Chapter Text
The last thing Sam saw before Bucky hit the water was the utter terror in his eyes.
Then… nothing. Just rippling water, his feral shriek cut off by a sharp, high-pitched crack as his body hit the water, shattering the thin layer of ice. He sank almost instantly, dark hair casting an underwater shadow.
Sam heard himself shout as he twisted into a sharp nosedive, ready to throw himself under to fish Bucky out, his ears ringing with the tell-tale sound of bullets bouncing off the metal of his wings and the pounding of his own heart. His entire body felt freezing cold, and not just because of the snow falling around them; it was pure, jarring fear, shot straight through him, telling him a single thing: Save Bucky.
A glint of metal caught his eye, the sharp gold highlights of his arm, and Sam stretched his arms out, reaching, hissing at the freezing cold water soaking through his gloves as he grabbed, pulling with every muscle in his arms and shoulders, hauling Bucky’s soaking wet, ice cold, unmoving body out of the water and into the air, wrapping his arms around his waist and holding him tight, Bucky’s prone body pressed against his own. He was gasping for breath, water flooding from his lips, and shivering even in his unconscious state. If Sam’s suit weren’t waterproof, he’d probably feel the cold soaking through the fabric onto his own skin. He was too distracted to even think about the fact that they’d never been this close before.
“Bucky!” he gasped, spinning in the air as another volley of shots rang out, deflecting them with his wings. “Buck— Buck, c’mon, you asshole!” His voice broke as another wave of sharp fear washed over him, almost as cold as the water himself, his heart slamming against his ribs. They had infiltrated the plane, sure, as the mission had required; destroyed all remnants of some psycho’s science experiment gone wrong— an experiment that had turned the recipients of a serum (seriously, another serum?) into some sort of lizard hybrid. The lizard hybrids, though, were all in custody or dead. It was supposed to be a simple mission, not… Not this.
How the hell did Bucky get thrown off the plane?
“Shit!” he swore as another barrage of bullets flew towards them, shielding himself and Bucky with a vibranium wing. He whipped around just as quickly, the enhanced vision of his goggles zeroing in on a hulking shape standing too-tall, too green, holding an assault rifle. “God fucking damn it!” he growled, his arms and shoulders already aching from having to haul around Bucky’s weight, metal arm and all.
Right. Think fast, Sam; he’s pararescue, thinking on the go is his job. Okay. Bucky: soaking wet, probably suffering from some form of cold shock— hypothermia, soon— freezing his ass off, and still, somehow, unconscious. The lizard-thing: armed with an assault rifle, but otherwise harmless, unless Sam got in its way for close-up combat. He and Bucky had battled these things before— really, this mission was mostly a wrap-up for the whole ‘lizard saga’— so he knew how to beat them. Another thing he knew, from some biology class he’d taken in what felt like another lifetime: lizards were cold blooded, and therefore did not thrive in cold temperatures. So if he could get the lizard in the water, or in the snow… That might just weaken it.
If it worked like a normal lizard. Right. God, as long as that thing didn’t try to lick him, or attack him with its tongue— he’d had enough of that for a lifetime.
Focus, he chided himself, swooping mid-air to avoid another volley of bullets. Bucky needed treatment as soon as possible: new, dry clothes, warmth, shelter, a fire if Sam could get one going. But Sam also needed to kill this thing, especially considering they’d assumed its kind were all captured or dead. If it got away… He didn’t want to think about that. The scientist that started all this was still out there, somewhere— the final loose end, and one they had almost tied up— and if this creature managed to get with it, more of them could come to be.
Okay: lizard first, Bucky second.
He changed direction, thruster firing full force, flinging him towards the plane feet-first at the lizard-thing, boots colliding firmly with its head. It hissed in surprise, crashing against the wall hard enough to put a dent in it, to shake the entire plane as alarms started going off. Sam’s heart was racing, the weight of Bucky in his arms hindering him more than he’d ever admit, especially now, grounded— he was only human, after all, and Bucky was heavy, lean as he might be— and he had to admit, he wasn’t one hundred percent sure he could beat this thing like that.
He gasped, sloppily dodging as the thing swung at him, then stumbling over Bucky’s dragging feet, a stream of curses flowing from his lips at an alarming rate, before gritting his teeth. “Sorry, Buck,” he panted, letting Bucky haphazardly collapse against the floor, a good ways away from the lizard-thing, careful that he, at the very least, didn’t hit his head on the way down.
The lizard was hissing at him, tongue flickering, and, Christ, to think this thing used to be human nearly made Sam sick. Best to just put it out of its misery now; Dr. Banner himself had admitted there was no saving these people, not even a spark of humanity remaining, save for the apparent intelligence they possessed to use firearms and weaponry: only pure, animalistic hatred. They didn’t even follow the mad scientist’s orders, which sort of defeated the purpose, Sam thought, but—
A low, pained whimper distracted him, and he glanced over at Bucky, wide eyed with concern and hope, only to get smacked in the chest with the butt of a rifle, slamming into the wall painfully, but not badly enough to hinder himself. He groaned, his expression hardening with resolve, glaring. He’d kill this lizard, then— that was the best way to help Bucky right now.
“Fuck,” he muttered, climbing back up to his feet, wincing at the pain the movement caused. If only he had some of those tranquilizer darts they’d used on the previous missions… But he didn’t. Alright. Good old fashioned brute force, then— that and his superior intelligence. He could beat a fucking lizard, of all things. It wasn’t like he was fighting a werewolf. For the most part, it was just strong and fast— but so was he.
He flipped into the air, following it up with a roundhouse kick that collided with the creature’s jaw. The thing stumbled backwards, looking disoriented for a moment, before shaking its head and hissing again. Sam kicked it again, for good measure, knocking it to the ground, then snatched up the shield and flung it full force at the creature’s chest.
It was over quickly. Super-powered lizard-human or not, they weren’t super soldiers, and had no accelerated healing abilities. They were more durable than the average human, even more so than they were stronger and faster, but a vibranium shield to the chest was fatal to anyone.
He curled his lip in disgust at the body, still pinned up against the wall by the shield, not quite sure what to do with it. Who the hell was driving this plane, anyway? Great. He should probably check that out, before he could get Bucky to safety. Biting his lip, Sam glanced over at his partner, whose body was trembling something fierce, his face paler than usual. Sam cursed under his breath, snatching the shield back, grimacing at the lizard guts, and took off sprinting to the cockpit, only to huff out a disbelieving laugh.
It was a human. Just some regular, unarmed guy, humming along to some song Sam couldn’t hear, completely unaware of his surroundings— a terrible habit for a pilot, of all people, especially one working for corrupt mad lizard scientists.
Sam didn’t even bother interrupting him; he didn’t have time, with Bucky’s current state. Instead, he raised a hand to the comms on his ear, he said, “Jay, gonna need a team on this plane. I’ll put a tracker on it, y’all should have the coordinates.”
Joaquin’s voice rang clear and familiar through his earpiece. “Got it, Sam. All clear?”
Sam hesitated before staring, “Yeah. Bucky’s… He’ll be fine. Just took a dive in the lake. Otherwise I’d deal with the plane myself.”
“In the lake? Jesus, Sam, what’s the temperature like down there? Is he okay?” Torres demanded.
“I don’t know,” Sam said tightly, his voice breaking a little, before he took a deep breath and forced a chuckle. “He’ll be fine. You know what his stubborn ass is like.”
Joaquin chuckled, probably trying to lighten the mood a little; it helped, slightly. “Actually, Sam, I’m afraid I’m not quite as acquainted with his ass as you are, given how much time you spend staring—”
“Talk to you once he’s stable,” Sam interrupted, cutting off the comm link, reaching for the pocket in his suit that held the tracking devices and switching one on, glancing around quickly before tucking it under some chair in a dark corner. Alright. Lizard killed, pilot clueless, and tracker placed. Now all that was left was Bucky.
He sprinted back to the cabin, where Bucky still lay on the hard floor, shivering. When Sam cautiously drew closer, he saw Bucky’s teeth were chattering, his lips pale, and he swallowed down the lump in his throat, forcing his voice to be gentle.
“Hey, Buck,” he whispered, sliding closer to press his hand to Bucky’s cheek. Bucky leaned into the touch— or, more likely, his body heat— shuddering. But his eyes were open, if not glassy and dazed.
“Angel,” he slurred, barely discernible through the chattering of his teeth, and Sam’s brows furrowed.
“C’mon, man, don’t tell me you’re so close to death’s door you’re seeing angels,” he chuckled uneasily, shifting to pull Bucky to his feet, though he was shivering so hard he was hardly able to speak, much less stand. “Yeah, up and at ‘em, get over here, Buck. There’s a safehouse not far from here, should be maybe six minutes’ flight west. I’ll grab the location, though.”
He was already pulling up the coordinates on his wrist, the screen he used for communication and controlling Redwing, which confirmed the location. He exhaled shakily, pulling Bucky up against him, and Bucky fucking whined, curling into him like he was desperate for the warmth of Sam’s body— and he must’ve been, since his skin felt like ice, and his clothes were soaked and not much better. Panic surged through Sam as he took a deep, shaky breath, reminding himself he wouldn’t be of any help to Bucky in a state of panic, before he tightened his grip on Bucky and shot out of the plane and into the air, taking off flying in the direction of the safehouse.
Bucky was worrying silent for the entire flight, which wasn’t exactly unusual— he hated heights, would normally go still and silent, eyes closed, any time Sam had to carry him. It wasn’t unusual, sure, but it still made Sam more concerned, if… No. He shouldn’t think about that.
“Almost there, Bucky,” he promised firmly, tightening his grip, hoping to provide some semblance of comfort to his partner. He didn’t get a response, and they flew in silence until Sam set down on the snowy ground in front of an old cabin he recognized as the safehouse, stumbling only a little under Bucky’s deadweight. It looked cozy, and, more importantly, there was a chimney, which meant there was a fireplace, which meant warmth. Christ, Sam was freezing, even through the thermal protection of his suit.
“Come on,” he said sharply, hauling Bucky along through the thick snow. His partner stumbled, hardly able to walk— disorientation, clumsiness, inability to walk: all symptoms of potentially onset hypothermia, Sam’s brain provided helpfully— shaking like a leaf. Sam caught him, spewing a string of curses, before instead bending down and hauling Bucky into his arms in a bridal carry. This, at least, he could manage, since Bucky wasn’t so unwieldy, no long legs dragging in the cold snow, instead slung over Sam’s arm. He’d been holding back for the sake of Bucky’s dignity, but, well… Dignity didn’t have much of a place in a life or death situation.
A little voice in his head told him that Bucky would never allow this, were he actually mentally present, but Sam pushed it away. That was the least of his worries, considering what else he’d have to do. Like stripping Bucky out of his wet clothes so he wouldn’t fucking freeze to death. Of course, the first time— the one time— he’d see Bucky naked, and it’d be like this. Devoid of any real consent, save for the fact that, hopefully, Bucky would later thank him for saving his life.
Shaking his head to clear it, Sam grunted as he shifted to hold Bucky against his forearm so he could turn the knob of the door, only to curse as it was— naturally— frozen shut. Instead, he called, “Redwing?” and set the drone to destroy the locking mechanism with its laser. So much for a safehouse. It wouldn’t exactly be safe without a goddamn lock, but they’d worry about that later, when Bucky wasn’t at risk of fucking freezing to death.
Either way, it worked, and Sam grunted as he slammed his shoulder into the door and it rebounded and swung wide. He let out a huff of satisfaction, then got to work, laying out a blanket before setting Bucky on the couch near the fireplace before setting off in search of dry clothing, firewood, and more blankets. His training took over easily, now that there weren’t any lizard-things to worry about killing: he was just here, now, as a healer, a medic, to save Bucky and nothing more. Something he’d done a hundred times, although never from hypothermia, but he knew what to do.
Within a minute, he’d shoved an armful of tinder into the fireplace, then lit a match and threw it in, watching the flames grow. He followed with larger, thicker pieces of wood, and the fire crackled to life, casting the room in a warm glow. Right. Bucky, next.
Bucky still lay where Sam had left him on the couch, shivering violently, his hair still damp and pressed to his forehead. He’d curled up a little on his side, but his eyes were closed, and Sam could see frost forming on his lashes. He cursed loudly and got back to work, trying to ignore the fear and panic that threatened to spill over. Years of experience, though, meant that, despite his racing mind and heart, his hands were steady as he gently moved Bucky into a sitting position so he could pull off the holster wrapped around his shoulders and then zip off his jacket, careful not to jostle him anymore than necessary, knowing that rescue collapse was a real threat.
He pulled off Bucky’s shirt, next, then the holster around his waist, the two on his thighs, then hesitated for just half a second before reaching to undo his too-tight jeans, then his underwear. “Sorry, buddy,” he croaked, throwing the blanket over Bucky’s waist to preserve his modesty as he pulled off his underwear, trying to ignore how wrong this felt, to be undressing someone like this, especially when it was Bucky, knowing all he’d been through, knowing that Sam was fucking in love with him.
Only seconds after he’d thrown Bucky’s frozen, soaked-through clothes on the floor, he began to strip off his own, cursing at the way his suit clung to his body. He kept his own underwear on, since he wasn’t soaked down to the bone like Bucky was, hoping the heat of the rest of his body would be enough— cuddling naked with the man he had feelings for didn’t at all seem like a good idea— then dropping onto the couch next to Bucky, practically on top of him, since the thing definitely wasn’t made for two six foot tall, well-built men. He exhaled shakily, then moved closer, wrapping himself around Bucky, pressing their bare skin together and shuddering at the cold of Bucky’s skin, moving away only to frantically pile on the blankets he’d found earlier.
And then it was done. Bucky was still shivering, but the fire was going, Sam’s body was pressed flush against his own to share body heat, and countless blankets were thrown over them, trapping them in warmth. He’d… He’d done all he could. This was it. And if Bucky didn’t recover… Well, Sam didn’t want to think about it.
It occured to him, then, that he should probably message Torres, but his phone was on the floor with the pile of his clothes, and he didn’t want to risk moving— Bucky needed all the warmth and stability he could get right now; Torres would deal. Sam exhaled softly, his heart still racing, before slowly, slowly relaxing, letting the tension fall from his shoulders, tightening his grip around Bucky’s still unmoving body. He’d probably be waking up soon. Sam was nearly certain that he’d only passed out because he’d hit the ice and water after falling from such a height— not because of the cold. Super soldiers, generally, didn’t get knocked out for long.
“C’mon, Buck,” he murmured, his breath warm on Bucky’s neck. “I… I’ve got you. Just wake up for me?” He wasn’t begging; he wasn’t, it’s just… God. God, he’d almost lost Bucky, could still very much lose him, and now he was here, in some random cabin in the woods, in just his underwear and holding a very naked Bucky, save for the blanket around his waist. Now that he had a moment with his thoughts, it was all so jarring. He squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to even think about the look on Bucky’s face as the fell, the same way Rhodey fell, the same way Riley fell, but this time it was Bucky, and Sam had nightmares about this sort of thing, times where he woke up gasping Bucky’s name, tear stains on his cheeks.
And, Christ, he didn’t think he could do this again. The effect Rhodey’s fall had on him, he didn’t want to relive that, didn’t think he’d be able to. For weeks, every time he closed his eyes, he’d see Riley falling, then it’d shift to Rhodey in his suit, and each time Sam screamed their names fruitlessly, pushing the wingpack’s thrusters to their limits and still, still never close enough, never able to catch them.
The fact of the matter was that he hadn’t caught Bucky, either. And if Bucky weren’t a super soldier, he’d be dead right now.
Instead, he was curled up in Sam’s arms, stripped bare, literally freezing. Sam thought, hopefully, that he didn’t seem to be shivering as fiercely, so that must be a good sign. Opening his eyes again, Sam shuddered, his vision a little blurry, pressing his chin to Bucky’s shoulder, his nose brushing his still-damp hair. Christ, it was soft, even like this. Who would’ve known the former Winter Soldier used conditioner?
Bucky squirmed in response, a low groan leaving his lips, shifting under Sam and the blankets piled atop them. Sam gasped, instinctively moving away, before he remembered what he was doing, and stayed put, albeit more cautiously.
“Buck?” he croaked through the lump in his throat. When had his voice gotten so hoarse? He cleared his throat awkwardly, but it barely helped. “You awake?”
He received an answering grunt, and more squirming from Bucky, like he was trying to escape, so Sam pulled him closer.
“Nuh uh, man, you almost froze to death,” he snapped, too harshly. He winced at the way Bucky flinched, a fearful, full-body thing, then softened his voice to say, “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You need the warmth, Buck.”
Bucky was curling in on himself, like he was trying to make himself smaller— a defensive measure, obviously. He was shaking, and this time, Sam didn’t think it was entirely from the cold. He cursed under his breath, lightening his grip on Bucky, but then Bucky said, weakly, his chattering teeth making him stammer, “A-are you c-c-crying?” and Sam froze, to his horror, feeling tears trailing down on his cheeks.
He chuckled wetly, wiping at his eyes frantically. “Y-yeah. Yeah, Buck, I guess I am,” he laughed shakily. “God, I thought…” He trailed off, not wanting to say what he thought. “You fell through that lake from hundreds of feet in the air. Shattered the ice and all. Been unconscious for the past half hour. I had to— Why didn’t you tell me about the lizard? How the hell did it knock you off the plane? I— I killed it, by the way, but… God, Bucky, you were so cold. You looked dead. Just… fell, and I didn’t catch you, I— I couldn’t, I wasn’t fast enough, and you—” His voice broke.
“Sam,” Bucky whispered, and his voice was still pretty unsteady, rough, stammering through chattering teeth, but he sounded good. Alive. “Sam, h-hey. It’s alright. I’m f-f-fine. I’m fine, Sam.” And then he was shifting again, and suddenly he was face to face with Sam and way too close, his ice cold, mismatched hands cupping Sam’s face gently. “Y-you s-saved me.”
“After,” Sam whispered, hiccuping as his eyes watered again, feeling a surge of guilt that he, somehow, was being comforted now. He swallowed the lump in his throat, just staring into Bucky’s gaze, still clearly dazed but somehow still calm, comforting. “After you fell. If you were anyone else, Buck, you’d be dead, and I’d be… I’d be…” Hopeless. Alone. Heartbroken.
Bucky stared at him, silent for a moment, like he was waiting for Sam to finish the sentence. Then he licked his lips, and Sam tried his best not to stare, until Bucky was wiping the tears from Sam’s face with his flesh hand, his expression contorted into something complicated. “Sam…” he said: slowly, pained.
Sam was silent, closing his eyes.
“Sam, i-is this about Riley?”
He refused to look at Bucky, unable to meet that honest, kind, worried gaze, unable to look at his partner's unfairly handsome face.
“Hey,” Bucky murmured, a metal thumb gently brushing the lower line of Sam’s lashes. “Look at me.”
Sam didn’t; he couldn’t.
“Christ,” Bucky sighed, shivering again, though he’d apparently managed to mostly stop his chattering teeth, his voice just uncharacteristically shaky, now. “Okay. Well, I… I’m not good at this. We both know that. But, Sam… If it weren’t for you, I would be dead. I didn’t see the lizard-thing, I was… distracted, and I’m sorry. It’s my fault, not yours. And… and I was falling, and, God, I was fucking terrified, you know? So… I get it. Seeing me fall… You felt the same way, I think, as I did falling. Is that right?”
Sam nodded, opening his eyes for a moment to hold Bucky’s gaze. His partner smiled, a little sad, but soft nonetheless.
“Yeah. So I know how you’re feeling, and… And it’s okay to be scared. You’ve been through some horrible shit, just like I have. But you saved me. I’m here, and I’m alive, and I’m real damn cold, still, but…” He shivered again, a little fiercely, like his body was trying to prove a point, before exhaling shakily. “I’m breathing. Because of you, Sam.”
Sam somehow managed a weak chuckle. “So you don’t care that I took your clothes off?” he said, somewhere between a joke and a serious question.
Bucky snorted, a small grin spreading across his lips. “Hey. Can I really blame you?” he said. And it… It could be interpreted as ‘Can I really blame you for saving my life?’, but something in Sam’s mind— or maybe it was the smug, cocky way Bucky’s lips curled, or the tilt to his jaw— told him that Bucky meant it suggestively. In a ‘Can I really blame you for wanting to get me naked?’ sort of way.
And… And, Christ, he knew Bucky was a flirt, had seen his back and forth with Sarah firsthand, had experienced that side of Bucky himself, when he got all lazy and smug and overconfident— mainly to infuriate Sam— but this… This was different. This was different in the same way that it was when Sam caught Bucky staring, or when Bucky unconsciously, like it was natural, rested a hand on Sam’s hip or around his waist, or when Bucky goddamn smiled, all sweet and shy, a soft flush to his cheeks, and said something achingly honest like ‘I missed you, Sam,’ after they hadn’t seen each other in a few weeks.
And maybe Sam was delusional, but maybe he wasn’t. He’d been right about Steve, after all, though Steve Rogers was an open book. Bucky… Bucky both was and wasn’t. Bucky was complicated. Steve had been easy: those long, yearning glances, the way his eyes went dark with lust when Sam pinned him against the training mat, the fact that he seemed so content around Sam, in every way possible, that easy, golden retriever energy. They’d been a thing for a while, on-again-off-again, while on the run, and Sam had really thought they’d be okay, that they’d be together.
Steve, apparently, hadn’t yet moved on from Peggy Carter, though. And Sam had, stupidly, fallen in love with him, not the slightest bit aware that he was in competition with a dead woman. Maybe Steve had loved him back— he certainly said he did— but Sam still just… wasn’t enough. He never seemed to be enough.
“Sam,” Bucky snapped. “Stop it.”
Sam sighed heavily, opening his eyes. “Stop what?” he asked tiredly. God, how he wanted to go home, curl up in bed, and sleep for a year. He hadn’t felt this hopeless in a while, and he knew he shouldn’t stew in it, but he was so emotionally wrung out already, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.
“Stop… Thinking,” Bucky huffed. “Or tell me about it. Since that’s what you always make me do.”
Sam stared at him blankly, knowing he looked fucking drained— and he felt it. Now that the adrenaline wore off, and Bucky was clearly fine, and everything had been figured out… It was like the fight had abandoned him completely, the hole it had left threatening to swallow him whole.
“Please, Sam?” Bucky whispered, softer, almost whinier, sounding damn near desperate (and, wow, that did something to Sam’s heart), rubbing his thumb over Sam’s cheek, since, of course, they were still here, like this, and what was a little cheek-rubbing when they were cuddling, devoid of nearly all their clothing? “You’re worrying me. I don’t like to see you like this.”
Sam sighed again, shaking his head, ducking out of Bucky’s touch, his heart aching at the knowledge that it was something he couldn’t have— not the way he wanted, at least. “Sorry. I guess this all took more out of me than I thought,” he admitted quietly.
Bucky’s expression grew impossibly softer, gentler. It was a look Sam had seen on him before, but rarely. “It’s alright,” he murmured, smiling softly, his hand coming back up to cup Sam’s cheek. “I don’t know what you’re apologizing for, sweetheart. Saved my life.”
Sam’s head snapped up, sharp with surprise and confusion, his heart fluttering, and Bucky’s eyes went wide.
“Shit, sorry, that was… It just slipped out,” he stammered, his face suddenly pink, his ears bright red. And, Christ, it was fucking cute, since he could be such a smug, flirtatious little shit, but then got flustered over something like this. Sam was used to him being cute, hell, it was Bucky, but this was something new.
And, he realized that the color had returned to Bucky’s skin.
Sam grinned despite himself, despite his nerves, despite everything. “Yeah, baby. I’m sure it did,” he chuckled, lowering his voice knowingly, heart racing.
And now Bucky’s entire face was red with embarrassment. “Sam—”
“Mission accomplished. I feel better now,” Sam announced, only a little shakily. Because he did. Because Bucky Barnes, smug asshole that he was, former fist of Hydra, was, apparently, after everything he’d been through, still the old-fashioned sort of guy who said sweetheart. And there was something awfully endearing about that. As if Sam could fall even harder in love with the guy.
“I… I’m glad,” Bucky stammered.
Sam laughed, his heart pounding faster than he’d like to admit, the same way it always did when they had these flirty, not-entirely-platonic exchanges. Bucky was silent, his robin's egg eyes wide with something like shock as he gazed at Sam. And Sam bit the inside of his cheek as the space between them lingered quietly, charged with something both familiar and intense. It’d be different, any other time, but now, they were so close, closer than they’d ever been before.
“Sam…” Bucky whispered, and there was that almost whiny, breathless desperation to his voice, again. And Sam didn’t know what it meant, damn it! Didn’t know what Bucky wanted— because, if he knew, Sam would give it to him. Christ, Sam would give him everything, if he could.
“What is it?” Sam asked, his voice hushed to match Bucky’s. “What do you need, Buck?”
Bucky opened his mouth to speak, his pouty pink lips forming the shape of a word left unspoken, before he bit his cheek and swallowed. “Sorry. Just… Still cold, I guess,” he mumbled instead.
Sam blinked, hesitating, wondering whether to call Bucky out on the lie, before deciding not to. He was too exhausted for Bucky’s bullshit right now. Exhausted and cold, with Bucky’s naked, freezing body pressed against his own. His back was beginning to throb from being slammed into the wall earlier, and there was a headache forming behind his eyes. But Bucky was here, and Bucky was alive, and, frankly, that was enough for him. He wasn’t like Riley or Steve or Natasha, gone; or Rhodey, paralyzed. No. Bucky was here, and recovering more every minute, close enough that Sam could feel his chest rising and falling with each breath— and that proof of life might have been the most reassuring part.
“Sam?” Bucky asked, like he somehow noticed Sam getting lost in his head again.
“Yeah. Yeah, sorry,” Sam murmured, rubbing his eyes. “C’mere, get closer. I’ve got the fire going, and a shit ton of blankets. You’ll warm up soon.”
Bucky nodded stiffly, pressing himself against Sam’s chest, wrapping his leg around Sam’s calf to free up more space between them, then moving to take up that space. It was like he was closing every small gap Sam had dared to leave, their bodies now, literally, intertwined. When Bucky finally wrapped his arms around Sam, Sam hardly noticed the sharp chill of his metal arm, since he’d grown used to Bucky’s entire body feeling like an icicle.
And yet, Sam was comfortable like this. More comfortable than he could remember being in a long, long time.
“Is… Is this okay?” Bucky whispered, uncharacteristically hesitant, hell, nervous, hovering awkwardly.
Sam knew how, after all he’d been through, Bucky got about things like this— simple things, vulnerable things— and that this was, surely, difficult for him, despite the brave face he was putting on, for Sam’s sake. (Again, Sam cursed himself. How had he been crying earlier, forcing Bucky to comfort him when he was the one who nearly died?) He forced a small smile, trying not to betray how the whole situation really made him feel, how his less-than-platonic emotions were overpowering him, here. “Yeah, man, of course. You can put your head down, too.”
Bucky obliged, although carefully, like he still wasn’t sure he was allowed to. He pressed his cheek against Sam’s bare shoulder, a light, barely-there touch, and Sam sighed shakily at the slight scratch of his stubble, raising a hand to the back of Bucky’s head to gently pull him closer. Bucky, for all his earlier hesitance, went easily, letting Sam guide him without protest, letting Sam gently, briefly comb his fingers through his hair, letting Sam move him so Bucky’s face was pressed comfortably into the crook of his neck.
And, really, it shouldn’t all be making Sam flush the way he was, but— But the gentle, easy trust and submission, the scrape of his stubbly cheek and jaw… Christ. Sam liked men, was both well aware of the fact and pretty experienced, but he’d never really found himself to be so attracted to that sort of thing. Usually his type was the complete opposite— more like Riley or Steve had been. Pretty blonde menaces, too righteous and outspoken for their own good, tripping on adrenaline. And it certainly wasn’t that Bucky wasn’t difficult and argumentative, or that Riley and Steve hadn’t been trusting, or easy, at times… But Bucky, Sam had been learning, was a lot softer than either one had ever been. Gentler. Like there was something in him, some part of him, just yearning to give in, to be vulnerable and let himself be loved— a part of him that had only been tamped further down, Sam was sure, after all HYDRA had done to him. A part of him that was tired of fighting, in more ways than one.
Not for the first time, Sam wished he had known the Bucky from the 40s. Not because he didn’t like this Bucky— no, Sam adored him, though he’d never say it to his face— but because he wanted to see the man that Steve remembered so fondly. The outgoing, charismatic Bucky that could charm anyone he met with a single crooked smile; the older brother Bucky, who cared for his three sisters more than anything; the Bucky who loved kids, hoped to be a dad someday; the Bucky who worked by the docks every night to pay for his and Steve’s art classes, even though he’d always wanted to be an engineer. The Bucky that had loved science, and building, and designing, but still chose to pursue art school just because it meant he could be by Steve’s side. The Bucky that decided to spend the night before he shipped out at the Stark Expo, of all places.
This Bucky, though, was more than enough for him. This was the Bucky he had fallen in love with, and for good reason.
This was the Bucky that curled impossibly closer, still shivering, and whispered, “You’d tell me if you weren’t okay, right?”
Sam’s heart ached. “Yeah, Buck. It’s…” He sighed deeply, a little shakily, distracting himself by dragging his fingers back through Bucky’s still-damp hair, only to pause, realizing how casual he’d gotten about this sort of affection, especially when it was far from normal, with them. “Sorry. This okay?” he asked cautiously.
“Yeah,” Bucky sighed, his breath warm on Sam’s skin.
“Alright,” Sam said, letting his eyes fall shut, pressing his chin against the top of Bucky’s head. “And you’re right. I should talk about it, and I promise I will soon, but… Not right now. I don’t think I’m ready for that,” he admitted quietly.
Bucky was silent for a few moments before humming in acknowledgement. “Just… let me know, then?” he whispered, a hopeful lilt to his voice.
Sam smiled to himself, touched by the concern in his voice. “I will.”
They faded back into silence, after that, but it wasn’t as awkward or charged as it had been before. Now, it was comfortable. Sam could almost feel himself dozing off; he forced himself to actively fight it, as much as he would love to just drift off here, in Bucky’s warm, toned arms. It was fine. He’d done much harder things than pushing back sleep, despite the fact that it had been a long, stressful day even before the mission, and he hadn’t slept more than four hours the previous night. His mind wandered, and it was only until he was blinking awake did he realize this needed to stop, somehow.
“Buck?” he asked.
Bucky hummed in acknowledgement. “Hm?”
“You feeling any better?”
“Yeah,” Bucky sighed. “It’s… Sorry. I never usually had to come down from the cold like this. They’d usually just hose me with hot water to speed up the process.”
Sam flinched. He’d never heard that before. Just another example of how much Bucky had been through, especially if there were things like that he hadn’t even thought to be worth mentioning. “Buck…”
“Don’t, Sam. Really, it’s fine.” He nosed at Sam’s neck a little— an action too gentle, too sweet. Was this really Bucky?— and said, quietly, with an audible smile, “Thank you for caring, though.”
“Yeah, man… Of course,” Sam said. And then Bucky pressed his head back into Sam’s hand, the action almost cat-like, and Sam frowned and carded his fingers back through Bucky’s hair. As nice as it may be, this was all getting a little weird. But Bucky seemed really comfortable, physically. Maybe not as mentally or emotionally comfortable as he would be back home, in Delacroix, but physically, he was needy in a way Sam had only seen glimpses of, in the past.
It was sweet that he trusted Sam so much. It made Sam wonder, with a grimace, if this would still exist if he knew how Sam really felt. How badly Sam wanted him. The way he ached for it, sometimes, when they were on a mission and sharing a hotel room, and Sam would just lie there, unable to sleep, just listening to Bucky’s slow breathing in the other side of the room. Not watching him, because that was creepy, but occasionally glancing over in the darkness, his eyes lingering far too long, tracing the line of his shoulders, taking in the way Bucky lay curled up on his side, in sweats and a loose t-shirt, his long legs tucked up to his stomach. Curled nearly in the fetal position, like that would protect him from the nightmares. The times he’d wake up, gasping, and Sam would sit with a knee on his bed and a hand on his shoulder, thumb rubbing small, soothing circles.
Then, sometimes— more recently, at least— Bucky would curl closer, press his cheek up against Sam’s thigh. When Sam shifted, he’d look up all wide eyed and almost shy, whisper something like, “Sorry,” and all Sam could do was smile and gently nudge him closer, his chest squeezing almost painfully at the soft look on Bucky’s face. After some gentle encouragement, Bucky might rest his head on Sam’s lap, and that was always the best. God, he was so fucking cute. The little things he did, the way his pretty blue eyes would swim with emotion, how he’d eagerly accept anything Sam might offer him, then hold onto it as tight and long as he could.
Yeah. Those nights were the best, for Sam. Of course, he didn’t like that Bucky was still having nightmares, but knowing that he, Sam, could help? It was, quite possibly, the best feeling in the world. The sort of thing he’d been chasing forever— as a pararescueman, then as a counselor at the VA, then as an Avenger, then, more recently, as Captain America. And yet, knowing it was Bucky somehow made that feeling all the more significant, all the more fulfilling.
“Sam?” Bucky mumbled, again, his voice low in Sam’s ear. “What’re you thinking about?”
Sam bit his lip. “Just… Everything, I guess,” he said softly, his hand pausing in Bucky’s hair, a frown forming on his lips. Bucky then pushed his head back against Sam’s palm— again, like a cat. He wasn’t sure where White Wolf had come from— and Sam smiled a little sadly, curling his fingers into those dark locks, hearing Bucky’s contented sigh and feeling the way he melted and knowing this was something he could never truly have.
“You should sleep,” Bucky said suddenly, rubbing his jaw against Sam’s collarbone, again cat-like. Sam barely repressed a shudder at the scratch of stubble. “You’re tired.”
“You’re the one that almost died,” Sam shot back roughly. “Besides, you really want me to stop petting you?” he asked, meaning for it to sound more teasing than it did. God, he just sounded exhausted.
Bucky tensed, and Sam did the same, hoping that mentioning this didn’t ruin it. Then Bucky just muttered, “You’re not petting me, asshole,” sounding both mutinous and a little flustered.
Sam would roll his eyes if they hadn’t already fallen shut, though his chest had lightened. “I don’t care, you know,” he mumbled sleepily, sounding vulnerable even to himself. “If you like all this, I’ll do it for you. Give it to you, Buck, anything you need,” and Christ, he was being way too honest. He hoped the exhaustion provided a good enough cover to all the embarrassingly genuine bullshit he was spilling.
Bucky was silent for a long, long moment, before he relaxed again, pressing his face into the crook of Sam’s neck, winding his metal arm around Sam’s waist. “Sleep, Sam,” he said softly, affectionately, a smile to his voice. “I’ll be here when you wake up, okay? Not so cold anymore.”
Sam sighed, shifting to hold Bucky closer, tighter, like that would force him to stay true to his word. To wake up with Bucky in his arms, warm and alive, after everything? That might just heal the broken part of him, the part that had felt fractured ever since losing Riley. Not all the way, of course, but just a little. It was a start.
Bucky didn’t comment on his clinginess, nor the desperation clear in Sam’s grasp. He seemed to, silently, understand. Because if anyone could understand loss, could understand wanting to cling so tightly to someone out of fear of losing them the same way he lost nearly everyone else he’d ever cared about, Bucky would. He tightened his grip on Sam, too, snuggling a little more into the crook of his neck, and murmured, “Sleep well, angel.”
And by that point, Sam was too far gone in the clutches of sleep to question the name, or the gentle brush of Bucky’s lips against his cheek. He just hummed, melting into Bucky’s still-cold body, and finally let himself drift off.