Chapter Text
He doesn't decide to go to Sam's apartment.
It's too vast on the streets tonight, is all. The psych office he's just left is awful in its own way, harsh light and leering faces, but at least it's small, contained, predictable. Outside, walking down the Manhattan sidewalk, it feels like the whole thing is so big he might just drift up into the sky and disappear.
And the crowd. No one sees him, but everyone’s staring all the same, examining this one-armed freak with death around his eyes, making him feel invisible and splayed out and pinned on a display card, it's-
It's too vast outside, that's all.
The subway's okay, sometimes. Today the rumblings sound a little too like screeching tires, and that makes walking at street level the wiser choice. Not by much. But a little.
Fuck, why can't he have a space to tuck into? Nothing fancy, just a box barely big enough for his body. Small enough to cramp him a little, maybe. Dark so no one can see him. Quiet, soft, maybe a little warm, and he's folded inside and held there and he's safe.
He's thinking about that soft, quiet place when he knocks on Sam's door for the second time in his life. He didn't know he remembered how to get here - couldn't've given directions beyond "somewhere in Harlem, near the park, I think" - but here he is. Here he is, and Sam's opening the door, looking almost as surprised as Bucky feels about who's on his doorstep.
"Hey," Sam says. He's too damn polite to ask the obvious question.
I have no idea, Bucky would have answered. But Sam hadn't asked.
"Hey, Sam," he says instead. "I was in the neighborhood, thought I'd stop by?"
"You were in the neighborhood."
Bucky feels his gaze sliding away from Sam's face, down and to the side. "I've got a doc up at Columbia. Appointment this afternoon, walk home takes me by your building, so."
Sam doesn't ask what the fuck Bucky's doing walking from upper Manhattan to Queens at 7pm on a Thursday. He just opens the door a little wider, steps aside, and lets Bucky in.
Bucky remembers Sam's apartment. He remembers the strange way the door opens straight into the kitchen, the way the kitchen spills into a little threadbare den. He remembers the record player in the corner, the way Sam keeps his albums displayed on the walls instead of in a box. He remembers how it had smelled faintly of coffee, even in the evening. He remembers the couch, worn and comfortable, like maybe Sam's had it for years or he'd gotten it secondhand or both. He remembers all the photos hanging in the little hallway that leads to the bathroom.
He remembers feeling glad that Steve's friend had a soft place like this to tuck into.
"You eaten?" Sam asks.
"No."
"Hungry?"
"Not really."
Sam nods and starts pulling Tupperware from the fridge anyway. He piles a plate with leftovers, drapes a damp paper towel over the top, and pops it in the microwave. Turns to look at Bucky while it heats. Leans against the counter, arms crossed.
Sam looks like he's expecting Bucky to speak. Bucky supposes he should.
"So, uh, how've you been?"
"Been doing."
"Yeah?"
"Yep."
Bucky gnaws his lower lip. Nervous habit, low on the long list of nervous habits he needs to break.
"Still at the VA?"
"Uh huh."
"Saw your poster in the subway the other day, guess you're still-"
It's a relief when the microwave beeps, giving Bucky something to put in his mouth that isn't his foot.
They sit at a folding table Sam pulls from the gap by the fridge while Bucky eats. He isn't hungry, but the way Sam looks at him makes him think eating is the only option. Southern hospitality or something, although Bucky knows Sam hasn't spent more than a couple years in Louisiana. Seems like the food would be pretty good if Bucky could taste it.
It's quiet while Bucky eats. Quiet enough he can almost hear the echoed shouts of the last time he'd eaten at this table. But there's that thing in Sam's eyes that makes Bucky's skin feel a little bit less like stretched cellophane, and it's gentle enough that it cancels out the ghosts of the three of them screaming themselves hoarse.
Sam's arms are still crossed. He's pushed back a bit, balanced on the back two legs of his chair. He doesn't look the least bit concerned that he might fall.
"What're you doing here, man?" he asks once Bucky's scraped the last bit of mashed potato off his plate.
"I was in the neighborhood."
"Yeah, you said." Sam quirks his head and looks at Bucky with soft, brown eyes. Bucky feels like he's being gently dissected.
"I can-"
"Are you okay?" Sam asks.
Bucky thinks about lying. Lying takes so much energy.
"Not really."
Sam nods, like that's all the information he needs. "C'mon, then. I'll grab some blankets, you're crashing on my couch tonight. I've got a spare towel if you want to shower, but don't touch my products. And don't you dare touch my toothbrush."
Bucky doesn't have the energy to say no, much less walk back to Queens, so he just nods. He arranges his face into what he thinks should look like a smile.
Sam disappears down the hallway. Bucky's not sure what to do with his plate - should he wash it in the sink? Does Sam have a dishwasher? Is the plate even dishwasher safe? - but before he makes up his mind, Sam's rounding the corner with a sheet and a couple of blankets.
"Should I...?" Bucky gestures with the plate.
"Nah, I've got it. Go make yourself a bed on the couch. I've got some paperwork to do before I turn in and I don’t work in the bedroom, so I'll be out here for another hour or so. And I'm putting some music on." He pauses for a moment, still looking at Bucky like he can pick him apart with his gaze. "Blues okay?"
"It's your apartment," Bucky says with a shrug.
For the first time tonight, Bucky sees Sam smile. It's a little thing that plays at the corner of his mouth, quiet and curious. Bucky remembers that smile. "Yeah, it is."
He drops the bedding on the couch. Pauses in front of his wall of records for a moment, then selects one in a blue-and-pink sleeve and sets it to play.
It sounds just how Bucky imagined the food would've tasted. There's a low rumble of drums before a trumpet that cries out rich and mournful. It's warm, filling, smoky like whiskey burning hot in his chest.
Lady sings the blues. She's got 'em bad, she feels so sad, and wants the world to know just what her blues is all about.
Bucky makes up the bed. It's familiar; it grounds him in a time when things made sense. It takes longer than it did back then, but Sam doesn't try to Be Helpful and that's a gift in and of itself. He finds himself feeling something next to sadness when the task is done, at loose ends. Thinks about unmaking it and then making it again just to keep that clear set of instructions in his fingers.
Sam doesn't seem interested in talking, which is its own kind of relief. He busies himself in the kitchen, leaves it straight and tidy when he goes to park on the armchair with a laptop on his lap.
A different man might've missed the way Sam's eyes flick up to him every so often. Might've missed the stress lines that crease his brow as he looks at the screen. Might even have missed the wire-rimmed reading glasses Sam puts on when Bucky's eyes flutter mostly-shut.
But Bucky’d done two tours in Iraq and gotten top marks in sniper school, so he catches all of it.
He should feel guilty, maybe, that he's taking up all this space in Sam's apartment. He's with it enough to remember that this is Sam's home, and he's probably not entirely welcome here. Sam might be an outgoing guy but he's always struck Bucky as kind of an introvert underneath.
But the couch is solid beneath him, the blanket's the right kind of scratchy, and Bucky hasn't forgotten how much easier it is to sleep while someone's awake in the same room.
It's still dark when Bucky wakes up. He rolls over to check the time - 4:23am, shit, that's almost five uninterrupted hours. It's disorienting to get so many REM cycles at once, and it takes more effort than usual to drag himself to sitting.
What if he went back to sleep? He could, couldn't he? He could just slip back under that blanket and-
And there's Sam's record player in the corner. The record is back in its sleeve and resting against it, as if Sam had left it there because walking around the couch to put it back on the wall might've woken Bucky up.
This isn't his place. This isn't his couch. He's an intruder here, and the realization makes the walls so big and distant that the ceiling opens up and he falls right into the sky.
When Bucky comes back to his body, he's in his apartment. Doesn't remember getting here, but it's not even six yet so he must've taken the subway. It's early, still, he could go back to sleep, he's got fuck all to do today, but the bare mattress on the floor looks so unappealing he can't quite manage it.
He thinks about putting his prosthetic on and running through the exercises his PT showed him. He makes it as far as looking at the case propped up in the corner, the one that holds a piece of technology worth ten times more money than he'll ever see in his life, but it's all the way over on that side of the room, and it's just-
Later. He'll do them later.
He's got more important things to do first, like eat plain Cheerios from the box until his stomach stops growling. Like chainsmoke on the toilet and contemplate the way it's not fixed down right so it lifts up on one side every time he sits. Like lie down on a pile of laundry and let Alpine crawl all over his chest while he waits for time to pass.
He thinks about what Sam's doing today. Wonders what it's like to have a busy schedule, what it's like to live a life where the most valuable thing about you isn't in a box in the corner.
He shouldn't've intruded on Sam's normal day in his normal apartment. If therapy hadn't been worse than usual, all picking at festering wounds and pushing him to zombie himself out on psych meds, he would've made it back to Hollis on his own. But last night his choices had been crash at Sam's or crash under a bench and actually, come to think of it, maybe he should've just slept outside and let Sam be.
He thinks about getting up and getting on with his life. But he's got a cat by his shoulder and something half-comfortable to lie on and a half-full pack of cigarettes within arm's reach, so really, what the fuck's he got to move for? He's got everything he needs right here.
By the time he hauls his body up to standing, feeds Alpine, and downs a couple beers for dinner, it's close enough to bedtime he can justify laying himself back down. It'll take a few hours of staring at the ceiling before he drifts off, anyway. He can do the exercises tomorrow.
Sam's barely surprised when Barnes is gone by the time he wakes up. It's a bit of a relief, if he's being honest - having a stranger in his space takes energy, and he's not got enough for what's on his plate already.
Sam's schedule the next few days is, in charitable terms, hell. Friday kicks off with a double VA shift, eight hours of his regular counselor work and four hours of getting ahead on paperwork to make up for the fact that he's got a four-day road gig with the Captain America team leaving the next morning.
"You don’t have to be alone," Sam says to eight packed auditoriums of veterans in half as many days. “Your service to your country might have ended, but your country’s service to you has just begun. Go to your local VA Center and see what happens when heroes help heroes.”
He recites his lines by rote, his face arranged into a memorized and plastered-on smile. If he’d known how gut-twisting this job would be when his boss had stepped into his office and volun-told him for the VA’s new publicity program-
Well. He needed the income, and the Harlem office got a funding boost for fielding a Captain America, so he probably would’ve taken it anyway.
It was easier back then with Steve as his co-Captain. Remember who you're doing this for, Steve used to say when Sam got to thinking too hard about the lies he was spouting. And when that didn't jog Sam out of his spiral: Get through the day, and I'll blow you under the bleachers later. It never changed the bitter taste in Sam's mouth, but it sometimes made it less difficult to swallow.
Steve's gone, and there's some empty-skulled MAGA idiot called Walker in his place, and Sam just has to grin and bear it alone. Keep himself focused so he doesn't spin off thinking about-
Nope. Not going there, not today, not ever. Sam can't fall down that hole. He's got too much work to do.
Next Thursday Barnes shows up at his door again, paper bag in hand and nervousness carved into every line of his face.
"Hey," Sam says from the doorway. He's too tired for this.
"Hey. I, uh, just stopped by to give you this," Barnes says, holding out the bag. Sam takes it, feels the weight of a wine bottle in his hand. "As a thank you. For letting me crash on your couch last week. And an apology for showing up unannounced and being all, you know, like that."
"So he does have manners," Sam says. He winces when it comes out harsher than he meant, but Barnes doesn't blink. If anything, his shoulders slump in relief and his face gets a little clearer.
"Yeah, once in a while. Don't get too used to it."
"Noted," Sam says with what he's surprised to feel is an actual smile. Huh. "You want to come in, help me drink whatever grocery store wine you bought me?"
"You sure?"
"Yeah, why not? Don't get too used to it, though." Sam flashes Barnes a stern look, and Barnes smiles.
It's strange seeing Barnes smile like that, all the way up to his eyes. He's shaved, his long hair pulled back into a neat knot at the base of his neck, and the left sleeve of his flannel is filled out with a prosthetic that's just shy of matching his skin tone. If Sam hadn't seen more than his fair share of vets on their good days and their bad days, he almost wouldn't’ve recognized this as the same man who showed up on his doorstep the week before.
"You a wine man, Barnes?'' Sam asks as he pulls the bottle from the bag and sets it on the counter. It's a bottom-shelf Moscato, not box wine but not much better, either.
"Not really. I remembered you were, though?"
That hits Sam in a not-quite-unpleasant spot in his chest. They’d only eaten together once before, on an evening that had been memorable for so many disastrous reasons; it was nice to think Barnes remembered it for something pleasant, too. Or at least something neutral.
But ‘remembering’ doesn’t amount to ‘having taste,’ so he pours them both glasses of a nice cab sav to sip while he gets dinner on. If Barnes notices, he doesn’t say anything about it.
They eat together on the fold-out table in the kitchen, and it's nice. It takes Sam aback how nice it is. Barnes is awkward, sure, but there's a sweetness that peeks through when he laughs, and Sam wonders if maybe he's catching glimpses of the man Steve was mourning all those years.
"What was that you were listening to last time?" Barnes asks between mouthfuls.
"I listen to a lot of music. Narrow it down for me."
"Blues, I think?" Barnes says, as if that helps.
"Lonnie Brooks? Cedric Burnside?"
"Maybe. It was, uh, a woman, I think? Sounded old."
"Ma Rainey?"
"Could be?" Barnes screws his face up, eyes closed. He hums a bar, off-tune enough it takes Sam a moment to place it.
"Lady Sings the Blues?"
"That's it!"
"Billie Holiday."
"Huh. It was nice."
Sam's not sure what to do with that - with this white boy in his kitchen telling him Billie Holiday is nice - so he does what he often does, folds it up tight and small and tucks it into a dark space between his ribs for later.
They finish what was left of Sam's cab sav over dinner. Sam makes a good faith effort to stomach the Moscato, he does, but it’s like trying to drink syrup. Barnes ploughs through the bottle like he can’t tell the difference.
By the time they’re done, it's starting to sit funny, this near-stranger in his house.
"You good to go home, man?" he asks, because he can't help being a little bit mother hen on instinct. He takes after his dad that way.
"I'm good. This was an apology for crashing on your couch last time, remember?"
"Alright. Just text me when you're home safe."
Sam thinks about putting on Billie Holiday once Bucky's cleared out, but it's a little too aching for the end of the day. Puts on some Marvin Gaye instead. He dances around the kitchen a little as he cleans, hips swaying like they were made to, the music clearing everything else from his head like it always does. He doesn't think about the VA, or the strained hunch of Barnes' shoulders as he ate, or the moment in St. Paul when he'd caught Walker in his Cap getup out of the corner of his eye and, for a moment, thought it was Steve.
Bucky shows up again the next Thursday and it’s barely a surprise now. His hair is down this time, loose locks curling around his jaw.
“Mind if I come in? Figured I’d stick with what I know this time,” he says, holding up a six-pack of IPA.
Sam lets him in, and they eat together, and it’s nice. Weird, twisting, not-quite-real, but that might just be the exhaustion creeping in. They don’t talk about much. Sports, mostly, how much they both miss football season, and after dinner they half-watch some decent basketball on the couch. The Thunder are getting thoroughly trounced by the Warriors but Sam roots for them anyway, partly for the underdog of it all and partly for the leftover goodwill from when Oklahoma City had hosted the Hornets for a year after Katrina.
“You can crash here for the night, you know,” Sam says after the game’s over. “I don’t hate you enough to send you all the way back to Brooklyn in the rain.”
"Queens," Bucky says, and Sam quirks his head. "Looked for a place in Brooklyn, but I couldn’t afford anything there without Steve. Queens is cheaper."
"I don't hate you enough to send you back to Queens, then."
“You sure?” Bucky shifts a bit on the couch, looks like he’s trying to make his scrawny self even smaller.
“I mean, up to you. You can swim across the East River in the dark if you want."
“You know they have this thing called the subway, right?” Bucky asks, but he’s not making any moves towards the door.
“I’ll get you some soft goods. Get comfy or don’t, up to you.”
“Thanks,” Bucky says, and his smile is so soft it almost reminds Sam of-
Nope. Sam brings out a couple sheets and a blanket, puts a Motown mix too loud on his headphones, and deep-cleans the kitchen while Bucky makes up the couch.
Sam’s up early the next morning for an 8am flight. Bucky surprises him by being up in the kitchen already, making coffee one-handed while his prosthetic sits on the couch on top of the neatly-folded bedding from the night before.
“Didn’t think you’d be up. Was gonna leave a note. Want some?” Bucky asks, voice sleep-thick and heavy.
“Early flight. Planned on leaving a note myself.” Sam stifles a yawn. “God, yes, please and thank you.”
“Milk and sugar?”
“Yes and yes, but let me do it.”
Bucky chuckles to himself.
“What?” Sam asks, a little sharp. It’s too damn early to defend his beverage choices, especially to someone who thinks Two Buck Chuck is an acceptable apology gift.
“Nothing. Just, reminded me of Steve, is all. Man had a sweet tooth like none other.”
Sam gives a gentle down, boy to his hackles and reaches around Bucky to pull the sugar from the cabinet.
“Where do you think I learned to insist on doing it myself? Told him once I like a little sugar in my coffee, he took that to mean sweeter’n my mammaw’s sweet tea.”
They’ve never talked like this before, not about Steve, not with their accents slipping through. But the early morning haze makes everything a little surreal, like maybe Sam can let his shoulders down from his ears a bit and it won’t count.
They’re leaning against the counter, coffee in hand, when Bucky asks, “Where you off to?” His Brooklyn accent is slipping through less and less now that there’s caffeine in his system.
“D.C. Just a couple days, I’ll be back Monday morning.”
“Cap stuff?”
“Nah, actually. VA’s sending a couple of us down for a conference.”
“What kind?”
Sam's coffee is scraping away some of his own pre-dawn fog, making everything a little crisper around him.
“New Frontiers in Trauma Research. Keynote’s on using EMDR with combat vets.”
“So right up your alley, yeah?”
Sam hums in agreement. “What about you?”
“Huh?”
“Weekend plans. What’re you up to?”
Bucky laughs too sharply for the soft light of the kitchen. “Next question.”
“Whatever, man. Keep your secrets." He stands up, downs the rest of his coffee in a couple long gulps.
“Leave it in the sink, I’ll take care of it,” Bucky says.
“You sure?”
“Yeah, it’s no problem. You’ve got a flight to catch, I’ve got nowhere to be.”
"Thanks."
Sam gets his bags together and heads out, but not until Bucky's done at the sink and out the door himself. Bucky's a decent guy, but that doesn't mean he gets to be alone in Sam's space.
Sam doesn’t ask if he’ll see him again next Thursday. He figures he doesn’t need to.
Bucky’s back for dinner the next week, and the week after that. After the fourth week Sam starts prepping extra food Sunday nights so there’ll be plenty for both of them when Thursday rolls around. After the sixth, Sam stops booking VA clients before 9am Friday mornings. After the eighth, he starts blocking off Thursday nights in the CapAm calendar.
They don’t talk about it. Every week, Bucky just shows up at Sam’s place after his standing PT appointment with a six pack of beer. Every week they eat, talk about nothing in particular, watch Sports Center until Bucky either leaves for Queens or crashes on Sam’s couch for the night. Every week Bucky’s up and gone by the time Sam wakes up. They don’t have any more early mornings in the kitchen after that first one; it’s just steady, simple, a weekly dose of nothing in particular.
It’s nothing, really. But it’s a reliable nothing, and that in itself is nice to lean on.
Bucky doesn’t take himself out that often. Money’s tight and, besides, he usually prefers to do his definitely-not-a-problem drinking at home and alone. But it’s nice, sometimes when he’s feeling domesticated enough to be out in public, to go somewhere that’ll pour his drinks for him.
Tonight, he’s going to one of his favorite haunts. It's a nondescript spot a few blocks from his apartment with an entrance sunk a little below street level. A neon sign in the window identifies it as the Red Room Bar & Lounge. It's quiet when he walks in, just the redhead behind the bar and a couple of gruff-looking guys at a table in the corner.
It’s a good day, the world only grating against his teeth, so he sits at the bar.
“What can I get you, Bucky?” Nat asks, flashing him a hint of a smile through her bangs.
“Something strong,” Bucky replies.
She fixes him a double vodka soda and only charges him for one shot. He pays in cash because tabs are dangerous and tips her like she charged him for the whole thing; all told it’s still only a couple bucks. Bucky’s sure the place must be a front for something, given how cheap the drinks are, but he’s not in a place to question it.
“Talking mood or a sipping mood?” she asks.
“Could go with either. You?”
“Customer’s choice,” she replies, which he takes to mean the latter.
He likes Nat. She’s a little too knowing around the eyes sometimes, but she dances around his sharp edges like an acrobat and it makes him feel steadier in the knowledge she probably won’t push him on anything. She reminds him of Sam in that way, and it’s a little comforting and a little strange.
She seems caught up in her own head today, so he leaves her to it. Just sips his drink and lets himself enjoy being- not quite in the world, maybe, but at least skimming the surface of it.
"Need a ride, Cap?"
"Don't you call me that, not when you don't have to," Sam says, but it's Rhodes so there's laughter in his voice. Lord knows he'd let him get away with much worse. And he had, the past few days; it'd been an exhausting PR tour, and it's closing in on 5am when they finally land in LaGuardia.
They'd been on each other's last nerve most of the trip. Rhodes is smart, can tell Sam's heart isn't in it, and Sam's smart enough to know Rhodes thinks he should do a better job of faking it. But Rhodes is a good man, one of the few good people in the program, and even if they disagree on the how it's good to have someone around whose what and why are the same.
"Alright, Captain America, would you like a ride home?" Rhodes says. Sam hates him, he really does.
"Thank you, sir, but I'm fine."
"So, what, you're just going to take the subway to Harlem in your spangly jumpsuit? Come on." Rhodes parks his wheelchair next to his red Camero and gives Sam the same look Sarah gives him when Sam's being especially stubborn.
"Fine," Sam says, because he knows a lost cause when he sees one, and if there's one thing Rhodes doesn't give up on it's taking care of younger Black men. "Just drive like you're in Manhattan, not the autobahn, will you?"
"You got it, Cap," Rhodes says with a smirk. He pulls himself into the driver’s seat and lets Sam take the wheels off his chair and tuck it in the back. It’s a gesture of trust, letting Sam handle his chair like that, and Sam takes it as the compliment it is.
Then they’re off, and despite his assurances Rhodes does drive like he's on the autobahn. He keeps the top down so that the cool morning blasts their faces all the way back to Manhattan - wind too loud to talk, and it's a little bit like they're back in the air.
"You can drop me here," Sam says as they cross 5th.
"I thought you lived up Malcom X?"
"Yeah, but the VA's up on this corner. I've got to clock in soon anyway, might as well get in early and get caught up on paperwork."
Rhodes gives him a disapproving look, but he pulls over.
"So you're either going to work in full Cap getup, or you've already got a change of clothes in your desk, and I don't know which one's sadder."
Sam just shrugs. "Sleep when I'm dead, isn't that what they say?"
"Which is gonna be soon, at this rate," Rhodes replies. He looks like he's about to say something else, but if he was, he bites it back. "Take care of yourself, Sam."
"Always do. Thanks for the ride." Sam pulls his duffel out of the trunk, gives the hood a couple taps to let him know it's clear, and heads inside.
When Sam gets to the 11th floor, it's all he can do not to curl up on the floor of his office and take a nap. He could, honestly - there are a couple hours still before anyone else will clock in, and it's not like he has issues sleeping on hard surfaces - but once he hit the ground he'd be out, and there was work to catch up on.
So he cleans himself up in the staff bathroom and changes into the clothes that, as Rhodes had guessed, were stashed in a desk drawer.
It's a long day. Mallory's out sick, so Sam winds up covering both of her groups, one of which he has to squeeze in at his lunch break between one-on-ones. Julian brings him a sandwich to eat at his desk, which is good of him, but Sam's too tired and nauseous to eat. He drinks a Soylent from the break room fridge, and another cup of coffee, and stashes the sandwich in his duffel bag so Julian won't think he doesn't appreciate the gesture.
Mr. Rivera has his bi-weekly appointment in the afternoon. He's one of Sam's oldest clients and Sam would move heaven and earth for him if he needed, but it's been a long few days, and Mr. Rivera is work. He's more than the usual amount of work today.
It doesn't take long for Sam to realize that's because he's in the middle of a psychotic episode.
"I hear you. You're worried about the CIA, I hear that. We're going to get through this together, alright? I'm with you. And I'm going to call Dr. Kellen, they're going to be able to come help us out. Is that okay?"
Mr. Rivera nods, a stuttering jerk of a movement.
"That's great. I'm really glad you came to me for help, and Dr. Kellen's going to help us both." Sam dials the number for the on-call psychologist, still keeping most of his attention on Mr. Rivera.
"Hi, Dr. Kellen. I've got Mr. Rivera here, and he says he's been getting phone calls from the CIA again. Think you could come in, maybe help us out a bit?" He sends a silent prayer of gratitude that Kellen's the one on call today, not everyone would be able to read between those lines so well.
"They'll be here soon. In the meantime, is there anyone else you want me to call? Anyone who could help us out?" It's a bit of a risk, crowding people in like this, but these things always go easier when Mr. Rivera's daughter is nearby.
Sam hears Ximena's name in the word salad Mr. Rivera gives in response, and he takes that as enough permission to give her a call, too.
They all live mercifully close, and soon Dr. Kellen's tapped out for Sam in his office and Sam's talking to Ximena in the hallway.
"You sure you don't want to take him to a hospital?" he says, trying to keep it as gentle as possible. Ximena's stance is closed-off, arms crossed tight across her chest.
"He won't go," she says, brown eyes gleaming. There are dark circles underneath that Sam imagines must match his own.
"Dr. Kellen can certify him for temporary commitment. We don't have to, if they don't think he's in immediate danger. But he'd be somewhere safe. He'd be evaluated within 72 hours, see if he needs to stay longer or if he's okay to be discharged."
Ximena smiles bitterly. "We tried that last time. Didn't go well."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Sam says, and means it. He's been in this job long enough to know just how badly psychiatric hospitalization can go. "But it's an option you should be aware of. Do you have anyone else at home right now?"
"My wife. And my brother's coming down from Rochester tonight."
"That's great. Is there anything else you need? Anyone else I can call?"
"Thank you, Mr. Wilson, but I think I just need to get him home now."
Sam thinks about pushing it. He knows the kind of danger his clients are in when they're experiencing psychosis. But Ximena her father's POA, and his advance directive makes it clear that her word goes in this situation.
"Alright. We'll have to see what Dr. Kellen says, but if they give the all-clear, we'll get him home." He pulls a card out of his wallet and hands it to her. "That's got my work cell, give me a call if you need anything else, alright?"
Ximena pockets the card. She flashes him a weak smile, but her attention is clearly on Sam's office door.
Twenty minutes later, Dr. Kellen opens it and peeks their head into the hallway.
"Ximena?" Their voice is calm, professional, just a shade of warmth to it. Sam thinks he might kiss them for it.
"How is he?" Ximena replies.
"It's my professional opinion that your father doesn't pose an immediate threat to himself or others, and can be released into your care. Would you like to take him home?"
"Yes, please. Thank you," Ximena says, barely disguising the tears in her eyes.
"Excellent. There are a couple of things to go over first. Sam, can we use your office?"
Sam nods, and they disappear. He makes himself a coffee in the break room and wishes, for the thousandth time, that there were better options in situations like these. Wishes he had the time and the power to make better options. Hopes Dr. Kellan is right that Mr. Rivera's close enough to okay to be safe.
It's not even 2pm by the time the Riveras leave the building, but Jonathan insists he clock out early and go home. He stays just long enough to update Mr. Rivera's file and submit an incident report, then he drags his body the three blocks uptown to his building, up the stairs to his empty apartment, and is asleep before his body hits the bed.
Sam gets woken by a knock on his door and almost jumps out of his skin.
He rolls over, checks the clock: 7:04pm, which explains why his stomach is gurgling. He rolls out of bed, feels his shoes hit the floor, sends a silent prayer for forgiveness to his mama for not taking them off when he got home.
Another knock.
"Coming, hold on." The knocking stops, and Sam gives himself a moment to blink the fog out of his eyes. He's in that weird, hazy half-state of not having slept long but still feeling like it must be the next morning, and he can already tell he's going to have a headache for it.
"Wellness check," comes a voice from the door that's distinctively Barnes', and fuck, he's got to know that's not even a little bit funny.
The first words out of Barnes' mouth when Sam opens the door are "Jesus, you okay?" and that makes Sam feel great, just great. But Barnes' own face is creased like a crumpled-up napkin, so.
"You're one to talk," Sam says, and ushers him in.
They eat in silence for a while. Barnes is looking at him funny, like he wants to say something but won't. It's his fucking eyes, probably, those ice blue irises that make his pupils stand out.
"Spill it," Sam says finally.
"What?"
"Whatever's turning the gears in that brain of yours, spit it out."
Barnes scrapes the remaining rice on his plate into a pile in the center.
"Nothing. Just worried about you, that's all."
"Don't be," Sam says. He watches Barnes fidget with his fork.
"Can't exactly turn it off. Mother Hen, Steve's ma used to call me. But don't worry about it yourself, I'll handle it. Nothing I'm not used to."
Sam nods a little, lips pursed. He gets that. "What's got you worried?"
"You're quiet. Either means you're comfy enough with me to relax a bit, or you're too tired to keep the pretense up. Second seems more likely."
Fuck if Barnes doesn't have him nailed, and isn't that just annoying.
"Just had a long day at work, that's all. Client I like a lot is having a rough time. I'm fine."
"Want to talk about it?"
"I don't know. Ever been in a psych hospital?"
Sam's gearing up to gripe about the state of the mental health system, so it takes the wind out of his sails a bit when Barnes, matter-of-fact, says, "Yeah."
"What? When?" Sam doesn't mean to ask, he doesn't want or need details, but his brain’s still half asleep and his mouth moves faster.
Barnes shrugs, casual. "High school. Just a few days, wasn't a big thing. Why?"
"Just, I don't know. This client, I can't give you details, obviously, but he's got me thinking about it. I had a placement in one when I was in grad school so I know they're not exactly the most healing of places. I'm sorry, I shouldn't’ve asked."
"It's alright. Like I said, wasn't a big thing."
Sam studies Barnes' face for a moment. He seems a little laid back now they're talking.
"How was it for you?"
"Boring. Wasn't much for us to do, I mostly read five-year-old magazines with the staples removed and waited 'til I could leave." Barnes spreads the rice on his plate out into a thin layer, no grain stacked on top of another. "Depends, though. I was in with some frequent flyers, they told me sometimes it was worse. A lot depends on who you're in with, I think."
Sam's not itching for any more second-hand trauma so he doesn't dig further. They talk about football for a while, but Sam's heart's not in it. He's tired enough that he doesn't really protest when Barnes offers to do dishes after. Even trusts him to pull out the bedding himself if he decides to spend the night.
The next morning, Sam wakes up screaming. It’s the first time since Steve shared his bed that someone else is there to hear it.
“What- the fuck,” Sam pants at the dark figure in his doorway once he’s oriented enough to know that it’s just Barnes.
“Sorry.” Barnes’ hunched figure is framed in backlight spilling down the hallway from the living room, and it’s impossible to see his face. “I just, uh, I heard- sorry.”
Sam swings his legs off the bed and tucks his head between his knees. Breathes. Breathes.
“Want some company?”
That’s almost enough to jolt Sam into a laugh. The thought of it, of this haggard ghost of an army sniper crawling into his bed to spoon him with his sharp knees, gets him a bit hysterical. Company. It’s-
“Yeah, okay,” Sam says from between his knees. "Just- give me a sec, I’ll meet you out there, okay?”
“Okay.” Barnes hesitates for a moment, then disappears silent as a shadow sliding down a wall.
Sam keeps breathing. He forces himself to run through a sense scan: sight of twisted blankets, sound of the strained rumble of the window A/C unit, smell of sweat, touch of rough stubble and the pressure of his knees against his temples, taste of blood in his mouth from where he’d bitten the inside of his cheek.
You're okay. You’re in the bedroom of your apartment in Harlem. There’s no one here but you and Barnes. You’re safe.
Inhale long, hold at the top, exhale longer, hold at the bottom.
Once his heart rate starts to settle, he throws a pair of sweatpants over his boxers and shuffles down the hall to the living room. Barnes is there waiting with a mug in his outstretched hand.
“Drink,” he says.
“Can I sit first?”
“Sure. Then drink.”
Sam slumps on the couch, right on top of the folded sheet Barnes had been using as a pillow. Barnes sits on the opposite end, leaving space between them, and hands Sam the mug.
Sam’s too tired and shaken to protest, so he takes it and takes a sip. It’s sharp, hot, a shock of lemon juice warmed by the heat of fresh ginger and coated in a thick layer of honey. Sweetness heavy on his tongue, spice burning through his sinuses.
“Fuck, that’s good.”
“Steve's ma used to make it for me'n him when we were sick.”
They sit in silence for a long while. Sam focuses on the honey-ginger-lemon concoction, identifying as many little sensations as he can.
“It’s the heat, right?” Barnes asks after what might’ve been a couple minutes or might’ve been several hours. The drink's still warm, though, so can't have been that long.
“Hm?”
“The heat. Reminds you of- well, reminds me, anyway. Nightmares are always worse when it’s hot.”
“Yeah, probably," Sam says with a sigh, because fuck it, Barnes is probably right. "I need to fix that damn A/C unit.”
“I could help, if you want. I’m pretty handy,” Barnes says.
“You don’t have to, if you- wait. That better not have been a limb difference joke.”
“I don’t think you get to have an opinion on that.”
Sam glances up; there’s too much on Barnes' face to parse, not at this hour.
“You want to talk about it?” Barnes asks.
“Not really. Company’s good, though.”
Barnes nods. Sam wonders if he’s relieved at that answer, but his expression is too complicated to pull apart.
They sit in silence for a long time. Sam reaches half wildly for something to think about that isn’t- he searches for something else to think about. His eyes land on the mug, red with bold white text on one side that says To The Rescue! Sarah had gotten it for him for Christmas a few years back. He thinks about that Christmas, the first one he spent in New York without them, how Jonathan had dragged him over for Chinese takeout with his family because Sam couldn't afford a flight to Louisiana for the holidays. He thinks about Sarah, about AJ and Cass, about how long it’s been since he last called, how he hasn’t visited them in Delacroix since- fuck, nope, there it is again.
He lets his attention slide to the left, thinks about Barnes. He wonders how long Barnes would sit there if he never broke the silence. Wonders how long his longest job in the army had gone, how many days he’d sat bone-still in the sniper's nest with his fingers resting by the trigger. How long he’d sit here watching Sam now if Sam asked him to.
Something about his solid presence, the steady tide of his breathing and the drumbeat of his heart, makes Sam think it'd be a while.
"You should get some rest," Barnes murmurs. Sam nods. He means bed, probably, but something about the low rumble of his voice reminds Sam of scratchy blankets and warm milk and Steve's thumb wiping tears off his cheek.
Sam stretches out on the couch, lets his head rest on the edge of Barnes’ lap, and falls asleep.
Bucky doesn't move a muscle as Sam falls asleep. Sam doesn't sleep enough, Bucky's spent enough time with him to notice that, and he's not going to wake him now if he can help it.
Besides, it feels a little like when Steve's ma had taken them to the Bronx Zoo one summer and a butterfly landed on his arm. He hadn't moved a muscle then, not until the butterfly lifted off on its own, and even for a little after just to feel the ghost of it on his skin.
He listens to Sam breathe for a while. Not in a creepy way, just- just the way you do, checking in on someone. Making sure they’re alright and getting some rest after a tough night.
Once Sam's breathing slows to a steady rhythm, Bucky lets himself glance down. Sam's face is open, his lips slightly parted, eyes flickering beneath his eyelids. His lashes cast soft shadows on his cheeks. He looks peaceful. Not delicate, but... vulnerable, maybe.
Bucky's never seen Sam look like that before. The closest was that morning in the kitchen, maybe, when he'd said that charming thing about Steve and his mammaw's sweet tea, but even then it'd been wrapped up in humor. Sam's like that, all easy laughs and bright smiles and hiding everything by pretending he has nothing to hide at all.
It’s taken Bucky an embarrassingly long time to realize Sam Wilson is the most guarded person he's ever met. He hadn't even noticed it himself. It had taken his therapist asking about this new friend he was spending time with, and realizing the only things he had to tell her were things he'd learned from Steve.
But now? Now, asleep in Bucky's lap, Sam looks like an open book. His bright, outgoing facade has been stripped away by the nightmare and now, in sleep, even the lockbox underneath is cracked open. All that's left is Sam, unguarded, and Bucky's hit with the desire to dip his hand into the cool waters of Sam's chest and scoop out his heart.
He won't, of course. He wouldn't do Sam dirty like that.
Still, he can't help bringing his hand to hover over Sam's chest. He's shirtless, sweat-slicked skin practically glowing in the dim light, and it takes all Bucky's self control not to reach out and touch. But it's Sam, and Sam's asleep, and Bucky would never.
He focuses on Sam's tattoo instead. It's a blackwork illustration of dog tags on the left side of his chest. It's too dark to make out most of the text, but he can just read the name: Riley Goodnight.
That's- that's too much. That's not for him to know. Bucky moves his hand to cover it, careful not to brush against the hairs on Sam's soft chest. Better. He lets his hand rise and fall with the rhythm of Sam's breathing as his own breathing slows to match it. He looks away, looks anywhere but down at the man asleep on his lap, and wishes for the thousandth time that there were rules for what he's supposed to do with people when they insist on being people around him.
He stays awake as the hours tick by. Not moving, not watching. When Sam wakes up Bucky pretends to wake up too, as if he's been asleep the whole time.