, and breakfast, Sarah wipes Sam down with a warm cloth, puts some balm on his lips, and then reads him news articles mostly written by some newbie about ridiculous events—a duck stopping traffic on a freeway, a man wearing only glitter glue holding up a Wendy’s. It gets Sam’s lips twitching in his drugged-up, half-awake state.

The nurses allow them many liberties on account of them being Captain America’s affiliates and Sam being Steve Rogers’ beloved friend and they’re more than happy to accept it. They pretty much come and go as they please and keep a close eye on Sam. 

Bucky stays behind every night too, but they don’t know that part.  

By the third day, they wean Sam off the heavy pain meds and tell Sarah they expect him to be a bit more alert from now on. Bucky doesn’t want to rush the recovery but he’s looking forward to seeing Sam again, to speaking to him. 

After picking up lunch from a sub place down the road, Bucky strolls back into the hospital, greeting the staff, stopping at reception for a bit of chit-chat about Steve and the war. Finds out a nurse’s aunty used to be a chorus girl and met Steve during his showman days.

On his way down the corridor, still grinning about the quick, nostalgic trip down memory lane, he hears muted groans coming from Sam’s room that quickly wipe that smile off his face and replaces the chirpiness in his chest with a heavy, clenching panic. He falls into a sprint and hears Sarah saying, “Take it easy. Wait—Slowly.” But there’s a pitch in her voice that’s just not right. 

He elbows the door open, a paper bag full of takeaway containers in his arms, and sees Joaquín standing there big-eyed.

“Oh, what the fuck?” Sam says, raspy and groggy. He’s hunched over, staring in disbelief at his arms in casts, face strained with confusion and—Bucky hates to think it—pain. Sam turns the casts over, wiggling the tips of his fingers. 

“You broke them in that fight,” Sarah tells him. She cups her hands carefully over his left cast as he tries to lift it. “Remember that?” 

Sam scrunches his face up, groaning again as he shifts on the bed. His body must be stiff and sore and sick of all this lying down already. 

“Yeah,” he says. “Ross.” 

“Yeah,” Sarah says. She and Bucky share a quick, relieved glance that his memories are intact. She eases Sam back against the pillows with a hand on his chest. “Got a couple of things broken in that fight.” 

“I’ll get the nurse,” Joaquín says and heads out.

Sam rests his head back, a soft grunt escaping his throat. “Ah, shit.” 

Bucky comes closer. He puts their food down on the chair beside Sam’s bed. 

The rustling paper bag has Sam opening his eyes again. A quick, surprised expression passes over his face like he didn’t expect Bucky to be there. He blinks. “Buck,” he says with the faintest smile before he closes his eyes. “I missed beers.” 

Bucky snorts. “Raincheck.” 

He nods weakly. “God, I feel like shit. What’s the damage?”

Sarah gives Bucky a look. They both know Sam’s going to hate everything about this. “Both arms, your wrist and hand, and a leg. More like, what didn’t you break?”

Sam lifts his head to look at his legs, still covered by the sheets. “Seriously?” He tugs at the blanket but can’t get a good enough grip.

Bucky lifts it off his legs. He’s got bruises and cuts trailing down his left leg, but it’s the most functional of all his limbs. He lays his hand on Sam’s shoulder with a tender squeeze. “Got pretty messed up out there. You’re benched for a few months, pal.” 

Sam sighs. Got a frown between his eyes, that irritated pull of his eyebrows he always gets. “Fuck sake. When can I go home?”. 

“Hopefully as soon as possible, Cap.” A nurse comes in just then. “Welcome back. Let’s see how you’re looking today.” Bucky and Sarah stand aside to let him work. He takes Sam’s vitals, checks his casts and mobility, and draws some blood. He rolls a sharp pinwheel-looking device along the sole of Sam’s foot, fingertips and neck, and Sam jumps with every prick. Bucky guesses that’s a good thing, no loss of sensation, but that tight eyebrow of Sam’s just gets tighter. 

When the nurse is done, he pulls a fresh blanket from the closet and covers Sam’s legs again. Helps him lean forward and puts a fresh sheet on his pillow, then fluffs it out and helps Sam lay back against it. “How’s the pain?” he asks and nods to the drip stand. “Need a refill?” 

“Christ, no,” Sam says. “Let me be awake for a minute.” 

The nurse smiles. “Of course, Cap. Press this button when you’re ready.” He turns to Sarah. “Vitals look good. His doctor will be in later to talk about discharge.”

She unfolds her arms, shoulders dropping like she’d been bracing for bad news that didn’t come. “Thank you.” And then her stomach gives an unceremonious growl.

“Lunch time?” Bucky laughs.

“Apparently,” she says, heading over to the chair where Bucky placed their food. “What’s on the menu today?” 

“Well, you complained about the onions yesterday, so just meatballs. Who eats meatball subs with no onions?”

She clicks her tongue, waves him off, and takes out the container with ‘NO ONIONS(??)’ written in thick black marker across the lid.

Bucky motions to it. “See, even they agree. Absurd.”

She laughs. “You ain’t funny—”

Sam clears his throat. “You two married now or something?” he says, side-eyeing them. 

Bucky’s cheeks flame up so he turns to the basin to wash his hands. “We were just waiting for you to wake up and give us your blessing.” 

“Alright, I see we have two patients in here. Let me get going. Good luck with your ailment, Mr. Barnes.” She gives Bucky a cheeky salute, then looks at Sam. “Be back later, got to talk to your insurance.” 

After she leaves, the room is quiet for a beat. Bucky dries his hands and comes to stand beside Sam. “How are you feeling?” he asks quietly. 

“Weird,” Sam says. “Surreal, I guess. Waiting for it to sink in.” His tongue still sounds heavy, his throat hoarse. He lifts his left arm, covered from his forearm to the tip of his middle finger, in plaster. “Can’t move. Can’t walk. What about work—how long—”  

“Doesn’t matter. You got a team now. They’ve got this.” Bucky pours some water into a glass, places a straw inside, and brings it to Sam’s lips.

Sam glares at him. “Can’t feed me to shut me up about work.” 

“Doing it right now, pal. Drink up.” 

The glare lasts a second longer, then he rolls his eyes and obliges. Slurps up the whole glass. 

“I’m coming home with you guys,” Bucky says. “You’ll need the help. And I ain’t arguing about it either.” He places the glass down.

Sam sighs and weakly raises his arms. “Not like I can fight you. Jesus, what the hell are we gonna do, Buck? I can’t—” 

“Joaquín arranged a jet to fly us back when you get discharged, one with a medical wing. The drive’s too long; will rattle all those screws loose. The hospital’s transferring your file to St. Bernard's when we leave. Sarah asked Aunt June to help get your room ready while she’s taking care of the boys, and Carlos has a wheelchair in his garage we can use. And then there’s me who can lift just about anything.” Bucky flexes his left hand. “All you gotta worry about is getting better.”

Sam’s eyes go soft in an indiscernible way. Bucky’s heart clenches. “Thanks, Buck.” 

The kitchen staff delivers Sam’s lunch just then, a steaming tray of spaghetti and meatballs and a large yellow smoothie. Bucky adjusts Sam’s bed and hands him a plastic fork. He’s barely able to grip it—his right hand is cast from the tips of his fingers to his wrist but clamps it in his left hand between his index and middle finger. He’s too stubborn to ask Bucky for help and they both know it because they share a long, exasperated look. 

Bucky sits down to eat his meatball sub— with onions, thank you very much—and watches Sam fight with a string of spaghetti for about a minute before he gets back up. 

“Alright, come on.” He takes the plastic fork and twirls a ball of spaghetti onto it, then holds it out to Sam.

That gets him another scathing glare but Sam takes the bite. 

Bucky switches on the TV because this isn’t awkward exactly but it’s new and strangely intimate for them. The last time Bucky fed anyone was in 1936, when Steve caught bronchitis and couldn’t lift his enormous head with his scrawny neck. He picks up his food again and continues eating, sub in his right hand and feeding Sam with his left while they watch Sunset Beach on the small TV suspended from the ceiling. 

Sarah comes back just as Bucky’s taking the last bite and holding another fork full out to Sam. They all freeze, looking wide-eyed at each other. 

“Alright then,” Sarah says, then pretends like nothing is going on at all. “Doc’s on his way.”

Joaquín lands the jet on the grass plains as close to the Wilson's residence as it can go. Carlos waits on the dirt road with a shiny silver wheelchair. Cass and AJ stand beside him, waving excitedly at the jet. A small group of people gathered there, too, holding up handmade posters to welcome their injured hero home.

When the ramp lowers, Carlos brings the wheelchair up to Joaquín and Bucky goes to help Sam off of the bed and into the chair. He gets Sam into a sitting position as close to the edge of the bed as possible, then slips his arm around Sam’s middle to pick him up while Joaquín holds the chair still. 

Sam rests his arms on Bucky’s shoulders, his heart hammering, breaths quick and warm against Bucky’s cheek. Happened at the hospital too.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, thinking Sam must be nervous. He’s vulnerable right now and it can’t be easy. “Won’t drop you, you know.” He lifts Sam easily and sets him down in the chair. 

“Uh,” Sam says, looking down, positioning his broken leg onto the chair’s footrest. “Yeah, no, I know. Thanks.” 

Joaquín covers Sam’s legs with a blanket and drapes another over his shoulders. Summer might be on the way but the late afternoon air is still cool. 

Sarah pushes his chair down the ramp and as soon as he comes into view, the little crowd cheers and waves. Sam lifts his cast. He, remembers he can’t use his hand, and kind of salutes them instead. 

“Gonna take some getting used to, huh?” Bucky says beside him, carrying the shield, Sam’s duffle bag, and that damn new navy suit. He refuses to look at the torn material or the dark red patches of blood on it.

“How the hell am I supposed to take a piss?” Sam says. 

“Sam!” Sarah says through gritted teeth. 

Bucky snorts. “He’s got a point, you know. No catheter anymore.” 

“I’m sure he’ll figure something out—Aunt June! Hi!” Cass and AJ run up to Sarah and just about tackle her to the ground. After a few moments with their mom, they turn their attention to Sam and make a beeline for him. Sarah swoops Cass up before he lunges at Sam and Bucky pivots AJ just as he reaches the wheelchair. 

“Real easy now,” Sarah tells them. “Your uncle here got pretty messed up, he’s hurting just about everywhere. No jumping, no rough play, and no racing this wheelchair with or without him in it.” 

“Aw!” Sam and the boys chorus together. Sarah gives them all a stern eye, then gets into a conversation with Aunt June and some folks that have come by to hear how Sam’s doing.

Sam looks up at Bucky just then, smiling. That late afternoon Louisiana sun coming down at a slanted angle over his face, his brown eyes alight in the glow of it.

Bucky had been laughing at their silliness a second ago but he’s frozen now. He swallows. His heart does that aching, clenching thing again. He supposes it makes sense—that he’s a little emotional about all this, about seeing Sam laughing and alive. Things could have been a lot worse.

“You good?” Sam asks, a quick frown forming.

“Me?” Bucky says, brushing it off. “You’re the one with seven broken bones ‘round here.” 

Sam cringes. “Jesus, don’t say it like that.” 

“And a concussion,” Bucky adds. 

“Don’t forget the concussion.” He shakes his head. That tightness comes back to his eyes. A cloud of worry replaces the easygoing air of the last few minutes.

“Hey, it’s gonna be alright,” Bucky tells him, laying a hand on his shoulder. “You ain’t alone in this.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Thanks, Buck.” But it doesn’t sound like he’s convinced.

After a few minutes, they head down to the house and Joaquín says goodbye before getting the jet back to its base. 

They face the first instance of stairs since leaving the hospital. Sarah looks at the five narrow steps leading to the front door and then to Sam, and scratches her head.

“No problem, ma! Look, we can pick him up,” Cass says and takes the left handle, AJ the right. 

“Yeah, hey, let me help,” Bucky says, puts the stuff he’d been carrying down, then grabs hold of the side of the chair. He lifts it off the ground, carries it up the steps with Cass and AJ pushing and lifting and grunting from the back, then sets it down again. 

“Show off,” Sam says as they wheel through the front door. 

“You weigh less than a boat engine in case you were wondering.” 

Sam laughs. “I wasn’t. But thank God for that, huh?” 

Bucky shrugs. “Could probably still bench it.” 

Sarah lets out a snort. “Show off.” 

Aunt June had moved Sam’s room around to make space for his wheelchair and a small couch beside the bed. She had propped a bunch of pillows up against the headboard and placed a thick wool blanket down too. Bucky only realizes now how tired he is when he sees the warm comfort of Sam’s bedroom. Years of deprivation make it pretty easy to ignore his body’s cues, but he’d sink right into the cover folds if he could. 

Just like back in the jet, he leans down and slips his arms around Sam’s middle to lift him. Sarah pulls the covers back and drags the chair into the hallway. 

Sam grunts quietly as Bucky sits him down on the edge. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says, pulling away, but his arm plates shift with the motion and get caught on Sam’s t-shirt. “Shit, uh—” He’s painfully aware that he’s just inches away from Sam’s face, from his mouth. Sam’s eyes scatter all over Bucky’s face, surprised, searching. “One… one sec,” Bucky says, initiates another shift, and gets himself free. 

“Am I about to find holes in all my laundry?” Sarah says, coming back in with a bottle of water and all Sam’s medication. 

Bucky’s heart pounds for some goddamn reason. He clears his throat and looks away from Sam, who now also looks elsewhere. What the fuck. “Uhm—” 

“They don’t pinch,” Sam says. “Smooth edges. Gentle.” And that makes Bucky’s cheeks burn, which is ridiculous. It’s just his arm, and it’s the truth, nothing to blush about. 

Sarah picks Sam’s legs up on the bed and Sam sucks in a sharp breath as he moves the cast into a comfortable position. “Careful,” Bucky says, then gently helps him shift backward into the pillows. He pulls the covers over Sam’s legs when he’s settled and throws the wool blanket over as well. 

“You okay?” Sam nods, slightly out of breath. Sarah checks the time on her wristwatch, then takes two pills from a container and holds the water bottle against Sam’s lips. “Antibiotics, then I’m getting dinner started. Any requests?” 

“Oh wow,” Sam says after chugging the pills. “You gotta really feel bad for me. What happened to ‘you get what you get’?”

She rolls her eyes. “I got plenty of that left, Superman.” 

“That was uncalled for,” Bucky says at the same time Sam says “Alright. How dare you?” and Sarah just laughs on her way out the door. “Chicken curry or lasagna?” 

“Curry!” Bucky says before Sam gets a word in and then looks at him. “I know you want curry.” 

Sam’s smile is tired. “I’ll never say no to curry.” Looks like the soft, warm bed has gotten the better of him, too. His blinks become slow, as if his eyelids are too heavy to stay open.

“Why don’t you take a nap? I’ll wake you up when dinner’s ready.” Bucky says, tucking the loose ends of the covers closer to his body. 

Sam nods. “Hmm.” The tips of his fingers twitch like they’re reaching and it takes all of Bucky not to close the gap and touch him. 

Instead, he turns on the night light and switches off the big one, closes the door halfway, then goes to help Sarah in the kitchen. 

Sam ends up sleeping through dinner and Bucky and Sarah don’t have the heart to wake him. Bucky eats with Sarah and the boys and they talk about Sam’s physiotherapy sessions—which Bucky gladly volunteers to drive Sam to.

Later, after they’ve cleaned up, Sarah gets the couch ready for Bucky. She apologizes about the spare room being full of storage stuff and old boat parts. Bucky doesn’t tell her he prefers the hardwood over anything, anyway. 

He drifts off for a few hours after Sarah goes to bed, but wakes with a start, a shock of fear from a dream he can’t remember, and a nagging urge to check on Sam. He pads down the hallway and watches Sam from the ajar door for a few minutes, listening to the steady thud-thud of his heart, the gentle graze of his breathing. 

The night light illuminates Sam’s face in a soft blue hue, making him look impossibly peaceful, beautiful, and Bucky thinks with a suffocating tightness in his chest, I’m so goddamn happy you’re alive.

“Do I smell toast?” Sarah says coming into the kitchen still busy putting her earrings in. Her hair’s up in a bun and she’s got a colorful headband and a denim top on. 

Bucky turns to her and smiles, wiggling the spatula. “Eggs and bacon, too. Want some?” 

“Yeah. Sam never said you can cook.” She turns back to the hallway. “Y’all better get your butts in here or we’re going to be late!” 

The boys come skidding into the kitchen a moment later, shoving at each other for the chair in a spot of sun. “Morning, Buck,” AJ says, beaming when Bucky puts a plate of toast heaped with bacon and eggs in front of him.

“Hey, kiddo. Eat up.” He dishes for Sarah then sits down with them to finish his coffee. 

A couple of minutes later, Sarah clears her throat. “You know you don’t have to do all this, Bucky.” She holds up a finger. “Not that I’m complaining. These eggs are perfect. I’m just—I know you must have a bunch of things to get back to, work, your own life. I don’t expect you to do this.”

“I know,” Bucky says. “I know. But I want to. He’s my friend. Only one I got. I want to help. If I’m in the way, though—”

“No,” Sarah shakes her head. “No, you’re not. Thank you. Long as you don’t mind.”

“I don’t. Not if it’s him.” 

She smiles and looks at him for a moment, like she’s trying to figure something out. “Alright. I appreciate it, Buck. I know he does, too. Less so if it was some aid his insurance sent out.”

Bucky laughs, shrugging. “Bet they couldn’t bench a boat engine, anyway.” 

And that makes Sarah cackle. “No, they couldn’t.”

“Good morning!” comes Sam’s voice from his room just then. “Anyone home?”

“Uncle Sam!” The boys cheer and dash down the hallway. Sarah gets up when she’s done and goes to check on Sam while Bucky clears the table and gets Sam’s breakfast ready. He loads Sam’s plate and coffee mug onto a tray and heads to his room. Arrives just as Sarah kisses Sam’s forehead.

“I’ll see you later,” she says and fiddles with his duvet cover. “And don’t give Bucky a hard time.” 

Sam kicks the covers off himself, sitting there in only his boxers and a thin t-shirt between the soft nest of pillows, his right leg propped up on a heap of blankets. 

“He’ll be fine,” Sam says, looking Bucky’s way and winking. “He’s used to it.”

Bucky smiles. He sets the tray down on his bedside table. 

“Alright well,” Sarah says. “I’ve got to get these guys to school and myself to work. I’ll see y’all later.” She ushers the kids out the door while they argue about who would win a Transformers versus Avengers fight. 

The house soon grows quiet with their absence, and then it’s just him and Sam. 

“Hungry?” Bucky says, nodding to the tray of food.

“Yeah actually. Skipped dinner.” 

“Got a Tupperware of leftovers in the fridge for lunch.” Bucky shifts the tray onto Sam’s lap. “Want me to help?” 

He looks embarrassed about it, shy almost. “Uh. Yeah. If you don’t mind.”

Bucky picks up the fork and stabs a few crumbs of eggs onto it. Holds it ready for Sam to bite. “Hurting today?” 

Sam nods as he chews. “A little.” But there’s a cloudy tiredness about him despite the nine solid hours of sleep he got in. That means his body’s not resting at all, it’s using up all its energy to heal. “Leg’s killing me today.” 

“Morphine’s worn off by now. Makes sense.” Bucky scoops up some bacon pieces and feeds it to Sam. “I’ll give you something for that after breakfast. Shouldn’t make you too tired. I know your FOMO levels are through the roof.”

Sam laughs, an effortful huff, a lopsided smile. “Where’d you learn that word, huh?” 

“Joaquín,” Bucky says. “Said my FOMO made me jump out of that plane.”

“Love that kid.” 

Sam eats a few more pieces. He doesn’t protest about Bucky holding his coffee cup up to his lips and helping him drink, or when he uses a napkin to wipe grease off Sam’s chin, or when he eats Sam’s last piece of bacon. 

He gets a little weird about 30 minutes after breakfast, though. Bucky’s sitting on the couch next to Sam’s bed and they’re watching a car show on TV when Sam starts shifting around like he just can’t get comfortable. Bucky doesn’t want to be overbearing so he lets it go on for a minute or two, but the more Sam’s moving the more he’s hurting himself. 

“You need anything?” Bucky finally asks. 

Sam sags back against the pillows, giving up the fight. He closes his eyes. “Yeah. I gotta take a leak.” 

Bucky blinks. “Oh. Well, why didn't you say that?” He gets up and drags Sam’s legs off the side of the bed and helps him stand, loops Sam’s arm over his shoulder. “You gotta talk to me, pal. Can’t read minds.” He steadies Sam with his left hand braced against Sam’s stomach and his right holding Sam up around his back. “Think you can get to the bathroom like this? Lean on me.” 

“Yeah. Feels good standing, ain’t gonna lie.” Sam puts some weight on Bucky and uses his good leg to shuffle to the bathroom with Bucky. He gets Sam inside and lets him stand by the toilet. 

“I can’t let go,” Bucky says a little awkwardly. He dips out under Sam’s arm though and holds him up from behind. “This okay?” Sam starts laughing then. Like really laughing, shaking with it, the sound filled with such warmth, Bucky can’t help but laugh too. “What’s wrong with you, huh?” 

That sets Sam off even more. “You gonna have to—” He wheezes, his chest expanding against Bucky’s arm. The gears give a deep whir in response. Fuck sake. Bucky is trying his best not to think about the position they’re in, about the absolute proximity of it, but his arm has a mind of its own. “You’re gonna have to pull my pants down,” Sam says, almost in tears. 

A quick, hot shock rushes through Bucky. His cheeks burn up, stomach pulling into a tight knot. Jesus fucking Christ. “Yeah, alright. Sorry, didn’t think of that.”

He keeps Sam steady with his left arm and uses his right hand to tug down the waistband of Sam’s boxers. They slip down easily enough. Sam’s heart thuds in his chest, beating like a band of drums in Bucky’s ears. This has got to be exhausting for him. 

“Don’t worry,” Sam says. “I can hold my own dick.”

Bucky chokes. “Jesus. Good to know, pal.” Sam laughs again. A wheezing giggle like he’s holding it in. And because Bucky’s an absolute asshole, he says, “Remember, shaking it more than twice is playing.” 

This time Sam laughs so hard he collapses and Bucky has to scramble to keep him upright and uninjured as he tries to pull Sam’s boxers back up.

Bucky finally gets some sleep the next few nights. He guesses knowing Sam is well enough to crack jokes gives him peace of mind.

He gets up as soon as the day breaks and takes a piping hot shower. Washes his hair, trims his beard, puts on some faded jeans and a clean sweater, and slaps on some cologne. He’s not in the mood to bother with a hairdryer, so he towel dries his hair, combs it out, and leaves it at that. 

After all that, he gets breakfast ready, just oatmeal and cinnamon and hot coffee to fend off today’s gloomy weather. Sarah grabs her coffee to go, kisses his cheek in thanks, and heads out the door with the boys in a rush. 

Tells him, “Your patient’s awake.” 

And it shouldn’t, but Bucky’s stomach twists, quick and happy.

When she’s gone, he loads Sam’s breakfast onto the tray and makes his way over there. 

Looks like Sam’s been awake for a while. The TV’s on and he’s watching absently. He looks at Bucky when he enters, does a double take on the outfit, a quick once-over, top to bottom then blinks. 

“Hey,” he says. “You look nice.” 

Bucky’s thankful for the dim light because his cheeks feel like they’re on fire. “Uh, thanks. Amazing what a shower can do, huh?” 

Sam’s still looking at him. “Yeah,” he says, then whips his head back to the TV. “Your hair’s getting long.”

Bucky sets the tray down on the bedside table and drags his hand through his hair from the roots down to the base of his neck. It’s still damp. He shrugs. “My barber closed shop two months ago.”

Sam looks on the verge of saying something, but he doesn’t. He licks his lips and shifts and lets Bucky bring the spoon to his lips. 

“How long have you been up?” Bucky asks after a few uncharacteristically quiet moments. 

Sam forgets about the cast and moves to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand. “God damn it. Few hours. Couldn’t sleep.” Bucky hands him a napkin that he grips with the tips of his fingers. “Thanks.” 

“You okay? Hurting?” Bucky feeds him another spoonful. Holds the coffee to his lips. 

“No. I mean yeah. But that’s not—” He stops, shakes his head, and takes a sip instead. “I’m fine. Gonna have to take a bath today before, uh, you know.” He motions to the door with his cast. 

So that’s it. He’s worried about his first physio session.

“Yeah, I’ll help—”

Sam’s got that irritated scowl on his face. He tries to pick up the coffee mug, but it slips. “I’m good, I’ll manage.”

“Sam, you can’t—” 

“I can. I gotta. Have no choice, alright. Need to learn to do things for myself.” 

“I mean you can’t get the casts wet.” 

“Cover them then. Wrap them in plastic, sit me down. I’m good, I swear I’m good.” 

He is so very not good. His heart beats weirdly, got a potent scent of anxiousness coming off him that no normal human being could ever smell. But Bucky does. He knows this is very delicate territory. Sam is crying out for independence right now and Bucky knows all too well what it feels like to be trapped inside your own body. Bucky has to allow Sam his autonomy, but he’s got to protect him too. An already unstable man and a slippery bathroom floor is a disaster waiting to happen.

“Okay. Fine,” he says. “But I’m waiting right there.” He points to the door. “I’m not letting you hurt yourself.”

Sam nods, but that defiant square jaw doesn’t subside. 

Bucky takes the tray to the kitchen and brings back some duct tape and plastic bags from Sarah’s kitchen. He helps Sam undress, then rips the bags open, wraps them around Sam’s casts, and tapes it down. He helps Sam to the bathroom. Grabs Cass's booster stool and places it in the tub. 

Bucky picks Sam up and lowers him onto the stool. He lets out a quiet groan and closes his eyes. Breathless now. 

“Fine?” Bucky says, hand on the back of Sam’s neck. When Sam nods, he squeezes and lets go. 

He fills a large plastic bucket with hot water, wets and wrings a washcloth and places a bar of soap inside the washcloth, then hands it over. 

Sam takes it between his fingertips, clumsy, hands awkward and unable to do what they’re supposed to do, what they normally do so easily. “Thank you,” he says, voice a bare whisper.

“Be careful,” Bucky tells him and, against everything in him, he goes to wait outside the door. 

He hears every splash, every move, every hiss of frustration each time he drops the soap or the cloth. Hears his heartbeat speeding up, his breathing becoming erratic the longer he keeps it up. 

“Fuck!” he finally screams. 

Bucky decides that’s enough. He rushes in, finds Sam heaving, head hanging, tears bubbling from his eyes. “Shit,” he says and kneels beside the tub, hand on Sam’s back. “Alright, hey, look, it’s alright. It’s fine. Let me help, huh?” Sam doesn’t argue, just blows out a long depleted breath through balled-up cheeks. “You don’t have to do this to yourself. I’m here. I wanna help. Let me?” He ducks to meet Sam’s eyes. “Let me help you. That’s all I wanna do.”

Sam nods. “Sorry.” 

“You don’t have to say that. I get it, alright.” Bucky takes the hand towel and dries the wet streaks that run down Sam’s cheeks. “But you gotta let me help you.” 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, handing his washcloth over to Bucky. He looks at him with those devastatingly brown eyes, lashes wet. “Alright, Buck.” 

“Alright.” 

Bucky wets the cloth again, wrings it, and starts with Sam’s face, scrubs his beard nice and clean, then his neck and chest. Listens to Sam’s heartbeat normalizing slowly but surely. He pours warm soapy water down Sam’s back and he groans with contentment, so Bucky does it again. Scrubs from his shoulders down to his lower back, keeps going for a solid few minutes because Sam revels in it, eyes closed. 

“I’m scared. That’s what it is,” Sam says after a long while of silence. 

Bucky’s taken aback by the blatant honesty but Sam’s naked, completely bare in front of him, vulnerable as it comes, it’s kind of fitting. 

“About what?” he asks, soaping up again and washing the parts of Sam’s arms that aren’t bound in casting. 

He watches Bucky work. “Physio today.” 

“Not supposed to hurt. Maybe a little at first.” He scrubs the tips of Sam’s fingers that poke out from the cast.

Sam looks away, swallows. “I was—there were a few minutes after he grabbed me—I felt the bones break and he kept going. Felt the broken pieces move inside me. The pain…” He swallows again and gathers himself. Bucky’s gone still, frozen in horror, squeezing the washcloth in his hand. “God Buck, the pain—couldn’t have lasted more than three minutes, right? But I kept thinking, Jesus just end it, just make it stop. You ever been so terrified of pain you’d rather die?”

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers, shaking now. Remnants of memories, of nightmares he’d much rather forget bubble beneath the surface of his consciousness. 

Sam looks at him then, surprised at first, but it melts into a soft empathetic understanding. “Don’t think I can deal with that again, Buck.” 

“They won’t hurt you,” Bucky says, and it comes out like a promise, like a guarantee, as if he will make sure of it himself so help him God. And, look, he will. 

Sam nods. “You’ll be there?” 

“I’ll be there, sweetheart. No one’s gonna hurt you,” he says, wrapping his hand around Sam’s. “Let me finish up here, huh? You’re shaking.” 

Sam stares at him and he ignores it. Bucky knows what he just said; he’s trying to act like he didn’t.  

He pours some more water over Sam’s back to warm him up. Wraps a dry towel around his shoulders and gets scrubbing on his right leg. That goes pretty well and all until he’s done with Sam’s broken leg, which is just his upper thigh. 

“Uh,” he says and sits back on his haunches, feeling his cheeks flare up again. He nods to Sam’s dick, which of course needs to be washed too. “I gotta—You good with that?”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam laughs, doesn’t look at Bucky. “Yeah. Yeah, sure. Be gentle, though,” he adds a little sterner, then quickly, “Maybe not too gentle.” 

“Yeah, alright, relax,” Bucky says real cool for someone on the verge of hyperventilating. He sloshes the washcloth through the water, soaps it up, and if he thought he was shaking before, he’s fucking rattling like the old man he is now. He lets Sam lean back in his left arm, reaches down, and nudges his legs apart just a little, then gets to fucking work. Keeps it brief and tries not to look, not sure if that’ll make it even more awkward. He knows his way around washing a cock, been doing it for a century now, so it’s not like he needs to see what he’s doing, anyway. 

Sam’s just staring up at the ceiling, face pinched in concentration or distraction or God knows what. 

It’s over pretty fast, though. Bucky pours warm water over Sam’s crotch to wash the soap away. He does a quick feel with his bare hand to make sure nothing stays behind that’ll burn or irritate Sam’s skin later. 

And Sam fucking gasps. His leg jerks, heart skipping like a pebble over water.

“Sorry,” Bucky says. “Checking for soap.” He yanks down a towel from the rack and covers Sam’s body, helping him sit up straight again. 

“It’s fine. Unexpected is all. Warn a guy next time you’re about to cup his balls, huh?” 

Bucky laughs, unsteady. “Yeah alright, sure. Here’s a real kicker for you, pal. I gotta wash your ass now.” 

“Oh, my god.”

As the next two weeks pass, the baths get less awkward and they figure out that wheeling Sam to the bathroom when he needs to go is way easier. 

It takes a bit of logistics to figure it all out, to get comfortable enough in each other’s space. But once they have that down, it’s as if they’ve been doing this for years, like Bucky has always belonged this close to Sam.

Soon they fall into a smooth routine and even Bucky washing Sam’s dick is no big deal, they have a normal conversation or joke around the way they always do while he’s busy so there’s no more staring at the ceiling or panicking or trembling.

Bucky cooks them all breakfast in the mornings except for the times that Sarah beats him to it. After she leaves with the boys, he takes Sam his breakfast, feeds him, and gets him bathed and ready for the day. 

Then Bucky puts on a movie or tv show or grabs them each a book from Sam’s shelf that he hasn’t touched since getting mixed up with the damn Avengers. He fixes lunch, drives Sam to his bi-weekly physio, and helps him into a warm bed to sleep off the exertion afterward. Usually falls asleep in the chair beside Sam’s bed and wakes up to Sam watching a nature documentary hours later.

Sometimes, for a few moments after he wakes, he just watches Sam. He takes in every shift of Sam’s body, every blink, the glowing TV light in his eyes, the way he nips at his bottom lip when he’s concentrating. And then something fills Bucky’s chest, his heart, and threatens to rip it apart at the seams. 

It’s then that he moves, gets up, and does anything instead of watching because what’s he supposed to do with all that? Just like that ‘sweetheart’ slip, it’s easier to pretend it’s nothing. 

It’s going pretty well. Every day seems easier and Sam gets a bit more of his spark back. He’s not as terrified of the physio appointment as he’d been the first time. Less reluctant about letting Bucky help him, too. 

But a few Fridays later, while on their third book, Sam gets that shifty restlessness about him again. 

Bucky eyes him for a minute—Sam swings his good leg over a pillow, kicks the pillow away, then bends his leg, and straightens it again. Shifts onto his right hip, complains and hisses, and then moves to the left. Finally breathless, he gives up and sighs. 

“You need to take a leak or what?” Bucky says, putting his book down. 

“I need to move,” Sam says. “Tired of sitting here. Wanna go outside. See the sun.” 

“Well, alright Icarus, just say so then.” Bucky gets up and drags the wheelchair closer, puts the brakes on, and slowly maneuvers Sam’s legs off the side of the bed. “You cold?” 

Sam lifts his arms so Bucky can hoist him up and into the chair and he’s got this tender smile on his face, this soft sincerity when they lock eyes that makes those feelings boil inside of Bucky’s heart again.

“Nah, Buck,” he says quietly. “I’m good.” 

“Well, you’re taking—” 

Sam snorts. “Yeah, taking one anyway. I know. Monday’s physio all over again.”

Bucky sits Sam down, drapes a sweater over his shoulder and a blanket over his legs, gets his cap off the doorknob, and places it on Sam’s head. “It was freezing.”

“It was 82 degrees. You just can’t regulate your goddamn body temperature.”

“Yeah, thanks, Hydra,” Bucky mumbles so flatly it makes Sam cackle. 

Sam’s in luck. It’s a beautiful day outside, comfortably warm, the sun is so bright it gleams off the water like golden lightning. There’s a bunch of people around, kids just getting home from school and making a beeline for the water, fishermen on the edge of the pier, and teenagers having milkshakes in the shade. The restaurant’s packed and buzzing, the boats are out on the river, and the smell of fried fish drifts through the air. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, taking a deep breath as Bucky wheels him down the dock. “That’s what I’m talking about.” He lifts his face to the sky and closes his eyes, humming with warm contentment. 

They get to the docking bay where a delivery truck has just pulled up, ready to unload.

“Look who it is!” Sarah calls from the other end of the pier, smiling at them with her clipboard in her hand. 

“Cabin fever!” Bucky calls back, pointing at Sam. He can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. He parks Sam where he can see the water and people and boats, then goes to help Sarah with the delivery.

And alright, maybe Sam was right, it is goddamn hot. As Bucky’s lifting crates and stacking them up under the canopy, he’s thinking the jacket and jeans hadn’t been such a great idea after all. Sam already tossed his sweater aside, busy chatting with the fishermen now. 

Bucky shrugs off his jacket. Not much he can do about his jeans now, but he finds his shades in the jacket pocket and puts them on to ward off the bright rays. 

After about twenty minutes, they’re done and Bucky’s sweating through his t-shirt. He tugs at the collar to cool himself off and catches Sam looking at him from across the way, his conversation with the fishermen forgotten. 

Bucky thinks something might be off at first. He tips his shades down on his nose to get a better look. Listens real carefully to Sam’s heartbeat through the noise—it’s too fast, off-beat the way it usually is when he’s bathing Sam or holding him up when he’s helping him dress or wiping a coffee spill off his lips.

Bucky sticks up his hand and waves. Just a check-in to see if Sam needs him.

Sam licks his lips and sends a quick nod his way, then gets back to his conversation. 

“How’s he doing today?” Sarah says, coming to stand beside Bucky. She wipes sweat off her brow and hands Bucky a bottle of water. 

“Thanks.” He cracks the lid and pours it down his throat, spills some down his chin and neck, but what the hell, he’s soaked anyway. When he’s done, he finds Sam watching again, but he quickly whips his gaze away. “Uh, fine,” he tells Sarah, trying not to frown. “Yeah, he’s good. Wanted to come outside. Hasn’t asked for painkillers yet. Think he’s doing alright.” 

“Yeah? Good.” Sarah looks at Bucky, not hiding her frown at all, searching his face for something he’d never admit, even to himself, and then she looks at Sam before fixing Bucky with a look. “Are you good?” 

Is he? Is he fucking good? God knows. “Yeah,” he says, voice far too high to be believable. He looks Sam’s way again—his head thrown back, laughing, that wide, bright smile beaming. “I’m—yeah. I’m great.” 

She doesn’t look like she believes him even a little. 

Sarah brings home some fish and fries that night and they park Sam at the kitchen table and break the fish into bite-sized pieces for him to pinch between his fingertips. 

There’s a glowing, elated joy on his face from being able to do something as simple as feed himself, and it makes Bucky ache inside. Makes him wish there was some quick road to recovery, to heal these broken bones, because for just a second he sees Sam in his full glory again, talking, ribbing everyone relentlessly, telling the lamest jokes that crack the boys up, all between bites. 

And he’s so goddamn beautiful like this, always is really, but now—his face plump with laughter, his eyes narrowed with joy, lips shiny—he’s a different kind of gorgeous in this moment. The kind where committing it to memory isn’t enough. This kind of beauty should be depicted with vivid, blended colors on an endless canvas.

Bucky knows he’s staring. Couldn’t stop if he wanted to though. 

Sam catches him in that moment, stills, and then looks at Bucky like he’s trying to find the same thing Sarah had been searching for earlier today. Sam, though, he finds it, sees it laid bare there on Bucky’s face, and it makes Bucky run cold inside. This isn’t something anyone should know and he should be better at hiding it.

But then Sam’s features soften, and he smiles, and Bucky thinks yeah. Yeah, there’s no hiding it. He’s too far gone already. 

“No, no, that’s fine Denise,” Sarah says, pinching the phone between her chin and shoulder and taking the boy’s lunch boxes from Bucky to stuff in their backpacks. “Don’t worry about it. Yeah, I understand. Alright, you too.” 

“Problem?” Bucky pours Sam another cup of coffee and takes it to him at the table—He’s been having breakfast with them in the kitchen since Monday.

“Uh, yeah, Denise usually drops the boys back home after football practice on a Friday but Adrian’s off sick today and I got a meeting with some buyers until three.” She cracks open her diary on the schedule page. 

“We could get them,” Sam says, looking at Bucky. “Going past there on the way back from physio, anyway.” 

Bucky nods. “Yeah, no problem.” 

“You sure?” she asks Sam. “I know being out and about takes its toll on you. We’re trying to heal here.” 

“Yeah, come on. I like being out and about.” For someone so used to flying through the open air on a whim, this must be like prison. 

“Alright, thank you. Take your meds.” She kisses Sam’s cheek, then Bucky’s, and then she and the boys hop in the car.

Sam finishes his breakfast and coffee with very little help from Bucky. They get him dressed for the day, pack some painkillers, a blanket, and his afternoon medication into a small bag, then make their way out to Sam’s truck. Bucky hoists him into the passenger seat, straps him in, folds his wheelchair up, and puts it in the back, and then they’re off too. 

They spend the 35-minute drive to St Bernard’s listening to music from an old flash drive Bucky found in Sam’s glove box, most of it is new to Bucky, and sometimes Sam sings along which is just about the best thing Bucky’s ever heard. 

Physiotherapy goes pretty well. Sam’s therapist is a tiny girl with friendly eyes, miles away from the monstrous Ross, and Sam’s been right at ease in her company since they started despite his anxiety about the first session. Bucky still watches like a hawk though, listens carefully to Sam’s heartbeat, and keeps tabs on his scent for any signs of distress. And it’s not like he’s going to fight this sweet little kid, but he promised Sam no one’s going to hurt him again and he fucking meant it.

“I see your guard dog’s still on high alert,” she says quietly to Sam while she’s busy wrangling his leg around.

Sam snorts, glancing Bucky’s way. “That guy?” he says quietly too, grunting just slightly when she stretches his leg. “Nah, that’s a puppy dog.”

Bucky purses his lips, looks away, trying not to laugh. But Sam’s probably not wrong.

“Hey,” Sam says when they’re back in the truck. “There’s a roadhouse down the block. Want a milkshake? We got a few hours to kill before we get the boys.” 

“Sounds good,” Bucky says, puts his shades on, grabs hold of Sam’s headrest, turns, and reverses the truck out of the parking space with a smooth left swing. Realizes then that Sam’s staring. Bucky lets his shades drop to his nose and winks before wrangling the truck into gear and setting his eyes back on the road. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam laughs, his heart going haywire again. He looks the other way. “Some Winter Soldier moves you pulled with my truck right there.”

Bucky just smiles. Feels Sam’s eyes burn into the side of his face. His insides swoop like one of those dives Sam does mid-air. His dick pulses with interest.

Which—okay. Everyone needs to calm down. That’s just. He’s got to calm the fuck down.

They stop at the roadhouse drive-through not far from there. Sam insists on paying for their milkshakes, then flirts shamelessly with the 60-year-old cashier and gets them for free. His flirting has all the wait staff crowding up at the window to say hi to Captain America and ‘his nurse’ though. 

“That’s a handsome young man right there,” a waitress says, scrunching up her wrinkly eyes to get a good look at Bucky. 

“Oh God.” Bucky hides his face and beside him, Sam cracks up.

“Really, Miss Jackie?” Sam says to her. “Hadn’t noticed!” 

“Sure is, Sammy. Didn’t make nurses like that in my day.” 

“You hear that, Buck?” Sam says, poking him in the ribs with his cast, grinning like an asshole. A happy, painfully beautiful asshole. “Miss Jackie says you’re such a nice young nurse.”

Bucky just shakes his head. Doesn’t tell these broads that he’s older than them by decades and what he knows about medicine is downright terrifying.

After that, they pick up some groceries from the store for Sarah. Bucky lifts Sam into the wheelchair, drapes the blanket over Sam’s legs, puts his cap on his head then moves swiftly through the aisles.

“My sister said no racing with the wheelchair,” Sam says as Bucky takes a wild turn into the pasta aisle. “Driving this thing like you drive my truck! Damn.”

“Yeah, well, we ain’t got time for another 30-minute flirting session, Mr. Popular.” Bucky wheels them past the meat section. “Wanna chat up the butcher for a free ham, too?”

“Why? You jealous?” 

Bucky falters embarrassingly hard. So hard, in fact, that he doesn’t even have a coherent comeback. 

And Sam laughs, shoulders shaking. 

When that’s all done, they head to the school to get the boys. They catch the last twenty minutes of AJ’s practice session and finish their jumbo milkshakes in comfortable silence, waiting for them.

AJ stops beside Bucky’s truck when he comes out, gives Bucky a look just like his uncle does when he’s about to give Bucky shit for no good reason.

“My mama says I can’t go with strangers,” he says. Cass joins him a moment later. “Didn’t ma say we can’t go with strangers?” 

“Yeah,” Cass chimes in, a sneaky grin on his face. “Only her and Uncle Sam and Aunty Denise’s allowed to pick us up.” 

“Alright well, I’m not a stranger, first of all, and secondly she asked me to come get you today. So. Even got you a milkshake, look.” 

AJ gasps, pointing at him. “She said the bad men would say that!” 

Bucky looks at Sam, reclined in the passenger seat and wearing Bucky’s shades. “Some help here?” 

Sam smiles and then leans up into view of the boys. “Get your little butts in this truck! It’s time for my nap!”

“Gee, thanks. Got the whole of Louisiana out for my blood today,” Bucky grumbles with no real bite as the boys toss their bags in the back, giggling, and hop in without a problem. 

Then Sam reaches out and prods Bucky’s cheek right in the divot of his smile and that clenching grip takes hold of his gut again. Makes him want to lean into it, touch his lips to Sam’s fingertips.

They sit out on the porch that night, watching fireflies flood over the grasslands, some boats drifting in with the tide. Sarah and Bucky each have a beer in hand, but Sam sticks to his soda so the meds don’t make him ill. 

“Are you just going to keep giving us the stink eye?” Bucky says. 

Sarah snorts. “Remember when I was pregnant with AJ and you hosted that cocktail party?” 

“Ooh payback,” Bucky laughs.

Sam’s stink eye intensifies. “You know what—” He lifts his good leg, smacks it down on Bucky’s thigh, and says, “Ankle’s itchy—” Then he continues with his defense of the cocktail party when Sarah was pregnant.  

And Bucky scratches it for him, because why not, but then something horrible comes over him and instead of wrapping his hand around his bottle he wraps it around Sam’s ankle and keeps it there, listening to Sam’s story as if he’d done nothing at all and this is completely normal.

Sarah sees it and smiles, tips her bottle to her lips instead of saying anything. 

All Sam does is shift more comfortably into the wheelchair, leg still draped over Bucky’s. Doesn’t move even when Bucky’s thumb circles the knob of his ankle just so. 

The conversation flows well into midnight and eventually Sarah excuses herself and heads upstairs.  

Bucky, with his hand still on Sam’s leg, clears his throat. “Tired?”

Sam nods. “Probably need a bath, too. Long day.” He takes his leg down and Bucky’s lap feels instantly cold despite the humidity outside. 

Bucky sniffs and scrunches up his nose in fake disgust. “Yeah, I can tell.” 

“Oh, wow,” Sam laughs. The porch light glitters in his eyes, golden specks against those deep brown irises and long lashes. Impossibly beautiful. Heartbreakingly beautiful. 

“I’m kidding. You smell great.” Bucky kicks the brakes off the wheelchair. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.” 

They go through the same process they always do. A sponge bath, protecting the casts from getting wet but drenching all his other parts in warm, soapy water. Scrubbing down Sam’s beard, and his back, washing his hair and neck, everything not covered in casting. Same thing they do every night, same routine, same jokes and banter and ribbing. 

But when Bucky starts on Sam’s good leg, Sam goes real quiet. At first, Bucky doesn’t think much about it. Thinks maybe Sam’s just tired now. No matter how much he tries to keep up, his healing body is taking a toll on him. Today was busy, and it tends to hit him out of nowhere. 

Bucky keeps washing—his foot, that ankle he’d been gripping onto earlier, his knee. And then he soaps up Sam’s upper thigh, scrubs up between his legs, his balls, his dick, without paying too much attention—he’s found it makes it all a little less intimate—pours water over everything to wash all the suds away and then goes back in with the sponge to finish up. 

Only this time, now that all the soap’s washed off, Sam’s dick is rock hard. 

Bucky’s eyes shoot up to Sam’s and for a moment, just a second, just a blink, there’s a thick, dark air that fills the space between them. Bucky’s cock jerks to life in the confines of his jeans and Sam’s heart stumbles one beat over the next, hammering critically fast until he breaks the silence.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he says, squeezing his eyes tightly shut. “I am so sorry. It’s not—I’m sorry.”

“Hey, it’s fine.” Bucky quickly busies himself with the sponge and water. Fumbling, really. “You’re fine. Don’t worry about it. Happens, right? Worst of times.” He’s shaking, his hands are goddamn shaking, because oh God. Oh god…

Sam can’t look at him, looks up at the ceiling the way he did when they first did this. “Jesus Christ. I didn’t mean to—” 

“Don’t. It’s cool. It’s nothing, alright?” Bucky says, starting on Sam’s back with the sponge even though he’s already washed it. “Got hard during my first medical after, you know…everything.”

Sam huffs out a quiet laugh, finally looking at Bucky again. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah. At least you got a good-looking dick. Mine curves sideways.” 

And that does the trick. Cracks Sam up, his warm, rumbling laugh filling the bathroom. “Thanks. I guess,” he says, smiling now.

Bucky winks at him, heart pounding. “Yeah, anytime.”

Doesn’t change the fact that Sam’s still hard. 

It doesn’t stop Bucky from lying awake on the couch that night thinking about it. Fighting off all kinds of treacherous thoughts of putting his mouth on Sam or Sam bucking up into his throat. Can’t get the image of his left hand wrapped tightly around Sam’s cock out of his head. 

Just leaves him achingly stiff even after a cold shower, even after jerking it in the bathroom, biting down on his arm so he won’t moan about it when he comes. 

And yeah, Sam getting hard might have been a perfectly normal reaction. God knows it takes much less to get Bucky going, but there’s a part of Bucky that hopes with a burning intensity that it wasn’t just that. 

Sam’s distracted after that night. 

The next week passes and he’s just… off. He’s back to staring at the ceiling in pained concentration during bath time. His heart still thuds. It always does, but his breathing’s too rapid. Like he’s nervous about getting hard now. So many steps back from where they were before that incident. 

And it’s all for nothing. All that concentration and stress is all for nothing, one: because Bucky doesn’t care, this is Sam, there’s not a single goddamn thing anyone could ever do or say about Sam Wilson, including Sam himself to change how Bucky feels about him. And two, because even though he’s not as rock hard as he was that night, he still chubs up, still sits aching at half-mast the entire time. 

Bucky ignores it. Tries not to make it worse for Sam. Wants to shake him and say hey relax, it’s just me. But he doesn’t. He keeps up the jokes and heatless teasing and tries to take Sam’s mind off his dick. 

He’s not sure it’s working. They both reek of tension.

It’s Sam’s birthday the following weekend. Bucky and Sarah think it’d be great to get all Sam’s people down here to celebrate. They plan a big old neighborhood barbecue, tables of food, good music, a dancefloor, and those pretty rope lights strung all across the backyard.

Joaquín shows up with Isaiah in tow and Sam just about glows when he sees him. Rhodes drops by after a mission in his iron suit and sends the kids into a frenzy. Danvers and Kamala and that weird cat come by too and even though Danvers swears it won’t eat the children, Bucky watches it like a hawk. 

Their neighbors all arrive with some kind of dish to add to the tables, kids run about all over, and couples dance on the makeshift floor to slow reggae. Sam’s parked in his chair under a canopy close to the dancefloor, heaps of people gathering around him, chatting and laughing. He’s in his element again, where he’s most at ease, most himself. His smile’s wide and bright, eyes alive, that good leg tapping along to the music. 

And now and again, he catches Bucky’s eyes, and that smile goes soft. Melts into something sweet that fucks Bucky up inside. Bucky smiles back, winks, salutes, does something cool. But what he wants to do is pull Sam aside where no one can see and fucking kiss him. Kiss him so hard, hard enough that it says all this shit that’s going on inside him. This clench in his gut? Kiss him. The uncomfortable pounding of his heart when Sam looks at him? Kiss him. The sleepless nights with nothing but Sam on his mind? Fucking kiss him. 

“Great party,” Sam says much later when Bucky’s helping him into bed. “Thanks, Buck.” 

“Was all Sarah. You have fun?” 

“Yeah. Was nice seeing everyone. Isaiah’s got some moves, huh?”

Bucky laughs. “Yeah, blew Aunt June’s hair back on that dancefloor.” He lifts Sam onto the edge of the bed and then takes off the loose sweats he’s got on.

Sam does his bit by lifting and wiggling out of it so he’s just in his boxers. Their faces pause inches apart and Sam’s heartbeat turns into hurried thudding behind his ribs. “He wanted to take me for a spin in the chair too. But, uh—” 

“Sarah said no spinning in the chair either?” Bucky slips the sweats off his feet then lifts Sam’s t-shirt at the hem. Sam raises his arms and lets Bucky slip it off.

“Not exactly the super-soldier I wanted to dance with,” he says, voice a tad shaky. 

Bucky stops, still bent at the waist, and looks at him. “Who—”

And then Sam leans up and kisses him.

It’s so soft, so unsure, just a bare touch of lips but the room falls silent like they’re encased in a muted bubble. There’s just a soft buzzing in Bucky’s ears and the low, deep pounding of his heart. A second later, Sam pulls away. Stares back at Bucky and swallows.

Bucky’s brain is still stuck in that moment, still lagging where their lips touched. 

“Sorry,” Sam whispers when Bucky doesn’t respond. “Shit, sorry, I—” 

“Jesus,” Bucky says, blinking awake out of that sweet, swift fever dream where Sam kissed him. “Jesus no, come here.” 

He cups Sam’s face, tugs his chin up, and kisses back. Kisses him hard like he’d been wanting to, slides in between Sam’s knees to get as close as he can, and then kisses him some more. 

And Sam takes it, lets Bucky in, tongue and wetness and his fingers sliding up under Bucky’s shirt, groaning when he touches skin like he’d been craving it. He breaks away, breathless, eyes closed. “Stay here tonight,” he says, sliding the tips of his fingers along Bucky’s ribs. 

“Sarah…” Bucky says, too weak to be an objection. He’s already in, just has to give his good sense a chance to feature. 

“She already knows. Said I’m slow as hell.” 

Bucky huffs. “You are.” Sam arches an eyebrow at him. “Just a little.” Then, “I’ll stay.” 

He shuts the door, pulls his shirt and jeans off, and helps Sam into bed. Tugs the covers up over him and gets in right next to Sam’s warm body. Slides his hands across Sam’s stomach and kisses him again. 

It gets a little filthier this time, heated, and yeah, he’s touched Sam all over in the last few weeks, but not like this. It’s all different. Used to be careful, now it’s on fire. Long slow strokes up Sam’s ribs, over his pecs, squeezing and rubbing and tasting. 

He hesitates to let that touch drop any lower than Sam’s hips. He’s pretty sure that’s where they’re heading anyway, but he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself. His dick’s so hard he can’t breathe though, and he might just come if they keep this up, if they keep kissing like they’re fucking, if Sam moans like that one more time. 

“Buck,” Sam says then, eyes filled with the midnight moonlight from outside, lips kissed swollen and wet. And then he guides Bucky’s hand down to the front of his boxers. 

Bucky cups his palm over Sam. He’s rock hard, pumping up into Bucky’s hand. Desperate for it—hasn’t been able to touch himself in weeks—mouth parted and wanting, those fucking soft moans undoing Bucky from the inside. He loses coordination, goes slack as Bucky starts moving, rubbing him up through the material with slow even strokes. 

“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck, please. Please, Buck, come on—” 

“Alright,” Bucky says, slipping his hand into the waistband, wrapping around Sam’s cock, and stroking tightly, quickly now. “Shh, there you go.” 

Sam full-body melts. A deep, satiated sigh escapes him. And God, he’s gorgeous, he’s so fucking beautiful it makes Bucky vibrate inside, makes him stupid. 

He kisses Sam again, soft gentle laps into his mouth, putting his wrist to work to get Sam off. He was already wet when Bucky first touched him, but he’s drenched now, dripping, his breaths coming in too quickly for him to kiss back. 

Seconds later, he lets out a strangled groan, turns his face into the pillow, and comes. Shakes through it and goes off again and again. Weeks of pent-up want releasing in desperate spurts. 

“Buck…” Sam breathes and nothing follows, just the sound of his heart and his breathing evening out slowly. 

Bucky smiles, nudging his mouth along Sam’s jaw. “Yeah, sweetheart?” 

“Should have kissed you sooner. Damn.” 

The next morning Bucky comes back into Sam’s room after a shower. He puts on a t-shirt and some sweats, his wet hair dripping patches onto his shoulders.

Sam’s awake when Bucky enters, covers kicked off him, boxers tented, just lying there eyeing Bucky up, limbs spread eagle. Beautifully sleepy.

“Hmm,” Bucky says, licking his lips. “Now that’s a damn sight I can get used to.” 

“Quit teasing and get over here,” Sam says with his sleep-addled voice, stretching the tips of his fingers toward Bucky.

Bucky feels a hot flush creep up his chest, an excited knot forming in his stomach. He slips his t-shirt off, drops it, climbs onto the bed, knees first, and crawls up Sam’s body. He brackets him in, careful with all his broken limbs, and looks at him for a second, at that beautiful face, smiles, then kisses him.

Sam takes him in deep, rocks his hips up so their dicks touch. The spark of pleasure’s instant, begging for more, but Bucky’s going to drag this out. God knows he’s been wanting to for long enough.

He breaks away, drops lower, kisses all along Sam’s neck and his clavicle, circles a nipple with his tongue. Bites just a little, just enough to shock Sam, then moves on to the cut muscle that leads into his boxers. Slides his tongue all along the dip. 

“Jesus, Buck,” Sam moans, arching his hips up, head pressed into the pillow. 

Bucky slides his boxers down painfully slow, letting his hands brush just so along Sam’s cock. Sam’s body gives another involuntary jerk, his breathing speeding up now. And because Bucky’s a giant asshole, he rubs up against it with his cheek, open mouth sliding along Sam’s shaft, then pulling away.

And Sam’s bound by his heavy casts, unable to do anything about it. He laughs, a helpless, hysterical sound, and bucks upward to chase the missing friction. “Can’t fuckin’ believe you right now,” he says, those fingertips digging into the covers. 

“Just having some fun.” He circles the tip of Sam’s dick with a metal finger and watches it twitch, desperately leaking.

“I bet.” Sam closes his eyes, swallowing hard, that pretty face pinched with concentration, that stubborn avoidance. 

“That won’t work this time, honey,” Bucky tells him, then wraps a firm grip around his cock and squeezes. The sound that Sam makes is downright sinful and has Bucky piping up with a hot shock, so he gets a hand around his own dick and makes Sam watch while he jerks them both in sync. 

“Jesus,” Sam says, craning his neck to watch like a goddamn masochist. Not that Bucky minds. He puts on a show, squeezes himself at the base, cups his balls too, and Sam nearly chews through his lip the way he’s biting down. Moments later, Sam’s just an open-mouthed mess. Just gasping, fucking up into Bucky’s grip. Those broken arms trying and failing to grab hold of him, missing him by inches. 

Bucky leans down then, one hand around Sam, the other steadying himself on the mattress. He kisses Sam’s fingertips, licks at them, jerks him slow and tight. 

Sam pushes Bucky’s sweats down as best he can, sucking in a deep breath with every upstroke. 

Bucky lets go of Sam’s cock only to kick his sweats off and line himself up right next to Sam. He gets close enough to kiss him. The proximity presses them together so snugly, so tightly, that it’s got Bucky leaking and Sam can feel it. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, urging Bucky on with his cast against Bucky’s ass. 

So Bucky starts rocking back and forth. Has them sliding together real nice, a smooth, slick friction that threatens to send Bucky right over the edge with every move. 

He plants his lips on Sam’s, feels that sweet, hot tongue against his own, cups Sam’s face and angles him just right to deepen it. Has Sam gasping into his mouth pretty soon and he keeps it up even when Sam warns that he’s going to blow. 

Happens quickly. Sam writhes, that guttural moan rolling off his tongue, and then he’s soft like putty beneath Bucky. Leaves a wet mess between them that coaxes Bucky’s orgasm on.

He kisses Sam when he comes, hard and deep. Says, “Shit, sweetheart,” against his lips as it shoots through him.

Sam wraps his good leg around Bucky’s waist, putting pressure on his already sensitive cock, and says, “Yeah, Buck, come on.” As if he knows once is never enough for guys like Bucky. 

Then he kisses Bucky, sloppy and dirty just the way Bucky likes it, and makes him come again with absolutely no effort at all. 

This one rips Bucky apart, though. Honest to God brings tears to his eyes, so he hides his face in the crook of Sam’s neck, taking in ragged deep breaths, and rides it out. 

Sam rakes his hands through Bucky’s hair, soft soothing strokes, then kisses his temple. “That’s it, baby,” he whispers, and that just makes it worse in the best kind of way. Makes Bucky twitch uselessly against him as another wave comes over him.

a couple of weeks later

“Jesus, this feels weird,” Sam says, turning his bare hand palm-side up, touching the inside of his forearms like he’s never seen it in his life. “Feels like I’m missing something.”

He’s taking it slow through the parking lot to the truck. Insists on walking himself, which is no surprise since he’d been texting with Shuri about a new set of wings for the last couple of days. The man’s itching to get moving again.

“Yeah, let’s get those casts back on and keep you grounded for a few more weeks. Give all of us a break.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s not like I’m just gonna take off.” Bucky keeps Sam steady with one arm and opens the car door for him with the other. That earns him a leveling, I-can-open-doors-now-Bucky look. “I’m just saying it’s good to be prepared, you know. There might be a small mission I can help with. Just fly in, fly out. You know. A small one.” He imitates the flowing movements of an aircraft with his newly unwrapped arm.

“Oh yeah, no. Landing with that kinda impact on a busted leg sounds like a great plan, pal. Let’s go!” Bucky says, dry, and helps Sam into the passenger seat because it’s a habit now and he likes touching him. What about it?

Sam holds up a finger. “Can’t call me ‘pal’ anymore, by the way. Had my dick in your mouth. Makes no sense.”

Bucky kisses that finger and straps Sam in. Gets another I-can-do-that-myself look. “How about I get you home and call you babydoll while my dick is in your mouth? You really liked that the other night, huh?” 

Sam bites down on his lower lip. Looks like he’s halfway between telling Bucky to shut up and sucking him off. Bucky winks at him and shuts the door, rounds the truck, and gets in behind the wheel only to find Sam unbuckled again. 

“Why wait?” he says and then knees it over the middle seat and into Bucky’s lap and kisses him. 

The weight of him feels so good on top of Bucky, so solid and sure, but his hands can finally touch—can push through Bucky’s hair, cup around the curve of his jaw—and that’s inexplicable.  

Bucky groans into the kiss, grabs hold of Sam’s ass and squeezes. Sam reciprocates by tugging Bucky’s hair. And fuck if that doesn’t make his dick pipe up. He pushes up for friction, tries to get more of Sam’s mouth and get his dick touched at the same time. The desperation of it all rushes through him like lava. 

For a moment, Sam gives him what he wants. He slides his one hand along Bucky’s neck and dips the other lower, and Bucky’s gut clenches almost painfully when Sam lays his palm over the fat bulge down there. 

Sam pulls away, a little breathless now, fingers feeling around the outline of Bucky’s dick. “Oh, damn,” he says, but there’s something terrible in his eyes now, a shit-eating grin creeping onto his face. “That’s gotta be killing you, huh?” 

Bucky narrows his eyes at Sam’s rhetorical tone. “Yeah. Wanna get the fuck out of here and take care of it for me?”

Sam gives him another chill-inducing stroke through his jeans. “Absolutely,” he says, then slowly gets into his seat and buckles up again. 

Bucky adjusts himself, which doesn’t help at all. He is so hard he thinks his cock might explode. “You good, or?” 

“Yeah, I’m good.” Sam palms himself through his sweats, tugs at his waistband to get comfortable and just knowing he’s got a boner too, just knowing he’s touching himself, is driving Bucky in-goddamn-sane. He swings the car out of the parking space as fast as he can, weaves through traffic, and suburbs until he hits the highway. 

And once they’re on that long, open road, he reaches over and grabs Sam’s dick. “Fuck. Wanna pull over?” he says, rubbing, kneading. 

Sam arches up into the touch but says, “No.” Bucky’s head whips to him. “Keep driving.” 

“What?” 

Then Sam reaches over too and unzips Bucky’s jeans and tugs the zipper flaps out of the way just enough to free his cock, then leaves him alone. Instead—and Bucky really should have seen this coming—Sam takes his own dick out and starts jerking off right next to Bucky. 

“Hands on the wheel,” Sam tells him.

“Honey,” Bucky says. His heart goes beating all wrong again. A low, wanting ache grows in his gut. He feels himself leaking. “Sweetheart, what are you doing—oh God. Sam.” But Sam just drops his head back and closes his eyes, mouth parted with pleasure now. “Sam. Come on. Oh, my God.” 

“Hmm?” Sam says. “Oh, sorry.” He reaches over and skirts his fingertips just so over the tip of Bucky’s dick, teasing, barely touching him. 

“Sam,” Bucky says, meaning it as a warning, but it comes out pleading instead. “Alright, look I’m sorry—this is payback for me teasing you all this time, right?” Sam smears his thumb around Bucky’s tip then licks it off, his other hand steadily jerking himself. “Fuck. Sam. Jesus Christ. Honey, hey—” 

“Now, why would I do that?” Sam says, real chill, absently fiddling with Bucky’s cock just enough to drive him wild but never enough to make him come.

Sam though, Bucky can tell by the rapid twists of his wrist and the desperate concentration on his face that he’s well on the way out. He jerks it a few times fast, then sits forward and spills onto the truck’s floor. 

It’s beautiful to watch, like art, his face, his healed hand around himself, his body fluid and moving again, the lopsided, lazy, self-satisfied smirk on his face as the glowing pleasure washes over him. 

Bucky feels himself leak down his shaft. Can’t even bring himself to moan about not being touched because watching’s enough. Just the sight of Sam like this could hold him over for life.

“Fucking Christ, you’re goddamn gorgeous,” he says, dragging his eyes back to the road. 

Sam looks at him, then reaches over, wrangles Bucky’s jeans out of the way some more, and wraps a hand around him. Starts jerking him off fast and tight. That has Bucky moaning, sucks the life out of his lungs with every tug. Feels so goddamn good he can’t think straight. 

The good Lord must know because the light at the intersection ahead turns red just as they approach, and he feels the orgasm swirl up in his gut.

“Sam, sweetheart,” he says, breathless. “Babydoll, I’m—” 

Then Sam unbuckles, ducks down and over, and swallows Bucky into his mouth, all the fucking way down until his tip hits Sam’s throat. And he comes. 

Goes off so hard, so fast, that at first, he doesn’t even know what’s happening. Just feels instant, swift release flooding over him in convulsing waves. 

His finely tuned senses tell him there’s no one else around, so he lets his head fall back to savor it. Rests his hand on the back of Sam’s head and feels him bopping just a little. His throat constricts as he swallows, nudging Bucky’s spent dick, and then finally he pulls off.

He wipes his mouth and grins. “Now we’re square.” 

“We’re square, sweetheart,” Bucky says. Doesn’t know how the hell he’s supposed to drive when he can’t feel his body. 

Sam buckles up again, laughing. “Light’s green, Buck.” 

Sam’s out of the truck the minute it pulls up at the house. He speed-walks up to the door where Sarah greets him with a long hug. She inspects his arms, runs her fingers over the scars, and checks out his leg too. 

The boys come running from the back and crash into him. He ruffles Cass’s hair and pinches AJ’s nose, a wide, bright smile on his face. A happy, content glow radiating from him. He high-fives the boys for all the times they’ve missed out on. Pokes Sarah in the ribs and hysterically apologizes when he realizes he can’t run away and she starts poking back. 

This is Sam, whole again. 

“Come on, lunch is ready,” Sarah says after some messing around. “Ribs and salad.” 

“Aw, man,” Sam says, absolute joy on his face, wiggling his fingers. “Can’t wait to get these puppies dirty!” He holds his hand out to Bucky, clasping tightly around it when Bucky slides their palms together. 

Then for a moment Sam pauses and looks back, up at the bright, cloudless midday sky, and inhales.

“Soon, sweetheart,” Bucky says, squeezing his hand. 

“Yeah,” Sam says, looking at Bucky now, a soft, hopeful smile on his face. “Soon.”