Chapter Text
It isn’t the first time Bucky’s nighttime wanderings have lasted the entire night, and it probably won’t be the last.
He doesn’t even remember what his nightmare was about anymore. Just remembers the cold, sickly feeling that sat heavy in his stomach and drove him from his bed. Remembers the restlessness that plagued him, the need to move, to be anywhere else. He’d wandered the streets of Brooklyn in a daze, scarcely paying attention to his surroundings or the people around him, and it’s –
He feels a little calmer now, a little more settled in his skin. It’s enough to let him stop walking for the first time in – shit, he doesn’t even know how long he’s been out here. Doesn’t know when he woke, or when he left his apartment. He only knows that the sun is well above the horizon now and the city is awake. Smells coffee roasting from somewhere nearby and his stomach growls.
A scrap of a melody floats past on a breeze, and Bucky lifts his head. Steps in that direction. It’s – he recognizes it. Barely, but it triggers some long-dormant memory buried in his subconscious. The melody is familiar, and the language, though it’s not one of the many languages he speaks. He takes another step towards it, head cocked to one side, and –
A flash of memory. Small, delicate hands – his mother’s hands – wrapping a leather strap around a man’s bicep.
The memory fades too quickly, even though Bucky tries to hold onto it. It isn’t often that he has memories of his life before Hydra. They were too good at emptying him out, at scrambling his brains until he didn’t know who he was or who he’d been. His memories of Steve and the war are the clearest, but his early childhood – well, it’s been mostly blank. He’s got a vague sense of who he was – that he loved his parents, that he loved his little sister, that they were happy for the most part – but the details tend to slip past him.
This, though – this felt like something more concrete.
It’s not a conscious decision to start walking toward the source of the music. He just – his feet pull him in that direction, and before he realizes what he’s doing he’s rounding the corner and staring at a synagogue.
He’s walking up the steps with Becca’s hand clasped tight in his. She’s wearing her favorite nice dress – it’s her only nice dress, after all this rationing – and her hair is pulled back into two braids that Bucky did for her this morning. Already there are wisps coming loose at the nape of her neck. Bucky lets go of her hand, but only long enough to smooth down those flyaways as they pass through the carved doors of the synagogue.
He –
He used to go to services. With his family. Saturday morning Shabbat services, and Havdalah if they had the time. Rosh Hashanah in the autumn and fasting for Yom Kippur. Lighting candles for Hanukkah and playing with little hand-carved dreidels, making them spin and spin as Becca clapped her little baby hands in delight. It’s – he’s – it’s been a long time since he’s thought about this. Longer still since he’s gone to a service.
The front door is open, as if beckoning him inside. Bucky walks toward it, still dazed by the memories. The song changes to something he doesn’t recognize, but there’s an unfamiliar feeling swelling in his chest and he – he steps into the synagogue. Sees the early morning light shining down through the stained glass windows.
Shabbat service has already started, so Bucky tiptoes to the back row and takes a seat. There’s no one else in this row with him, so he can hunch down and try to be unobtrusive. Knows that the services are open to the public, but it’s – he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself. Doesn’t want to make a scene. He’s just here to – to listen, probably. That’s why he came in, right?
There’s a young Steve next to him, in nice slacks and a tie that’s too big for him, head bowed as he listens to the service. He’s only here because he wanted to spend the night and Bucky’s mother told him that if he wanted to spend Friday night with Bucky he had to go to Shabbat service with them in the morning. Bucky had expected Steve to bow out, but no – he’s here, sitting next to Bucky in his family’s normal bench, listening to the service as if it were one of his own.
Bucky just – sits there as the service continues. As the music is traded for chanting, and then for reading from the Torah. And he – he might not speak Hebrew, he might not remember most of what he was taught as a child, but it all feels so familiar. All the way down to his bones, as if it were imprinted on his soul rather than his memories.
For the first time since being captured by Hydra, Bucky stands and bows to pray.
“Went to a synagogue the other day.”
They’ve just finished their training for the day when Bucky breaks the comfortable silence. Sam looks up from where he’s sitting, rubbing a damp towel over his face. It’s – this is not a conversation Sam ever expected to be having with Bucky. Sure, they talk now; sometimes they even talk about important things. But Bucky never seemed particularly religious in any direction.
“How was it?” Sam asks instead of the million other questions that pop into his head.
Bucky shrugs. “It was – familiar.”
“Yeah?” Sam tilts his head. Tries to think about his grade school history lessons. “Did you used to go as a kid?”
“I – yeah.” Bucky runs a hand through his hair. He’s not looking at Sam – which is normal when they’re having these kinds of conversations. “Every Saturday.”
He doesn’t elaborate. This, too, is normal for this kind of conversation with Bucky. Sam’s a patient guy, though; he knows that if he waits, if he doesn’t interrupt, Bucky will eventually get to a place where he can talk about the thing he wants to talk about.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait long. Only about a minute passes before Bucky turns his head to the side, looking somewhere near but not quite at Sam.
“You ever go to church?” he asks.
“As a kid.” Sam shrugs. “Our ma was religious. Sarah picked it up more than me, and she takes the boys sometimes. But I – I dunno. It’s not that I don’t believe. I just – I guess I just don’t go.”
Bucky nods like he understands. “I haven’t – thought about it much,” he says. “Not since I came off the ice for the last time. I’d almost forgotten about it. My memories from before – they’re not the best.”
Sam can only imagine what that means, and every possibility breaks his heart. He can’t imagine not being able to remember all the happy things from his childhood, even when they were mixed in with the sad. Wouldn’t trade a single second of it for anything.
“I was just walking down the street,” Bucky continues. “And I heard – singing. I recognized the song, I think.”
“Yeah?” Sam prompts when Bucky goes silent again.
“Yeah.” Bucky clears his throat. “It was – so I just – I went in. Sat through the whole service. Didn’t understand a word of it, but I – it felt good. Familiar. A bit like coming home.”
There’s a wistful look on Bucky’s face that makes Sam’s heart ache. Shit, he can’t imagine what it must feel like for Bucky to find something so comfortingly familiar in these strange modern times. He’s so far removed from everything he once knew, and it’s – fuck, Sam doesn’t know how he deals with it most days. Sam certainly wouldn’t be alright if he woke up one day to find out his whole family was long gone and lived and life without him.
“That sounds nice,” he says. “You gonna go back?”
Bucky toys with the hem of his shirt. “I think so,” he says eventually. “It was just – nice. And the people seemed nice, too.”
Sam nods. “You know,” he says slowly, “a lot of the guys I counseled started going to church when they came back.” He’s taking a risk – knows that Bucky doesn’t like to be treated like he’s a patient. And Sam usually tries to separate his counselor’s opinions from his friend opinions. But it seems like Bucky is looking for – for something from him.
“Do they?” Bucky asks in a carefully neutral tone.
So Sam continues. “Yeah. Some of the modern wars, they didn’t have clear goals. Not all of them, but – I guess a lot of people didn’t really know what they were over there fighting for, just that their country told them to. So they came back looking for answers about what they went through.”
Bucky’s silent for a long moment. “Did they find any?”
“Some of them.” Sam nods. “It’s not for everyone. But some of them managed to find some comfort there. Plus it helped some of them get involved with their community. Made them feel like they were part of life again, instead of stuck in their heads about what they went through.” It’s not a one-size-fits-all experience, Sam knows, but he knew plenty of veterans who got something out of going. Out of being involved again, and having faith in something.
“That sounds nice,” Bucky agrees softly.
This time he goes silent for a few minutes. Sam lets him, since he seems to actually be considering what Sam said.
He hopes Bucky is one of those people who gets something out of it. Because it’s – Bucky has been through enough in this life. Enough violence and terror and trauma and misery. Fuck, he deserves to have one genuinely good thing in his life. Deserves to start living in the present rather than the past.
“I might want to go again,” Bucky eventually says. “I’m just – what if they know who I am?”
There are a million things Sam could say to that, but he’s sure that Bucky’s therapist has said every version of it wasn’t your fault. Besides, there’s a difference between knowing that and feeling that. Survivor’s guilt is a hell of a thing, in Sam’s very personal experience. He could also say you’re a hero or you’ve been pardoned but neither of those are right, either. Not when Bucky is still coming to terms with who he is now that he’s no longer the Winter Soldier.
“There’s nothing wrong with trying,” he says. “But it’s your choice, Buck.” Too many things in his life haven’t been his choice.
“Yeah.” Bucky chews his lip in silence.
“Besides,” Sam continues, an idea occurring to him, “if you’re not sure, isn’t there stuff you could do at home?” He’s not particularly knowledgeable about Judaism, but he seems to remember something about candles and prayer shawls.
Bucky brightens. “Oh!” he exclaims. “I – yeah, there are candles and – and challah, and –” He cuts himself off and turns to Sam with a brilliant smile, one that Sam isn’t expecting. One that momentarily takes his breath away because it’s so – he’s never seen Bucky look like that before. Like the weight of his past has momentarily been lifted off his shoulders. And Sam – Sam’s mouth goes dry and his heart skips a beat at the sight of it.
“Right,” Sam says faintly, still trying to recover from the shock of seeing that expression on Bucky’s face.
“That’s a great idea.” Bucky’s still smiling at him and it’s strange because Sam’s heartbeat won’t slow down. “Thanks, Sam.”
“Any time,” he says.
Bucky leaves, then, with a small wave over his shoulder. He’s undoubtedly heading back to Brooklyn now that their training is done for the week. Sam is headed back to Louisiana for a long weekend, too. But he can’t stop staring after Bucky as he walks across the large gymnasium. Can’t stop thinking about that smile and the way it made Sam feel. And it’s – he needs to just put it out of his mind, clearly. Bucky’s happy and that’s great. Sam’s happy for him, and that’s all this is.
But his pulse doesn’t slow back down until long after Bucky has left the training room.
Bucky doesn’t remember there being so many options.
He’s standing in a store that specializes in Jewish items, and it’s – a bit overwhelming, to say the least. He came in here for one thing – candles, that’s all he wants – but he’s been confronted by more options than he ever thought candles could have. And that only takes up a small portion of the store. Bucky doesn’t even know what half of the things are. He wasn’t the most studious when he was younger, too concerned with keeping food on the table and getting Steve out of trouble to pay attention like he should’ve. But this is –
He grabs the first candles that make sense to him, a couple of plain white tapers. Looks askance at the plethora of candlestick options, but eventually settles on two silver ones that look like the ones his mother had when he was young. Items in hand, he makes his way back toward the register and tries not to gawk at all the things around him, because he’s still new to this whole thing and desperately trying to look like he knows what he’s doing.
But halfway to the register he passes by a display of – he can’t quite scrounge up the word, not yet. They’re simple leather boxes attached to simple leather cords, and he – he remembers. Remembers watching his mother wrap the straps around his father’s left arm every morning while Bucky and Becca got ready for school. Remembers the peace he saw on both their faces while they worked, the open affection they shared as they performed their daily rituals of prayer. Remembers how disappointed his mother was when Bucky turned thirteen and got a job that got him up too early and kept him out too late for him to bother with wrapping his own straps. But it’s – his father was dead by then and Bucky was the man of the house. Whether he wanted to or not, he just didn’t have time for the same rituals as his parents. Not when he needed to put food in Becca’s belly.
Bucky reaches out with one hand. Gets close and then pulls his hand back. Looks around guiltily, as if someone is going to pop out and reprimand him for almost touching the straps.
Tefillin, he thinks, the word resurfacing as if through a dream.
He buys it without a second thought.
Now that he has candles, Bucky decides it’s time to try his hands at making bread.
Challah used to be his favorite thing about the weekends. His mother was an excellent baker – good enough that neighbors often came to her with supplies to make birthday cakes for the neighborhood kids, if they had enough rationing coupons for it. Her challah was no exception, especially not when it was fresh out of the oven. Bucky remembers coming home from work after terrible days on the dock and walking through the door to the smell of freshly baked challah. Remembers how happy it used to make him, and he thinks – I could do that.
The ingredients are fairly simple, after all. Bucky drifts through the farmers market, enjoying the sights and smells as he hunts for ingredients. Olive oil and freshly laid eggs and flour and yeast are all easy finds. He picks up a jar of local honey after chatting with the beekeeper about flavors for a while. Spends some time browsing a selection of spices and ends up with sea salt and fresh rosemary in his basket.
He’s pleased with his selection, and on his way out of the market, when something catches his eye.
There’s a stand selling prayer shawls. He has a vague memory of draping a tiny Becca standing under their father’s arm, playing with the tassels of his. But this – there are so many colors. When he thinks back on his synagogue days, he sees shawls of white and gray and tan. Basic fabrics, the ones everyone had access to. But these – now he sees beautiful white shawls with silver and blue lines running through them. Vibrant blue shawls with gold embroidery in the shape of Hebrew letters. Shawls embroidered with patterns of flowers and trees and all kinds of intricate and colorful details. It’s – he –
One in particular catches his eye. Bucky walks over in a daze, clutching his market bag. Reaches out a tentative hand just to touch the edge of the shawl. It’s soft, softer than he imagined. All the colors of the rainbow are represented in a vibrant declaration of gay pride, and it’s –
Bucky’s younger self never would’ve believed it. Never would’ve – it just wasn’t what they did back then. They never talked about it. Bucky knew what he was, knew that he would always have to hide it. It’s just how life went. But this – he never even considered that he could be out at the synagogue in these modern times.
“You have excellent taste,” the elderly shopkeeper tells him with a warm smile. “I made it myself. Are you a homosexual?”
The question is so abrupt that it startles him. He panics, just for a second – old habits die hard, even in modern times – but the woman is still smiling and doesn’t seem like she’s going to have him arrested for public indecency or anything like that.
“I, uh – yes?” he says.
“Are you asking me?” the woman tuts at him.
“No! Uh, no, ma’am,” Bucky says, defaulting to the manners his mother drilled into him. “I was just surprised. I – yes, I’m gay.”
“Do you have a boyfriend?” The woman eyes him like he’s a piece of meat. “My grandson was just dumped. You look like a nice young man. I keep telling him that he needs to find a nice Jewish boy to date, but no. He doesn’t want to listen to his elders.”
Bucky has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “That’s very kind of you, ma’am,” he replies. “But I think I might be a little too old for your grandson.”
“Nonsense. He needs someone mature.” The woman sniffs. “I can give you his phone number. He’s a sweet boy, he really is.”
“I believe you, ma’am,” Bucky tells her. “But I think I’d just like to buy this prayer shawl from you.”
“Oh!” The woman looks pleased. “Delightful. I made a matching bag to go with it. Oh, and you should really try one of my homemade muffins. You’re looking a bit pale, dear.”
In the end, Bucky leaves the stall with a shawl, a matching bag to carry it in, and no less than three muffins procured from a box that seemed to appear out of nowhere. He munches on one of the muffins as he walks toward home and lets memories of his own grandmother play out in his mind.
Once he’s home, Bucky is quick to put everything away. He lays out the shawl across the back of his couch just to admire the colors of it, and sets the candles up on an empty sideboard. Takes out the tefillin last and just – just stares at it for a moment. There are so many memories intertwined with this one thing – of his father, of his mother, of extended family members he barely remembers who would sometimes stop by for morning prayers on their way to work. He just – even just holding it in his hands makes him feel a little closer to his family. Makes him feel like they’re not so far apart in time.
He queues up a YouTube video, because Bucky never really learned how to wrap it. Watches the video over and over again for nearly half an hour, until he’s sure that he understands what he’s supposed to do. It’s not exactly time for morning prayers – the day is half over now that he’s spent all his time at the market – but he figures a little practice never hurt anyone.
It’s just –
The leather strap seems strange against the black of his arm. Or, rather, his prosthetic seems strange against the normality of the leather straps. He’s not sure which. But it’s – he’s had a prosthetic for so long that sometimes he forgets that it was ever different, but this – with all these memories of his childhood resurfacing, this is the first time it’s felt wrong.
Bucky has had a lot of therapy, alright? He’s dealing with his trauma. Dealing with his survivor’s guilt and the inherent guilt of knowing that, regardless of his ability to control himself, it was his hands that ended peoples’ lives. His hands that murdered and committed violence at the whims of whatever puppetmaster held his strings. His hands that hurt the people he loved.
It’s not even the same arm. Logically Bucky knows this, but he’s having a little trouble forcing his brain to accept the logic of it. Because it’s still a prosthetic. Still an instrument of violence. That might not be what he uses it for these days, but he’s still capable of it. And he –
He sets the tefillin down.
There’s always his right arm, but something about that feels wrong, too. Because he knows it’s supposed to go on his non-dominant hand. Knows the tradition of it. He can’t remember learning it – it’s just something he knows, like all the languages they shoved in his head. And there’s certainly room to change traditions – just look at the tallis he bought, proudly boasting the pride flag to everyone who sees it – but this doesn’t feel like a tradition he should change.
The tefillin goes back in its bag. Bucky pushes it behind the candlesticks and tries not to think about it again.
Sam hasn’t been invited, so he’s not entirely sure what he’s doing showing up at Bucky’s apartment out of the blue. It’s just – he’s fresh off a mission and back in the U.S. for the first time in a few days. Normally he’d be in a big rush to get back down to Louisiana, but it’s – after their last conversation and Bucky quietly opening up to him, Sam maybe just wants to see how he’s doing. With no other ulterior motive, of course. He’s just – being friendly.
Except his heart starts beating faster the moment he knocks on Bucky’s door. Considers, briefly, just turning around and leaving, but it’s – he can hear Bucky’s footsteps in the apartment and the smell of something baking. And then Bucky opens the door, and he –
“Did your kitchen explode on you?” Sam asks before he can stop himself. Because Bucky has flour all over his face, coating his hair, and Sam might not bake but he doesn’t think anyone could possibly mess up this badly.
Bucky scowls at him. “Shut up. I was trying to make bread.”
“Since when do you bake?”
Bucky’s scowl, if possible, deepens. “I don’t. I just –” He shrugs, looking distinctly uncomfortable. “What’s up?”
“Just got back from a mission,” Sam says, letting him change the subject. “Figured I’d stop in to annoy you.”
“Of course you did.” Bucky blows out a breath. Seems to consider for a moment, and then steps back, allowing Sam inside. “It’s a mess. I tried making bread, and it – well. It didn’t go well.”
“Bread is not that hard.” Not that Sam has ever tried, of course, but he’s certainly had to listen to plenty of Sarah’s lectures on the subject.
“Have you ever tried?” Bucky asks, eyes narrowing.
“Uh, no?”
“Then shut up.”
Once the door is shut and locked behind Sam, Bucky leads him into the kitchen. It’s – actually, it really is a disaster in here. There’s flour on every conceivable surface, as if it exploded outwards in a cloud. Oil seeps across the counter from an overturned bottle. There’s at least one egg cracked on the floor, yolk and shell splattered across the linoleum. And in the center of it all, on what seems to be the only clean plate in the apartment, rests the saddest excuse for a loaf of bread that Sam’s ever seen.
Sam has no idea what Bucky did to the bread, but it’s almost certainly not edible. He thinks he can see the faint outline of an attempted design, but Sam can’t tell what it is. It’s too flat, for one; Sam might not know anything about baking bread but he knows it’s supposed to rise. Bucky’s loaf looks deflated instead, as if someone struck it with a hammer and flattened everything out. It’s charred, too; flakes of blackened crust are scattered across the plate where Bucky sawed the thing in half to look inside. Which doesn’t look any better, of course; the inside just looks like a dense brick of bread.
“What did you do to that thing?” Sam wonders.
Bucky’s still scowling when he answers. “Everything wrong, apparently.”
Sam pulls out one of the stools at the island and takes a seat. Raises an eyebrow at the mess in front of him and says, lightly, “Man, I didn’t know you could commit war crimes against bread.”
That makes Bucky pause. His mouth twitches like he’s fighting back a smile. “You know me,” he drawls, “always gotta go above and beyond.”
“They’re gonna have to come up with a new nickname for you,” Sam agrees. “Bread Man? Grain Punisher? The Winter Breadkiller?”
That one gets Bucky’s attention. He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Those are terrible. Did you just come here to make fun of me?”
“No,” Sam tells him. “I just saw an opportunity I couldn’t pass up.”
“Oh, shut up,” Bucky says again, but this time it sounds fond. “You gonna help me clean this up or what?”
“Ain’t my mess.” Sam holds up his hands, grinning. “Besides, Sarah’ll kill me if I bring any of your bad bread juju home with me.”
“Bad bread juju,” Bucky mutters like he can’t quite believe those words just came out of Sam’s mouth. Then he sighs and surveys the mess in his kitchen. Unearths a broom from a closet in the hallway and starts trying to clean up his mess. But it’s –
“Man,” Sam sighs, “you can’t use a broom on your counter.”
“Why not?” Bucky demands. “It’s working.”
“You prepare food on those counters!” Sam tilts his head. “Actually, maybe it’s fine. Not like you’re cooking anything good on those counters.”
Bucky scowls again. “It was my first attempt,” he says, in a tone of voice that says Sam’s found his very last nerve. “And the broom is perfectly fine on the counter. I will clean the counter after I’m done.”
“Whatever you say, man.” Sam shrugs. Grins when Bucky makes a face at him. Man, he’s glad he came over. Making fun of Bucky is proving to be a worthwhile way to spend his afternoon.
The broom is actually pretty efficient at brushing off the worst of the flour. It only takes Bucky a few minutes to sweep it all into a garbage can. The counter looks much better now. It’s still a mess, but it’s more of a manageable mess now that the bulk of the flour is gone. Bucky attacks it with a dishrag and soapy water while Sam watches and adds his special witty commentary.
All too soon, though, Bucky is done. The kitchen is returned to its former pristine condition, no hint of a bread explosion. But there’s still flour on Bucky, which he seems to have forgotten about entirely.
“Alright, that’s finally done.” Bucky sighs and sits down on a stool next to Sam. “Want me to order some food?”
“Sure.” Sam will accept Bucky’s hospitality, no problem. But he raises an eyebrow and asks, “You gonna clean off your face?”
Bucky groans. “Forgot about that.” He swipes the dirty rag off the counter, scrubs at his face for a few seconds, and then throws it back down. It’s – well, he tried. Most of the flour is gone, but what’s left is stuck in odd places like the furrow of his brow and his eyelashes. It looks ridiculous, and Sam is almost tempted to just let him stay like that.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he tells Bucky. And then he grabs a clean rag, wets it, and walks back over to Bucky. “It’s stuck all over your face.”
“Stop mother henning me,” Bucky grumbles.
“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t make such a big mess,” Sam mutters. “Hold still.”
Bucky makes an inarticulate noise of frustration, but he holds still. Closes his eyes and lets Sam clean off the bits of flour that he missed. And it’s – something about this feels more intimate than Sam thought it would. He’s – it’s not like they’re doing anything, but Sam doesn’t exactly go around touching people’s faces. And Bucky is – well. Sam can maybe admit that he’s conventionally attractive, but that doesn’t mean anything.
Except.
Except that Bucky is maybe, sort of, possibly leaning into his touch. It’s just a little bit, just the barest hint of pressure, but Sam’s got one hand on Bucky’s shoulder to hold him still and he can feel the way Bucky’s leaning toward him. Like he wants to be touched. Like he wants Sam to touch him.
And doesn’t that just feel –
Nope, Sam is definitely not having any emotions about this. None at all. He’s just cleaning flour off a friend’s face. No big deal. Except Bucky has very long and very nice eyelashes that fan out against his cheeks with his eyes closed. Sam’s kind of staring at them a bit as he wipes away flour. And – and Bucky’s whole face goes lax when Sam wipes at his forehead, as if it feels good. As if Bucky feels good.
Sam curses the fact that he knows what a big deal this is. Because Bucky is leaning into his touch with his eyes closed. Sam has been around a lot of traumatized super soldiers in his line of work – not to mention the traumatized regular soldiers – and he knows that it means something. Knows that it takes a lot of goddamn trust for Bucky to be so relaxed that he’s willing to close his eyes while Sam touches his face.
And that –
Nah. Nope. Sam is totally cool about this. He finishes what he’s doing, tosses the rag onto the counter with the other one, and definitely doesn’t let his hand linger on Bucky’s shoulder. Takes a step back, puts some distance between them, and says, “You’re all good now.”
Bucky blinks like he’s slowly coming out of a daze. Flashes a crooked smile at Sam that does not make his heart skip a bit.
“Am I pretty again?” he drawls.
Sam has to swallow before he can answer in a normal tone of voice. “Quit fishing for compliments.”
“Worth a shot.” Bucky shrugs. “Alright, shoo. Into the living room.”
Sam lets himself be shooed, if only because he has no idea what he could possibly say right now that wouldn’t make things awkward. Tries to focus on something – anything – else.
Like the apartment. It’s been a bit since he last visited Bucky at his apartment, and it’s interesting to see how things have changed. He remembers their conversation from before, about Bucky’s memories of his younger self going to synagogue services with his family, and clocks the prayer shawl draped over the back of the couch, the unlit candles in their holder, and a copy of the Torah sitting on Bucky’s coffee table. Seems like it’s going well for him, then. Sam is glad; Bucky deserves to have some faith in his life after everything he’s been through. Something to bring him comfort. Sam might not be particularly religious, but he sure as hell grew up going to church on Sundays with his family.
There’s a small drawstring bag sitting next to the candles, but it’s sitting open, its contents spilling out of the bag. Sam peers at it. Can’t tell what it is at first – some kind of leather strap, he thinks – but then Bucky scoops it up. Shoves the strap back into the bag and throws it unceremoniously into a drawer.
“What was that?” Sam asks, curious.
“Tefillin.”
When Bucky doesn’t elaborate, Sam continues, “What’s that for?”
Bucky really needs to find an expression other than scowling, or else his face is going to stay like that forever, Sam’s pretty sure.
“For prayer,” Bucky says shortly. He looks distinctly uncomfortable, but he adds, “You’re supposed to wrap it on your non-dominant arm.”
Well, that’s certainly a loaded topic. Bucky seems at ease with it most of the time, using it as if it was a natural extension of himself. Sam’s seen him use it with great results in fights, of course, and he never seems particularly bothered by it. But Sam has also spent enough time as a trauma counselor to wounded veterans to know that prosthetics carry a whole lot of baggage, let alone ones that were used as an instrument of violence and death. And he knows it’s a different arm, not the same as the Winter Soldier, but – but he also knows that doesn’t matter.
“Alright,” Sam says, and deliberately lays his hand on Bucky’s prosthetic arm. Just to say – I understand. “What are you ordering me for dinner?”
Bucky’s whole body goes rigid at the contact. But it’s – only for a moment. Then he looks down at Sam’s hand on his arm, lets out a gust of air, and relaxes into the touch. Just like before, when Sam was cleaning his face. And it’s – Sam is being completely normal about this. Absolutely.
“I don’t remember offering to buy you dinner,” he shoots back, and then they’re off like normal. Bickering back and forth the way they always seem to end up whenever they’re together. But Sam can’t help but notice the way Bucky’s real hand traces the spot where Sam’s rested once Sam pulls away. Can’t help but notice the way his fingertips linger there, as if trying to make the sensation last. And it’s –
Sam might be having a few too many emotions about this, goddamnit.