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It’s been a long, exhausting day, and Sam can barely keep his eyes open at the dinner table.
“That was delicious, ma’am,” Bucky tells Sarah politely.
Sarah laughs, getting up to start clearing the dishes. “There you go again with that ‘ma’am’ of yours. You’re gonna give me a complex.”
“Sorry,” Bucky apologizes, sheepish. “That time it really was an accident.” He stands too, proceeding to gather up his and Sam’s plates, ignoring Sarah when she bats her hand at him to stop. “Let me make it up to you,” he says.
Sam narrows his eyes at Bucky’s retreating form as he follows Sarah into the kitchen.
“I just need to state, for the record,” he calls after them, “that this man is an imposter. Who are you and what have you done with James Buchanan Barnes?”
Bucky re-emerges from the kitchen to collect their cups and silverware, scowling. “They’re called manners, Wilson. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
AJ and Cass, who’d been tasked with setting out dessert, snicker behind their hands.
It’s surprisingly comfortable, having Bucky here with them. The whole thing had happened so quickly, Sam hadn’t been sure what to expect. After their confrontation with Walker, he’d asked Bucky to fly back to the States to watch over Sarah and the boys in case Karli decided to make good on her threats. They’d spent two days with an ocean between them, Bucky hunkering down with Sam’s family, Sam trying desperately to make Karli see reason.
When the dust had settled and they were all reunited in Delacroix, Sarah had surprised Sam by asking Bucky if he wanted to stay for another day or two. “To thank you,” she’d said, “for everything you’ve done for us. We’ll make up the guest bed, AJ can bunk with Cass and Sam can have AJ’s room.” Sarah had emphasized the need for Bucky to recuperate after everything that had gone down, but Sam could tell from the twinkle in her eye that there was more to it. When he’d asked her about it later, she only said that the two of them together were better than television, and she wasn’t one to pass up free entertainment.
“See?” Bucky’s saying, snapping Sam out of his reverie. He actually winks at AJ and Cass. Sam’s going to murder him one of these days. “You guys know what I’m talking about.”
That makes the boys giggle even harder, and Sam looks at them incredulously. “OK, I see how it is. Siding with the crotchety old cyborg over your own flesh and blood. I’ll remember that.”
Sarah returns from kitchen carrying a pot of coffee. “Like I said.” She grins. “Free entertainment.”
“Uncle Sam,” AJ says, digging into his slice of pie. “Are you and Bucky gonna work on the boat again tomorrow?”
Sam nods. “Probably. Why?”
“Just curious.”
“Maybe your mom’ll bring you by after school,” Sam suggests. “We could use your help. Put that big brain of yours to work.”
AJ smiles shyly. He loves tinkering with things, and Sam’s always been happy to indulge him.
They’re all tired, so they finish up dessert without much fanfare. Bucky insists on helping Sarah wash up, which ignites another round of teasing. Sam leaves them to it, AJ’s mattress calling his name.
For the first time in a long while, his slumber is dreamless.
***
The following morning, Sam wakes up just before dawn. Eager to get in a run, he throws on a pair of basketball shorts and a loose-fitting tank top before heading to the bathroom. Teeth brushed, he cups his hands under the sink and takes a few refreshing gulps of water.
He’s about to descend the stairs to the main foyer when his gaze falls on Bucky’s room at the end of the hallway. Buoyed by the fragile peace they’ve established over the past two days, Sam raps his knuckles gently on Bucky’s door before poking his head in.
“Hey Barnes, how ‘bout a run—”
He opens the door all the way to find Bucky’s bed undisturbed, and no sign of the man himself. Sam feels a momentary stab of panic, but then he notices Bucky’s black backpack peaking around the far side of the bed, so he can’t have gone too far.
The shield leans against the dresser, colors washed out in the dim pre-dawn light.
Sam’s gaze lingers on it. As always, he feels simultaneously drawn to and repulsed by it, the desire to lock it away and never lay eyes on it again at war with the strange pull it exerts on him.
Using the shield in their last fight against Walker had come easily to him. Sam would be lying to himself to claim otherwise. The weight of it on his arm, familiar and reassuring despite his lack of experience; him and Bucky passing it back and forth like it was the most natural thing in the world, like they’d done it a hundred times before; the whole thing had Sam emerging from that warehouse on a dizzying high, despite the terrible circumstances. Although, that might have been the concussion more than anything else.
Sam tries not to think about it too much as he picks up the shield now.
It’s smooth and cool to the touch. Surprisingly lightweight. As Sam inspects it, the feeling of repulsion fades away.
He makes the decision on impulse, deliberately ignoring any deeper implications or motives. He’d wanted a workout; why not give his body and mind a fresh challenge?
Sam grabs a bottle of water from the kitchen before heading out the front door toward the shed on the opposite side of the property. He’s almost positive they used to keep some crash pads in here—yep, there they are in the corner, six of them, right next to a pile of bungee cords like this was someone’s plan all along.
Sam shakes the crash pads free of dust and the usual Louisiana creepy crawlies before starting the process of dragging them out to a nearby cluster of trees. It takes a couple trips but Sam makes quick work of it, and by the time he’s got all six pads wrapped around trunks and bungeed securely in place, the sun’s peaked above the horizon and the humidity has already begun to grow oppressive.
Sam steps back to admire his work. It’ll do.
Now for the moment of truth.
Shield tight in his grip, Sam takes a deep breath, plants his feet, and winds up.
The shield flies right past his intended target and lodges itself deep in the trunk of an unpadded tree about twenty yards back.
Well, that’s to be expected. Sam jogs over to retrieve it, then returns to his original position at the head of his makeshift practice range. Plants his feet, winds up again.
It appears he’s overcorrected, because the shield veers wildly off course this time, not even close to the tree he was aiming for.
Sam retrieves it once more, wondering what he’s doing wrong. The details may be fuzzy, but he knows all of his throws in the fight against Walker had connected. He supposes Walker had been a much closer target than what he’s working with now, but he’d been a moving one. Surely that required more skill than hitting some big ass tree.
“You need to loosen up your wrist.”
Sam’s heart catapults into his throat. He spins around to find Bucky standing a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest.
He nods at the shield in Sam’s hands. “The way you’re doing it—keeping your wrist locked and driving from the shoulder—you’re getting all power and no control. That’s why your aim’s off.”
Sam can’t help it—he feels embarrassed to have been caught practicing with the shield, and by Bucky no less. He turns back toward the cluster of padded trees, takes a deep breath, and positions himself to try another throw; before he can launch it, however, strong arms wrap around him from behind and Sam’s brain promptly short circuits.
“Like this,” Bucky says, adjusting the shield in Sam’s grip. His breath ghosts across Sam’s neck, and he hopes to God Bucky doesn’t notice the chills that erupt on his arms. Warm, nimble fingers wrap around Sam’s wrist.
“That’s it,” Bucky huffs quietly, moving Sam’s wrist back and forth. Sam fights the shudder that snakes up his body like a ravening vine. Is Bucky doing this on purpose? To unnerve him? Get under his skin? “Gotta admit, Wilson, it looks damn good on you.”
Before Sam can even consider how to respond to that, Bucky steps out of his orbit, taking the heat of his body with him.
Sam blinks a few times in rapid succession, trying desperately to regain his composure. Taking one more deep, not at all shaky breath, he plants his feet hip-width apart, pulls his right arm back, and launches the shield, flicking his wrist the way Bucky showed him.
The shield bursts from his fingertips like a bottle rocket, flying through the air and hitting the intended tree trunk with perfect precision. Sam finds himself vaguely surprised, as ever, by the speed and force with which it returns to him, seeming to defy the laws of physics. He catches it, ignoring the jolt of pain that shoots up his arm at the impact. Like a quarterback gearing up for a Hail Mary, he takes his next throw at a run, re-launching the shield at what he hopes is the correct angle; and, yes, it connects with the nearest target and ricochets not back toward Sam, but toward one of the adjacent trees.
He continues to practice, falling into a groove as the temperature climbs in bold defiance of the early morning cloud cover. Through it all, he’s hyper aware of Bucky watching him. Sam finds himself experiencing a level of self-consciousness he hasn’t felt since he was sixteen, playing football while his high school crush watched from the bleachers. He imagines himself as Bucky must see him now: sweat turning his skin glossy, biceps straining and relaxing as he glides the shield around the practice range like a dance partner. Sam wonders if Bucky’s gaze lingers on the cords of muscle in Sam’s thighs when he pivots to change direction. He wonders if Bucky wants to do more than look.
Thirty minutes or so pass before Sam decides to wind things down. Bucky’s scrutiny has made him feel twitchy, on edge. Half of him wants to put as much distance between himself and Bucky as he can manage; the other half wants to close that distance until it’s nonexistent. He needs to end this while he still has the self-control to choose the former.
“All right, I’m calling it,” he pants, out of breath. Holds the shield out to Bucky.
Bucky doesn’t make any effort to take it.
“Or,” Bucky says, slowly. “You could just keep it.”
“Buck,” Sam warns. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“You know what. Don’t start that shit again.”
“The shield’s yours by right, Sam.” Bucky’s got a wild look in his eyes, and Sam knows he’s itching for a fight. “You feel it, I know you do. That’s why you stole it out of my room this morning.”
“Let it go, Buck,” Sam repeats.
“No.”
Sam looks at him with disbelief, anger flaring in his gut. “Why are you so obsessed with this?” he snaps. “Why do you care so damn much? Look, I get it, you want to believe Steve knew what he was doing—”
“You can’t just walk away from this!” Bucky pushes, deflecting. “You think this’ll end with Walker? This country will never let go of Captain America. They’ll find someone else to fill that void, some other solider they can control, or maybe we’ll get lucky and the next one won’t be so bad, who knows. But it won’t matter, because that person won’t be you.”
“Jesus christ, Buck, do I have to spell it out for you?” Sam explodes. He shouldn’t be surprised, should be used to this kind of thing by now—but for some god forsaken reason he keeps hoping Bucky will be different. That he’ll understand. Pathetic, Wilson. “This country doesn’t want me, all right? They made that abundantly clear when they thanked me for turning in the shield like they didn’t already have Walker waiting in the wings.”
Bucky’s looking at him with one of his inscrutable expressions that makes Sam feel like he needs to prove something. He pushes through the discomfort and forces himself to hold Bucky’s gaze. Hear me, that pathetic voice inside him begs. I need you to hear me.
“This county may need Captain America,” Sam concedes. “But they don’t want one who looks like me, and that’s the goddamn truth. You need to accept that.”
A tense silence falls. Bucky’s mouth twitches like he’s about to say something, but ultimately thinks better of it. Distantly, Sam hears Sarah yelling at the boys to get a move on for school.
Without another word, Bucky spins on his heels and heads back toward the house.
***
“Where’s Bucky been this morning?” Sarah asks, depositing a stack of dirty breakfast dishes into the kitchen sink.
Sam shrugs and helps himself to a plate of leftover eggs and bacon from the stovetop. He picks at the eggs with his fork, leaning against the counter as he watches Sarah wash and load the dishes onto the drying rack. “Who knows. I’m not his keeper.”
After their earlier clash, Sam had abandoned the shield and gone on that run he’d originally intended. Four miles, thirty minutes, nothing fancy. When he got back he’d been weary of running into Bucky, so he made a beeline for the bathroom and took a long shower, which hadn’t proved any more effective at scrubbing Bucky’s words from his brain than the run. It won’t matter, because that person won’t be you.
Apparently he doesn’t do a very good job of neutralizing his tone, because Sarah shoots him a look over her shoulder. “What crawled up your butt and died? You two seemed thick as thieves yesterday.”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing,” she deadpans.
Sam rolls his eyes. “We got into it this morning. It’s no big deal.”
“Mhmm.” Sarah hums, turning back toward the sink. “Over what?”
Sam sighs and sets down his plate. He rubs at his temples, sensing the beginnings of a headache. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Well, maybe you should.” Sarah loads her last plate and shuts off the faucet. Turns around and pins Sam with a hard, calculating stare.
“He and I don’t always see eye-to-eye. He can be a stubborn bastard when he wants to be.”
“Uh huh."
Sam lets out a frustrated sigh. “He wants me to keep the shield. Won’t shut up about it.”
Sarah doesn’t seem surprised. “Did you explain why you decided not to?”
“I tried.”
“How did he react?”
“He didn’t want to hear it. Just stormed off without saying anything.”
Sarah sighs. “Not that this makes it any better, or any less frustrating for you to have to deal with,” she says. “But I wonder how much of it has to do with his loyalty to Steve. Wanting to see his wishes honored, and all that.”
Sam shrugs. “I’m sure that’s a big part of it. But what kind of a foundation does that leave us with? I need a partner who’s got my back. Someone who supports the decisions I make for myself. I’d do the same for him.”
Sarah pauses, clearly considering her next words. “Is there something going on between you two?” she asks, eventually.
The question catches Sam completely off guard. “Sarah, what the hell?”
Sarah gives him a look, like a cat that caught the canary. “Ooh, that struck a nerve. You heard me, mister.”
“I don’t, uh—” Sam’s heart is suddenly pounding in his ears. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“Sarah, this is ridiculous. We’re barely even friends.”
“Oh, so you’re a liar now?” his sister scoffs. “Because that man spent twelve hours straight helping you with the boat yesterday, and I didn’t hear him complain once. You tease each other nonstop. You trusted him to keep me and the boys safe. I’d call that a friend, at the very least.”
“He’d disagree with you.”
“I’m just saying,” she continues, ignoring him. “For an ex-assassin, he’s one of the least subtle people I’ve ever met. Because whenever you aren’t looking, he stares at you like you’ve just hung the moon.”
Sam actually laughs out loud at that. “Yeah, right.”
“It’s true. And you look at him the same way.”
“Sarah, I’m straight.” It slips out before he can think twice about it.
“Sam, I wasn’t born yesterday,” Sarah shoots back.
Apparently today’s the day for reverting back to his sixteen-year-old self, because the panic bubbling up inside him as he loses control of this conversation feels all too familiar. Some of it must show in his expression, because Sarah’s face softens.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” She pushes away from the counter and steps into Sam’s space. “I’m not trying to force you to talk about anything you’re not ready for. What I’m trying to say is, you’re a good man, with a selfless heart.” She pats his chest softly. “And you deserve to be selfish for once. To look out for your own happiness.”
Sam scrubs his face with his hands. “Look—and I’m not saying you’re right—I don’t see how that would change things. If anything, it makes his reaction worse.”
Sarah nods. “I get it. And you don’t have to put up with that. You do deserve someone who has your back. In a friend, partner…whatever.” She takes Sam’s hands, rubs a thumb over his knuckles like she used to do when they were kids. “But there’s something special there, whether you want to acknowledge it or not. That man would die for you,” she says, and suddenly Sam can’t look at her. He finds a plant on the windowsill behind her to pin his gaze to, holding onto it like a lifeline. “Might not want to give up on him just yet.”
He takes a deep, stuttering breath. “Everything’s just so complicated right now,” he admits.
“Sam, you’re an Avenger. You’ve been an enemy of the state, you’ve fought aliens and gods and you disappeared off the face of the planet for five years. If you’re holding out for simple, you’ll be waiting forever.” Sarah smiles softly. “So maybe it’s about finding someone who’s your kind of complicated.”
***
“You,” Sam announces, bursting through the door to the guest room without knocking, “are the most frustrating human I’ve ever had the displeasure of knowing.”
Bucky’s eyes widen fractionally, like a deer caught in the headlights. Sam feels some satisfaction at that.
“I mean seriously, man? I pour my heart out to you and you just walk away?”
“Sam—”
“I’m gonna give this one more shot, you stubborn, selfish asshole, so listen up—”
“Wilson.”
“Oh my god, are you allergic to letting me talk?”
“Depends, are you allergic to letting me admit that I was a total fucking asshole, and I’m sorry?”
Sam blinks. This wasn’t at all how he expected the conversation to go, and frankly, he’s a little disappointed to have his well-rehearsed rant cut short. “Uh…”
Bucky, who’d been curled up in a chair in the corner of the room, closes the book in his lap and sets it aside. Gets up, takes a couple of steps toward Sam. “I’ve been out of line. I see that now. I don’t know why I’m—” he huffs out a frustrated breath, rakes his hands through his hair. “I don’t know why this is so hard for me, but regardless, I need to stop taking it out on you. I’m sorry.”
“So that’s it?” Sam says, thoroughly disarmed. “You’ll stop harassing me about it?”
Bucky huffs out a beleaguered sigh. Drama queen. “Yeah, I’ll stop.”
Bucky might make Sam want to wring his neck on an hourly basis, but Sam can see the significance of this concession in the hard press of Bucky’s lips, can hear it in the tone of his voice. He recalls what Sarah said earlier, about all of this being tied to Bucky’s loyalty to Steve, and yeah, he gets that. So he suppresses his bewilderment, swallows the sarcastic jab he wants to make about how Bucky should really work on his communication skills, and says, “OK, then. I appreciate you saying that.”
An awkward silence falls.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam prompts, eventually.
Bucky gives him the stink eye. “I thought we just did.”
Sam barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “I mean, do you want to talk about why this is so hard for you?”
Discomfort radiates from every inch of Bucky’s body. Sarah was right—for an ex-assassin, the man is terrible at masking his feelings. Sam expects him to say no, I don’t want to talk about it so back off, but Bucky surprises him. Seems he’s been doing that a lot, lately. “It’s like I said when we were with Raynor.”
“You feel like me giving up the shield calls Steve’s judgement into question,” Sam encourages.
Bucky’s lips are pinched together so tightly, it’s a wonder they don’t fall off. He crosses his arms, putting a strain on the navy blue t-shirt he’s wearing. “Yes.”
Sam sighs. “Steve’s just a man, Bucky. Fallible, like the rest of us. But just because he got it wrong with me, doesn’t mean he was wrong about you.” Sam infuses his next words with as much sincerity as possible. “I can vouch for that personally.”
Bucky shakes his head, gaze skating around the room as he takes in Sam’s words. He doesn’t object out loud, but Sam knows all the subconscious tells. Bucky doesn’t believe him.
“He wasn’t,” Bucky says, eventually. “Wrong about you, I mean. Whatever you decide, there’s no one better suited to it than you. You’re…inherently good. Like he was.”
“Thank you,” Sam tells him, sincerely. “But I think it’s time we both faced some hard facts about Steve, Buck.”
Bucky’s brow furrows.
“You know, he never actually asked me if this was something that I wanted,” Sam says. “Never even stopped to consider that I might have reservations. I don’t know if he was ignorant to the implications, or if he just assumed it wouldn’t be that big of a deal.” He laughs, humorless. “A Black man, representing a country that can’t even acknowledge the inherent value of Black life.”
In his mind’s eye, Sam’s standing beside Steve again, overlooking the lake. Steve is old and withered and grey. Sam has relived this moment a thousand times, on morning runs, in the quiet showers that follow, at night when he drifts into restless sleep. Like all well-worn things, he slips into the memory effortlessly, drawn to the comfort of it as much as he knows, deep down, that it’s time to let it go.
Put it to rest.
“I wish I’d said something then,” he admits. “But I guess I was in shock. So overwhelmed by it all, I just—I didn’t think. And I always trusted Steve to do the right thing, to make the right call. Following him was so damn easy. I was on autopilot. I trusted him. I thanked him for it.”
Bucky’s watching him with that intense way of his, leaving Sam feeling exposed and unsettled and desperate. Like one touch would shatter him into a million pieces, and he wants it anyway. He’s utterly defenseless against it. He pushes forward. He has to get this out.
“He knew, didn’t he?” he asks. “Steve knew before he left that he wasn’t coming back.”
Bucky clenches his jaw. Nods.
Sam takes that in, allowing himself to feel the weight of it. He prods the corners of his mind, his heart, searching for the stab of jealousy he expects to feel at Steve confiding in Bucky instead of him. He doesn’t find it. It’s not there, not anymore.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” Bucky says. He smiles, a little sadly. “Guess I’ve got a lot to be sorry for when it comes to you.”
Sam shakes his head. “It’s not on you, Buck. None of this is. Hell, it’s not even on Steve, not really. But I do know one thing. You and I have got to stop letting his memory, his legacy, dictate how we live our lives. We’re our own people, with our own agency. Life’s hard enough without the pressure of having to constantly live up to Steve Rogers’ expectations.”
Bucky nods. “I know. You’re right, it’s just.” Sam’s never heard his voice sound so raw, so vulnerable. “Even when I had nothing, I had Steve.”
“You have me.”
The intensity in Bucky’s gaze builds and crests and breaks all in the span of a second, before settling into something a little like wonder. “I think I’m starting to get that.”
And suddenly, for no obvious reason, Sam feels his heart start to pound.
“Sam,” Bucky says, stepping closer to him. Into Sam’s space.
“Yeah?” Sam thinks he says. He can’t be sure, his hearing’s suddenly gone all soft and fuzzy and his tongue feels thick in his mouth.
“I have to tell you something.”
“OK.”
“I… might have slept on the boat last night,” Bucky says.
Sam stares. “Wait. What?”
“Yeah.” Bucky scratches the back of his neck sheepishly.
“Bucky, what the hell?”
Bucky glares at him. “I told you, I can’t sleep on beds. They don’t feel right.”
“Yeah, but I figured you’d just do whatever it is you usually do! Sleep on the floor!”
“I was going to! Then I remembered the boat, and it—it sounded nice.” Bucky’s blushing, cheeks and nose and even his goddamn lips pinking up pretty as you please. Sam wants to bite him. “The way the water makes it sway, you know? I thought that might work for me.”
“You could've just asked,” Sam points out. “Instead of sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night like a weirdo.”
“I didn’t think of it until after we’d all gone to bed.”
“So why didn’t you wake me up? Or shoot me a text, even!”
“OK, well, sorry.”
“You should be.”
“Fuck you.”
“Want to?”
It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself. What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck! his brain chants. This is all Bucky’s fault. What exactly was Sam supposed to do, with Bucky all up in his space, smelling like Sam’s body wash, being a weirdo who sleeps on old, broken boats. Bucky’s stupid is contagious, Sam thinks wildly, and it’s rubbing off on him. Rubbing off, oh my god, shut up Wilson.
And then Bucky just—backs Sam up against the bedroom door.
Their lips meet.
It unmoors him.
Bucky’s all over him, like it’s his mission to touch every inch of Sam’s body he can get his hands on. And Sam lets him, going pliant for him, reveling in the contrast between Bucky’s living hand and the sleek, cool artificiality of the other. Sam’s fingers tangle in Bucky’s hair; Bucky’s tongue slips into Sam’s mouth. It’s devastating, and Sam can’t believe there was ever a time he didn’t know he needed this.
Sam bites Bucky’s bottom lip and tugs, gently. Bucky groans, and it’s the hottest thing Sam’s ever heard. Bucky squeezes Sam’s ass, dragging their hips together, and now it’s Sam’s turn to let out a moan, grinding against the other man shamelessly.
“Fuck,” Bucky pants roughly, between kisses. “Sam.”
“I know,” Sam says, tugging Bucky back in, thoroughly addicted to the feeling of Bucky’s mouth on his.
“We can’t do this,” Bucky practically whines, and oh god, what a sound. “Your sister’s downstairs.”
“Fuck.” Sam rests his forehead against Bucky’s. Their breath mingles in the nonexistent space between them. “Fuck. You’re right. OK.”
“Let’s go to the boat tonight,” Bucky suggests, nuzzling his neck.
“Mmm. Yeah, OK.”
“Sam?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
Bucky slips his hands beneath Sam’s shirt. Thumbs at his hipbones. “For not giving up on me.”
It tugs Sam out of his lust-filled daze. There’s a softness to Bucky, Sam realizes, a tenderness that bruises easily beneath the protective shell he’s encased himself in. And somehow, for some reason, he’s decided Sam deserves access to it.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sam murmurs. They’re still pressed up against one another; Sam has no intention of moving any time soon. “Would you come with me to visit Isaiah again? It’s fine if you don’t want to,” he adds quickly. “Hell, Isaiah’s probably in no rush to see your grumpy mug again.” Bucky bites Sam’s earlobe in retaliation.
“Of course I will,” he replies. “You can always leave me at a coffee shop or something, so he won’t have to deal with me. Why do you want to see him?”
“I can’t get him out of my head,” Sam admits. He doesn’t voice the thought that’s been growing like a weed in the back of his mind since they took the shield from Walker, lest it get Bucky’s hopes up. The thought that maybe, there’s a way to do this on his own terms. Not for Steve. Not for Bucky.
For himself.
“Sure, sweetheart,” Bucky mumbles absently, trailing lazy, open mouthed kisses down Sam’s neck. Sam feels like his entire body’s been liquified.
He can’t remember the last time he felt so good.