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Weird, unresponsive baddies in impenetrable glowing green force fields is all the intel they’ve got to go on. Lasers? Several people critically injured, but none dead. That we know of.
This sorcery shit going down in St. Louis really seems like it’s more of a Wanda-thing than a Sam-and-Bucky-thing, but S.H.I.E.L.D. is paying them to go where the trouble is, and people are in danger, so.
It’s not that Sam thinks he and Bucky are definitely outmatched, it’s just that he prefers situations where he’s reasonably certain they’re not outmatched–this isn’t one of those situations. There’s not enough information available to make any kind of concrete determination, so he’s more than a little nervous.
Sam likes to have an idea of what he’s gonna be falling into when he jumps out of an airplane. Sue him.
Bucky’s quiet and kind of frowny right now, which means he’s nervous too. He’s on the other side of the cabin, carefully selecting knives from a briefcase and sticking them into sheaths all over his person. Very solemn, very serious. No noise except the shwick of Bucky slotting all his weapons into place.
Well, there’s nothing like a little gallows humor to lighten the mood, at least in Sam’s experience. Break the tension, maybe get a surprised bark of laughter from Bucky. Or a big, inelegant snort; either would be good. It’s moments like these where he is grateful to S.H.I.E.L.D. for shelling out on the good jets with the private cabins. When he was in the Air Force, pre-op conversation had to be shouted over the roar of the engines. It made things way more tense.
“Just out of curiosity,” he says, turning towards Bucky, “how’s your will looking these days?”
Bucky turns to him and a furrow appears between his eyebrows. “My what?”
“Your will,” Sam repeats. “You know, who’s gettin’ what. I’m leaving my tablet to Cass just to piss off Sarah. I even downloaded a bunch of random games on it that only run if you spend a fortune on microtransactions.”
“Oh, I’m sure she’ll love that,” says Bucky, rolling his eyes. But the gesture is full of fondness, and it cuts into the tension just a little, like Sam had hoped.
“My goal is to make her so mad at me she’ll figure out how to bring me back just so she can kill me again herself,” Sam tells him. He waits for a laugh, but Bucky doesn’t give him one, so he continues. “Anyway, when’s the last time you updated yours?”
“Never,” says Bucky, “because I don’t have a will.”
Sam gawks at him. Not having a will is beyond stupid in their line of work. This motherfucker jumps off buildings and fights monsters for his job, and apparently has made no plans in the event of his death.
On the one hand, they have no conclusive proof that Bucky isn’t immortal. He definitely should’ve died a hundred times over by now and yet here he is, tucking a dagger into his sleeve and mumbling the words to a song he could’ve only learned from Princess Shuri in that charmingly tuneless way of his. Bucky may be able to punch through walls, but thank god their survival doesn’t depend on his singing abilities, because they’d be well and truly fucked if it did.
So, immortal? Possibly. But on the other hand, they know for a fact that the serum can only do so much. Bucky can hold his breath longer than almost anybody, but not forever. The serum couldn’t possibly compensate for if, say, a building fell on him and crushed him flat. Or if he bled out completely. Or if–
Sam doesn’t like this line of thinking.
“What the fuck, man?” says Sam, pushing those depressing images forcefully out of his mind. “Your job title is literally ‘superhero,’ how do you not have a will?”
“Never made one,” says Bucky with a shrug. “Actually, I might’ve back in 1943, but I doubt it still exists.”
“To my best pal Steve,” Sam starts in his best old-timey voice, ”I bequeath all my favorite buttons and bottle caps. To my–”
“I had a typewriter I really liked back then,” Bucky muses aloud, ignoring Sam. “A Royal Quiet DeLuxe Portable. I wonder whatever happened to– oh wait. You know what, I bet they actually like, divided up all my stuff. I forgot for a second there that everyone thought I was dead. I hope my sister ended up with that Royal...”
This fucking guy. Not that Sam isn’t already planning to move heaven and earth to track down this ancient typewriter the second they get back home, but still. What a dweeb.
“And now you have all new stuff,” Sam reminds him. “Which–again–you need to make a will for.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grouses, replacing the knife in his sleeve with another, almost identical knife.
In all honesty, saying Bucky has all new stuff to divvy up is a bit of a stretch, because there’s not a lot of Bucky’s that isn’t also Sam’s. Their lives have been inextricably intertwined by accident since the moment Sam let Steve and Natasha into his apartment all those years ago, and on purpose since they became roommates after the blip. And then even more on purpose since a couple months after that, when their relationship took a decidedly romantic and sexy turn. Which landed them where they are now, which is: work-partners-slash-boyfriends.
It’s a solid situation they’ve got going. Everybody on the planet–and even some people offworld–knows Sam and Bucky are Samandbucky, a package deal in fighting evil. The Dynamic Duo. Captain America and his Right-Hand Man.
What is not general knowledge is how much that partnership extends off the battlefield. Friends and family know, including all of the Avengers and their associates because Peter Fucking Parker found out by accident and can’t keep a secret to save his life, but the public remains none the wiser.
Sam likes it that way, at least for now. Their relationship is like a little bubble that the rest of the world can’t touch, a respite away from all the shit they deal with on the regular at their job. Sam’s not naive enough to think that it’ll stay this way forever–frankly, he’s shocked that the public hasn’t yet caught onto the fact that they live together–but Sam’s determined to enjoy the privacy for as far as they can stretch it.
“Oh so it’s like that, huh?” says Sam, tightening one of the straps on his shoulder and smirking. “You’re cool with the government auctioning off your five hundred black leather jackets? All your grenade launchers are just gonna what–go to the state? I don’t even get the red one? That’s cold, man.”
He’s expecting Bucky to finally dole out the laugh Sam’s been chasing, hit him back with some sarcastic quip, but that’s not what happens. Bucky’s not biting this time though, which leaves Sam floundering for something to grasp onto. It’s unfamiliar territory, and that feels scary. He stops humming as his brow softens, flexing his fingers as his arm whirrs and then clicks.
The silence between them is making Sam even more nervous because it’s so uncharacteristic. They give each other the business almost nonstop. He’s starting to worry that he might have really touched a nerve when Bucky suddenly looks up at him, concern etched in every line of his face.
“Do you know why I stayed, Sam?” Bucky says finally, his voice soft as he pulls his comm out of his ear and sets it on the tray next to the knife briefcase.
“Stayed where?”
“Here,” says Bucky, crossing the distance between them and starting to fiddle with the adjusters on Sam’s suit. “In the present. Instead of going back with Steve like he asked me to the night before he left.”
“He asked you to go back with him?” This is news to Sam, in the sense that Bucky has never outright told him. He’s alluded to it though, and Sam would’ve suspected even if he hadn’t. “Really?”
Bucky threatens to fuck back off to the forties at least once a week, but never if he’s on a battlefield bleeding or tied up in an evil lair full of bad guys. It is reserved only for the most minor of inconveniences, such as: they have run out of peanut butter halfway through Bucky making a sandwich; Bucky has forgotten to move the wet clothes to the dryer before they left on a mission and now they’re all mildewy; Sam has just let loose with a particularly corny joke. Bucky’s constipated face, huff of anger, and thunderous, that’s it, I’m pulling a Steve, have never once failed to crack Sam all the way up.
“Yeah,” says Bucky dismissively, loosening a buckle. “I turned him down easy. Didn’t even hesitate. You know why?”
“I mean, I have a couple of good guesses. You wanted a piece of this–”
“Because I knew,” Bucky interrupts, thumping the back of his hand against Sam’s chest, right over the star on his suit. “Before the blip, when you all landed in Wakanda, I saw your face over Steve’s shoulder and I–I just knew.”
Sam is already aware of how long Bucky’s had the hots for him. It’s come up before that Bucky was interested even pre-blip, so that particular piece of info is not a surprise.
And there are a lot of good reasons for Bucky to want to live in modern times other than just Sam–being a gay man in general, his vibranium arm, the internet, Sour Patch Kids. But the fact that Sam was apparently the deciding factor is a revelation to him, and certainly flattering.
“Aww,” says Sam. “That’s sweet, baby. Thanks.”
It’s when Bucky doesn’t even follow it up with something sardonic that Sam starts feeling a little wrong-footed, like he missed a step going downstairs. There’s a sense of anticipation in the air between them that Sam would normally chalk up to pre-battle jitters, but that’s not it. It’s gentler, stronger, sweeter.
And then Sam has an abrupt meta moment where he realizes maybe he should stop pulling Bucky’s pigtails for a minute here, stop trying to get him in that back-and-forth banter that’ll keep everything from getting too real, because they always do that. Invariably, so consistently that it’s suddenly clear they’ve spent their entire relationship in the shallow end.
Bucky doesn’t speak for almost a minute, but his brows knit, and Sam can tell he’s not really done talking. He eventually gives up the pretense of fiddling with Sam’s suit and places his right hand over Sam’s heart, where Sam reaches up to take it.
“Sam,” he says softly, lacing their fingers together. “You remember the first night we, uh. You know.”
Bucky had it absolutely drilled into his head in his youth that discussing intercourse in a casual setting is verboten, even with the person you’re having it with, and apparently decades of HYDRA torture failed to burn that out of him. It tickles Sam to no end watching him get all flustered whenever they talk about sex outside their bedroom, skirting around words and grasping for euphemisms .
C’mon, Buck, Sam had said. You can just say ‘dick.’ I’m not gonna faint; it’s my dick we’re talking about. It’s been in your hand, your mouth, your ass–
Oh god, Bucky had groaned, burying his tomato-red face in his hands as Sam howled with laughter.
“Yeah, kissed and all that,” says Sam, raising his eyebrows suggestively.
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “and all that. You remember what I said to you?”
“You said a lot of things, Buck,” Sam tells him. “You’re gonna have to narrow that down for me.”
“Well, you called it a line, but–”
“Oh yeah. You said something like I was the best thing you’d ever seen in your life. All hundred and some years.”
“Yeah,” says Bucky, turning a little pink. “That.”
Sam actually remembers it verbatim, but there’s something about the aching sincerity with which Bucky had said it— a hundred and six years and you’re the best thing I’ve ever seen in my whole damn life, Sam— that makes it almost unrepeatable. Too sacred to say again out loud. Sam has thought about that moment a lot; he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to forget anything about it.
“I remember.”
“What I didn’t say was that it was worth it,” Bucky tells him. “A hundred and six years, most of ‘em terrible, but worth it all in that moment because you were standing there ready to… ready to be in love with me.”
“I didn’t know that,” Sam says. His stomach swoops like it does when he’s in freefall, but he trusts Bucky even more than his wings to catch him.
“I shoulda told you before,” says Bucky. “I meant to–I wanted to, and I know this probably isn’t a good time but I just never…”
Bucky pauses, and when he continues, Sam can hear in every word how difficult it is for him to keep going.
“Two years in,” Bucky starts, “and I’m still always afraid of scaring you with how badly I want you. I wake up every morning and you’re lying there next to me, and I can hardly breathe around how much I love you. It… It’s… ”
Bucky’s voice cracks and he falls silent for a moment.
“I’d go through it all again for you,” he says, watery and wavering. “Even for the smallest chance of having what we have now. I wouldn’t hesitate.”
A tear falls from one of Bucky’s shining blue eyes. Sam only realizes he is crying too when Bucky lets go of his hand to gently swipe his thumb across Sam’s cheek and it comes back wet.
This is not something they do. They don’t get this real. Like, Sam has known for a long time that they are in love. They’ve been saying it for almost their whole relationship. On the phone, in bed–both at bedtime and during sex–even over the comms during battle once or twice when things have gotten scary.
But this is different. Soul-baring.
“I never thought I could…” Bucky continues, well on his way to full-on crying. “All the fighting, and the torture, and… And then I wake up from the nightmares and you’re there holding me and I–”
His voice breaks again on a sob, but he draws a shuddery breath and keeps talking.
“Sometimes it’s hard to believe you’re real,” Bucky continues in a whisper. “That this is my life. I live with you. I sleep in your bed– our bed–every night. We have dinner together, we cuddle up on the couch. We make love. Everything we do together… I didn’t even believe I could have any of those things until I got them from you. You tell me you love me, and I know you mean it because I trust you with everything I have.”
Sam is struggling so mightily against outright sobbing that there’s no room in his brain to even start formulating a response to what Bucky is saying.
“You’re… There’s no one like you, Sam. Not even close. You make me want to be a better man just to be worthy of you. I started falling in love with you that day back in Wakanda, and I’m still in the air. Two years in and I’m starting to think there’s no bottom, that I’m not falling anymore. I’m flying.”
Bucky sniffs hard, but keeps talking.
“And if I die out there today,” he says. “I can die happy, because the two years I’ve had with you have been like something out of a fairy tale. And if I don’t, I still need you to know I’ll love you until my last breath, no matter when that is.”
Bucky removes his hand from Sam’s face to wipe at his own eyes, evidently finished.
Sam is very rarely at a complete loss for words, but finds himself wholly bereft of a response. He knows Bucky well enough to be reasonably sure that he didn’t actually intend to take this conversation as far as it has gone, because they are now properly emotionally compromised. The tactical disadvantage alone of having his vision blurred by his tears is enough of a reason not to want to be in this state before a battle. All this must've just bubbled up under Bucky’s skin and come pouring out–
“Will you marry me?” Sam hears himself say. Welp, guess he’s gonna throw fuel on this fire instead of doing something sensible, like a mindfulness exercise. This would be a good moment for some square breathing, but apparently Sam’s going with a marriage proposal.
It’s more than a little impulsive on Sam’s part. They’ve never so much as talked about marriage, even in the abstract. Buying a house–that’s an idea they’ve been throwing around. Or getting a cat. But never a wedding–Sam doesn’t even know if Bucky believes in marriage. Sam didn’t even know for sure until this moment that he believed in marriage.
But as the words leave his mouth, Sam knows he means them. He wants it. A wedding, a ring, a document declaring his commitment to Bucky, now and forever.
“What?” Bucky stops his rubbing to look Sam in the eye once again.
“Marry me,” says Sam, reaching out to hold Bucky’s hands and bringing them up to his chest. “Let’s get married.”
Gratuitous? Maybe. Ultimately redundant? Sure. But god, he wants it.
“Yeah?” Bucky whispers. “Really?”
“Really,” says Sam. “Will you?”
“Yeah,” says Bucky, sniffling, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. “Yes.”
Sam leans in for a tender, if watery, kiss.
“I love you, too,” he whispers against Bucky’s lips. “It doesn’t feel like enough, but I do.”
“It’s more than enough,” Bucky replies, pulling back to smile. He looks into Sam’s eyes, so happy he almost seems to be glowing.
“Cap?” comes Maria Hill’s voice inside his ear. “I’ve been trying to reach Barnes; I think he switched off his comm. Is he–”
Sam sniffs, pulling away from Bucky. “Yeah, he’s here. We’re here.”
She pauses. “You okay? You sound–”
“I’m good. I’m great,” says Sam. Technically he’s telling the truth, although if Hill is actually asking if he’s ready for battle, that’s another story.
“Well, I have some positive news for you guys,” she says, all business. “I finally got a hold of Maximoff, and she’s on her way. I’m actually gonna have you stand by until she arrives. Honestly I think she might be able to handle this on her own with a lot less damage than you two would’ve done.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Sam tells her dryly, but he is secretly thrilled at the possibility of being able to just turn around and go home. He looks over at Bucky, who is furiously scrubbing the tears off of his very red face, eyes turned towards the ceiling and blinking rapidly. Sam’s heart aches at the sight of him, and he turns away so he can focus on getting their orders.
“Tell Barnes to turn his comm back on,” Hill says. “And wait for Wanda–don’t get yourselves hurt.”
Sam’s beginning to think it wasn’t her idea to send them here. He’s always liked Hill.
“Shit, you don’t have to tell me twice,” says Sam.
She snorts a laugh and hangs up.
“What’s up?” Bucky asks.
“Wanda’s coming. We might just end up turning around and going home.”
“Oh thank god,” groans Bucky, collapsing into the row of seats next to them and covering his face with his hands. “I can’t fight like this.”
Every time Bucky does something like that–any admission of vulnerability or weakness–it sends a pulse of affection through Sam that always threatens to knock him over. When Bucky confesses to being tired, or having a headache, or feeling afraid, it just highlights to Sam the bond of trust they’ve developed. That Bucky feels safe enough with Sam to drop the Strong and Silent persona he’s so notorious for honestly means more than any words ever could.
Sam starts to unhook his wing pack, ready to dive onto the seats and hold onto Bucky all the way home, but is then interrupted by Hill’s voice in his ear again.
“Sam,” she says sharply. Sam sighs. Probably a little premature to mentally check out of this mission, but god.
“Yeah?”
“First of all, still can’t get a hold of Barnes. What is he doing?”
Sam looks down at Bucky, draped dramatically over the seats with an arm slung across his face.
“He’s uh… He’s ready to go. Maybe his comm is malfunctioning or something.” He nudges Bucky’s foot with his leg and Bucky raises his head to look at him.
Put your comm back in, he mouths at Bucky, pointing at his ear and gesturing his head towards Bucky’s discarded earpiece. Bucky scrambles to his feet as though he’s just remembered he is technically at work.
“Second,” says Hill. “Okay, so Wanda is still coming, but a couple of news outlets beat us there and we’re gonna need you guys to get in ahead of this because I do not want Wanda speaking to the press without–”
“—Someone a little more experienced with public speaking?” Sam interjects diplomatically.
“—a babysitter,” Hill deadpans.
Sam hears a chime indicating that Bucky has now entered the conversation.
“Sorry about that, sir,” he tells Hill, all business except for how he is distinctly stuffy-sounding. “Having some trouble with my earpiece.”
The way Bucky winces as he lies to Hill is so cute. He’s so goddamn cute, like a prickly hedgehog Sam just wants to love on all over. This is what Bucky must have meant when he said he loves Sam so much he can hardly breathe around it. Like it’s filling up his chest, squeezing his lungs, consuming him. Sam wants to melt into the floor with it.
Instead of kissing Bucky breathless, which is literally the only thing in the entire world he wants to do, he snaps his wing pack back on. Seriously, fuck this mission.
“—and you need to hand it over to the tech team when you get back to headquarters, Barnes,” Hill is saying. “We can’t have you incommunicado in the field; it’s a massive liability.”
“Will do,” Bucky answers.
“I gotta go,” she says abruptly. “Wanda’s calling me. Hopefully this all goes over quick.”
Bucky looks up at Sam with red eyes and Sam’s heart squeezes.
“How do you stop crying?” Bucky asks him desperately, like he’s running out of strategies to calm himself down. “I’m fine, goddamnit. I should be able to just turn it off.”
“Beats me, man,” Sam tells him. “I’m not used to crying all that often either. I think it’s like one of those things, when the floodgates open…”
“Yeah, my therapist says I don’t cry often enough,” says Bucky. “I hate it though. I always avoid it if I can. It’s so draining. I feel like I need a nap now.”
“God, me too,” says Sam, pulling on his goggles. Sniffs. “Let’s wrap this shit up so we can go home and go to bed.”
*****
Bucky conks out immediately when they board the jet to go home, but Sam can tell it’s not gonna be that easy for him. He’s feeling wound up in a way that he knows will require some kind of tension release before he can truly relax.
Exertion would work, either of the working out or getting off variety, but neither of those options are viable here in the jet. A good, long conversation with Bucky might do the trick, if Sam could bear to wake him up, which he can’t. Instead, he props his elbows on the tray table in front of him and watches Bucky, his face peacefully slack in sleep, and thinks.
The pleasure Bucky takes in reminding Sam that he’s Bucky’s first and only real love is precious to him. Never had a guy get me chocolates, Bucky had remarked–in barely-concealed giddiness–on their first Valentine's Day together. I had no idea what I was missing, he had said as they snuggled on the couch together watching Field of Dreams for the eighth time. Sam has never considered himself to be a jealous person, but goddamn if he doesn’t feel some kinda way knowing he gives Bucky something no one else has ever, or will ever, provide.
The option of being out is theirs for the taking whenever they’re ready, and Sam’s not naive enough to think that being shoved into the closet doesn’t wear on a relationship, even subconsciously. To be perfectly honest, he and Bucky don’t try that hard on that front. They’re lucky they have neighbors who aren’t snitches—well, luck probably has less to do with it than S.H.I.E.L.D. does—but they’re in and out of their apartment together all the time. Sam’s never really been big on obnoxious PDA anyway, so not slobbering all over Bucky in public hasn’t exactly been an insurmountable hardship.
But on the other hand, it would be something to be able to go on a trip overseas with his partner that has nothing to do with hostages or hostiles. Or fuck, man, even just a weeknight dinner date. Sam can picture himself at a nice restaurant in Georgetown, sitting across a small, candlelit table from Bucky. Maybe he could even get Bucky to wear something other than a leather jacket and a scowl. They could hold hands casually across the table and share whatever overly-sweet dessert Bucky would pick out. Like making it obvious to casual observers that they are together in that way without being gross about it. Huh.
It seems like a glaring oversight that they’ve never really had a conversation about this. Sam has always assumed that, coming from the forties, Bucky would be more comfortable on the DL. But now he’s second-guessing himself on that front because–come to think of it–Bucky’s never given any real indication either way. It’s not that Bucky isn’t bananas repressed—he’s just so fucking resilient that the vestiges of his trauma come across in the form of charming idiosyncrasies rather than the kind of shit that destroys relationships. So it’s never really come up. Sam wonders what it says about him that he’s defaulting to Don’t Ask Don’t Tell rules.
He knows he’s an almost pathologically private person, an expert at getting to know someone else and making them comfortable while keeping himself in a box. People are usually friends with him for years before he starts to let them in for real. If someone in therapy had told him that only Level 8 friends are allowed to know their birthday or that they have siblings, he would’ve immediately called that shit out as unhealthy. Bucky, who only months ago colluded with Sam’s entire family and utilized his whole repertoire of stealth talents to throw Sam the mother of all surprise birthday parties, has really been the only exception.
How the fuck did you pull this off? Sam had asked him, trying to wrap his head around the carefully engineered circumstances that had led Sam into this obvious event venue, in nice clothes, on his birthday, without suspecting a goddamn thing.
I have my ways, was all Bucky had said, slinging an arm around Sam and pressing a kiss to his cheek. Spy skills’ll get rusty if I don’t dust ‘em off every once in a while.
Holy shit, Sam had breathed out.
The Isley Brothers’ This Old Heart Of Mine (Is Weak for You) had played over the speakers while Sam faintly took in the decorations and the dessert table and the aunts and uncles he knew Bucky must’ve paid to fly in for this.
Bucky had blushed and smiled that crooked little embarrassed thing that Sam always wants to kiss. Your mom and I had a blast puttin’ this all together, he’d admitted. Best use of subterfuge I’ve ever come across.
God, I love you, Sam had said, giving Bucky a quick squeeze before striding into the fray to wrap his arms around a cousin he hadn’t seen in almost a decade.
This is some real Physician, heal thyself bullshit, Sam thinks, dropping his face into his hands.
To be fair to himself, this moment of quiet waiting is a rarity. Sam really doesn’t have a lot of time and energy available to therapize himself regularly. What isn’t taken up by work is generally devoted to maintaining the banter with Bucky, which simmers constantly like a low-level foreplay that ratchets up and has them dying to tear each other's clothes off the second they’re alone, more often than not.
Sex with Bucky is never a power play. Always life-affirming, grounding. It’s so good it forces everything else out of his brain as he mindlessly chases Bucky’s sighs and moans, filling him up with the sight of Bucky’s body twisting in pleasure. Sam’s usually ready to pass out afterwards, feeling perfectly hollow, like a rung bell after its last echo has faded.
Almost better than the sex itself is Bucky’s evident desire to take care of Sam afterwards. Bucky pulls out of him and he cleans them both up and crawls right back into bed, curling into Sam so close it’s like he’s trying to get back inside. Or, alternately, Sam finishes inside Bucky and Bucky just fucking holds him there until he goes soft and the mess reaches critical mass. And then Bucky falls asleep, hot and sweaty and snoring with his head on Sam’s chest and his big, heavy vibranium arm tight around Sam’s waist like Sam’s own personal super soldier teddy bear.
Cuddling, pillow talk, waking up together. Luxuries neither of them have had enough access to before. Sam wants it all so much it aches. Wants it on lock for as long as the universe will let them have it. Wants to–
“Touching down in DC in 10, Captain,” comes the pilot’s voice over the loudspeaker. “Local time is seventeen hundred hours, twenty seven minutes. Temp is…”
“Wha…” slurs Bucky, raising his head from where he’s been passed out cold across a row of seats, squinting as he struggles to focus his eyes on Sam.
“We’re landing,” Sam tells him, feeling thick and heavy as his emotions swirl around inside him like a twister.
Bucky nods, a barely perceptible incline of his head, as his eyes open wider. Sam only knows he is not doing as good of a job as he thought he was at hiding all of his many feelings when Bucky, still bleary with sleep, tilts his head at him and says, “You want me to drive?”
*****
There’s a specific, misty look Bucky always gets whenever anything that strikes him as particularly romantic happens in their relationship, regardless of who is instigating the sentiment. It’s the expression on his face as he opens the front door holding a bouquet of flowers for Sam, or when Sam brings him bacon, eggs and French toast in bed for his birthday, though often it’s far more mundane than that. Sam’s seen it in such banal places as the towel aisle at Target, a shitty motel room in Iowa, and a bathroom at the Chicago O’Hare airport. Once it was when Bucky came home and noticed that Sam had folded all his underwear. The first time Sam remembers clocking it was the morning after they first had sex, when Sam oh-so-casually asked Bucky if he’d ever had a boyfriend before, while implying that that’s what they were. He never tires of it, ever, and has sought it out on more than one occasion; the warm, glowy happiness and the aw, Sam, that comes with it.
Cataloging The Many Faces of Bucky Barnes is a hobby of Sam’s for a couple reasons. There’s the obvious, low-hanging fruit that Bucky is handsome by anyone’s standards, but especially by Sam’s, and looking at him is in equal parts comforting and arousing. It has also played no small part in helping Sam’s brain to separate the dead-eyed Terminator who threw me off a helicarrier from my boyfriend who gets real excited about going to the farmers market.
It’s also a hobby he technically started back in middle school.
There’s a picture of Bucky that’s Sam’s all-time favorite, hands-down, no question. It’s from his days in the 107th, before everything really went to shit. He was young and hot as hell; cocksure in a way Sam remembers feeling in his early days in the Air Force, when he thought he was invincible. Bucky’s holding an old, beat-up football, looking off to the side and smiling the come-and-get-me grin Sam has somehow, miraculously become the sole recipient of in this century. The photo stands as proof that war and torture and trauma didn’t burn everything out of him.
It’s actually also the first photo he ever remembers seeing of Bucky. He was in 8th grade on a school field trip to the Smithsonian, and they were having some kind of feature exhibit on the Howling Commandos. His group was wandering by the little biography sections for each member—Steve had been, of course, the primary focus—but that grainy, blown-up picture of Captain America’s best pal had brought Sam’s day to a screeching halt. The ridiculously-named “Bucky” Barnes, grinning beatifically at some lucky bastard off-camera.
It hit him so hard and fast Sam didn’t even have time to try and fortify the layers of denial he’d been carefully building for the last couple of years over his attraction to other guys. He’d read the bio alongside it several times, like maybe there would be an answer as to why he felt this way in there. Born March 10, 1917. One sister, Rebecca Barnes (1920-1978). Grew up in Brooklyn down the street from Captain Rogers. Drafted into the 107th in 1943. Captured, tortured, freed. Fell from a train off a cliff, but they never found his–
“Will Samuel Wilson please come to the Welcome Desk? Paging Samuel Wilson, Samuel Wilson please–”
Sam hadn’t even noticed that his class had moved on without him until he heard them paging him over the intercom. The reprimand he received from his teacher for “wandering off” barely penetrated as his head swam with that feeling of frenetic energy, the pleasure mixed with panic he was beginning to connect with seeing a particularly good-looking man.
And then that night he’d had this dream… It wasn’t even a sexy dream, but it definitely had, like, a strong romantic undercurrent to it.
Sam was at an arcade playing Frogger, and the guy from the Howling Commandos exhibit was there in uniform. What was his name again? Sam looked at him and then back at his game, which he had lost in his distraction. He was now sharing the high score with JBB, which his brain dimly registered as something that shouldn’t be possible, but it floated out of his mind as the guy offered to make it up to him. Make what up to him? Sam couldn’t remember.
And then they were in a diner, and the guy was sitting across from Sam, drinking a strawberry milkshake and laughing at all of Sam’s jokes. As Sam watched, he reached over and stole a fry off of Sam’s plate. He remembers thinking how cute the guy looked with his hand over his mouth, trying to avoid spraying Sam with french fry as he laughed, and then–
Sam’s alarm clock blared, blasting him right out of his dream.
It stuck with him though. All these years later, Sam turns to look at Bucky, driving with one hand absently placed on Sam’s knee and staring ahead at the road as it stretches into the sunset.
It’s like he’s back in that diner every day now, trying to make Bucky, the surly little bitch that he is, laugh, expansive with joy and chasing that smile unendingly. How many diners in how many cities has he pulled Bucky into now, ordered him a strawberry milkshake without even asking?
Hey Sam, how’d you know I wanted strawberry? Bucky had asked the first time, pleasantly surprised and taking a big slurp, watching Sam with big eyes and waiting for an answer that Sam didn’t know how to give him. It was a valid question—vanilla or chocolate would’ve been a safer choice, statistically speaking. They were still dancing around this thing between them at the time; their first kiss was maybe three weeks later.
Thought I’d seen you order one before, is what he’d said at the time, and Bucky had seemed to accept that. Lucky guess? Maybe. But his heart caught in his throat when Bucky reached over to steal a fry from Sam’s plate, and he’d been struck with the ridiculous thought that he’d been waiting his whole life to share a greasy meal at midnight with Bucky.
Bucky parks the car in their driveway and they head up to their apartment the same way they do every day. Sam unlocks the door and tosses his keys into the bowl. He drops his wing pack and the shield next to the coatrack where Bucky is hanging up his jacket.
Sam has every intention of taking that nap–more like just going to bed very early at this point–but something absolutely seizes him as he watches Bucky kick off his boots after locking their front door behind them. Before he’s even given it a conscious thought, he’s crowding Bucky against the door and kissing along his jaw.
“Ah,” says Bucky, and it’s barely more than a breath. “I take it we’re postponing that nap.” He tilts his head to catch Sam’s lips in a deep, thorough kiss.
“What makes you say that?” Sam asks against his mouth, reaching between them to unbuckle Bucky’s belt.
“Context clues,” Bucky gasps, as Sam slots a leg in between Bucky’s. He shucks his sweater off and allows it to fall to the floor without letting his lips leave Sam’s.
Sam wastes no time reaching for the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt, but he can’t get it over his arms because Bucky’s hands are now on either side of Sam’s face, holding him gently as they kiss, Bucky’s tongue warm and soft against Sam’s.
“Lemme take you to bed, okay?” Bucky asks. Sam will never, ever tire of seeing his eyes all heavy-lidded like this, not even if he lives twice as long as Bucky has. “Take your shoes off; c’mon, let’s go to bed.”
They traverse the well-worn path through the living room to the bedroom that has been theirs for far longer than it was Sam’s and Sam is abruptly reminded of that first night, taking their impromptu make out session somewhere horizontal and big enough for both of them. The warm, ruby red walls of Sam’s room had enveloped them as surely as Bucky’s arms enveloped Sam as Sam pushed into him for the first time.
They back up towards the bed, peeling their shirts off on the way. Sam pulls down the comforter out of habit and the mattress bounces under Bucky’s weight as he scoots towards the headboard. Sam chases after him, kissing him long and slow as Bucky brushes his fingers over Sam’s nipple. One of Sam’s hands winds automatically into Bucky’s thick hair, savoring the sensation of it between his fingers.
“You mind if I pitch today?” Sam asks, slipping easily into the charming 1930s baseball-sex lingo Bucky uses. He likes it more than modern slang—so much, in fact, that he has found himself communicating his preferences in a way he never felt comfortable doing before he and Bucky got together.
There’s something about “pitching” and “catching” that feels, well, more collaborative than “topping” and “bottoming.” Because the pitcher and the catcher are, of course, always on the same team.
Bucky smiles against Sam’s mouth as they kiss. “Not at all. I was just about to ask for it, actually.”
I attract pitchers, Sam had told him once flat-out a couple months into their relationship, as they were sitting on the couch with a couple beers and a bowl of popcorn. It’s always been a problem.
It’s ‘cause you got an incredible ass, said Bucky right away, all earnest sincerity. I’m not even gonna pretend there’s another reason. It’s like, literally officially the best ass in the country. Ask anybody.
Sam is well aware that his dedication to leg day is apparent the moment he turns around. He accepts the title of America’s Ass without humility–he works hard for this ass, damnit, and it deserves the accolades it gets.
Yeah, well, sometimes I’m just not feeling it, he’d said around a mouthful of popcorn. Variety is the spice of life; I don’t wanna catch every time. And, like, a switch hitter is gonna get rusty if he doesn’t practice both ways.
Your metaphor is gettin’ away from you a little, Bucky had said, in contrast to the way he was nodding along.
Yeah, Sam had said, waving him off, but you know. I never feel like my game is off either way with you; I like that about this. He’d gestured between them and watched with glee as Bucky tried and failed to hide his blush behind a swig of beer.
Yeah, I know what you mean.
Bucky does get it, and it’s never been an issue with him. They are so versatile that Sam thinks if they were to sit their asses down and tally up all of their sexual encounters, it would be a dead even fifty-fifty split. Bucky’s game for anything about half the time, and on days when he voices a preference, it’s a coin toss which way he’ll go. He’s also always been totally, enthusiastically down to find a compromise any time their respective desires haven’t meshed.
“Kinda feel like doing it like we did that first time,” Sam murmurs into their kiss, drunk on nostalgia. And maybe he’s being corny and sentimental, but there’s no mistaking the way Bucky goes all dewy-eyed at his words.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, pushing down Sam’s jeans and underwear in one motion. The scramble to stand up and get out of his clothes would feel more awkward if Bucky wasn’t also wiggling his jeans down his legs, tossing them and his black boxer briefs over the side of the bed. The way Bucky grabs his own dick and adjusts its position is clearly for his own comfort and not meant to be sexy, but Sam’s stomach does a little flip at the sight of it. Sam spends a moment taking in the sight of Bucky, naked and hard, propped up on his elbows as he watches Sam crawl back over to settle in between his legs.
It’s Sam’s favorite place to be, hands down, here with Bucky in the bed they share where it feels like nothing in the world can touch them. And he takes his time kissing Bucky, savoring the feel of their naked bodies pressed together from head to toe, Bucky’s tongue in his mouth and Bucky’s hands roving over his neck and back. Like they’re melting together.
There is something to be said, Sam thinks as he reaches into the bedside drawer to grab lube, for sex like this. For a body that knows his the way Bucky’s does–in bed, in battle, and everywhere in between. Sam slicks up his own dick, and Bucky’s too while he’s down there. And maybe he lingers a bit, making sure Bucky is thoroughly coated in lube before they get on to the next part. Maybe a little more than a bit, actually, to the point where it’s starting to just be a hand job.
“Thought you wanted to pitch,” Bucky reminds him, his voice satisfyingly gravelly as he stares at Sam’s hand, working its way steadily up and down his dick. “Gonna have to move on down, Sam; your hand’s feelin’ a little too good on me right now.” His body language backs up his words too, the way he rocks his hips up into Sam’s fist like he can’t help it, and breathes out hard through his nose like he’s trying to back himself away from the edge.
It was Bucky doing this the first time, Bucky rolling a condom onto Sam and jerking him off a little for good measure. Sam thinks he’d probably sounded smoother than he felt at the time. He hadn’t wanted Bucky to know how close he’d felt to coming just from that–just from Bucky looking up at him through his eyelashes with all that strength and longing–it was close to unbearable.
Condoms are a thing of the distant past for them now, and Sam also knows from experience that Bucky can and will finish just like this if he keeps teasing him. Bucky is very particular about when and how he comes, even though it’s not really an issue on Sam’s part if he shoots off early. The serum essentially eliminates his refractory period. He can just come over and over again–indefinitely, as far as they know–or at least until he decides he wants to stop. Sam’s personal interest in this ability borders on pruriency, something they’ve explored in depth and with great enthusiasm–really, a phenomenal way to spend a lazy Sunday–but Sam can tell that tonight isn’t one of those nights. So he lets go with only mild reluctance and travels his slick fingers past Bucky’s balls, lower, and then press gently inside of him.
Sam pretty much believes that their bodies are conditioned to open up to one another now. He knows his certainly is–Bucky needs only to reach his hand into his pants and all his muscles go lax, ready to take it if that’s where the night leads them. He hasn’t said anything about it because that feels like a big admission to make, but it seems as though Bucky’s much the same because Sam’s yet to meet so much as a hint of resistance from Bucky’s body.
Still, it never fails to get him; the way that Bucky gazes into Sam’s eyes as he lets him in with a soft, contented sigh, the way his fingers brush over Sam’s arm where he holds himself up, or across Sam’s jaw.
Sam takes his sweet time getting Bucky real relaxed and slick inside, because they are simply too old and scarred for sex that hurts–leave that to young, reckless people who don’t already have too much pain in their lives. Theirs is a well-earned, tender love that demands and deserves nothing less than open-handed pleasure and comfort without qualifiers.
And okay, he’s probably being a little heavy handed with the lube, but too much is always better than too little. Bucky has admitted to being very surprised by the amount of lube Sam used on him the first time they did this. It came out eventually that he’d been using a drop or two on himself, like the US government had started rationing Astroglide. Those Great Depression habits die hard, but Sam’s managed to train him out of this one by and by.
“I see we’re goin’ for the real Slip n’ Slide experience tonight,” says Bucky eventually, shifting a little. Sam can’t help but snort out a laugh. Bucky didn’t even know what a Slip n’ Slide was the first time Sam referred to it, which was in this exact context, their positions reversed. He only does now because Sam’s sister busted an actual Slip n’ Slide out at their last Fourth of July barbecue.
Oh, it’s a toy, Bucky had murmured, clicking his tongue and shaking his head like a disappointed mother. Your mind is a dirty place, honey.
Why don’t we go upstairs for a nap after lunch and I’ll show you just how dirty my mind can get?
Bucky had clutched at his imaginary pearls. Samuel! In your childhood bedroom?
Teenage bedroom, Sam had corrected him. Those walls have seen it all. I lost my virginity in that bed, Sam told him.
Bucky had raised his eyebrows. Really?
Yup.
Bucky was silent for a beat before nodding contemplatively, looking sidelong at Sam. Wanna show me how?
Sam slides his fingers out and sits back to wipe them off while trying to decide on the right way to impress upon Bucky how much he wants them to be face-to-face for this today without getting so emotional on him that they have to call a timeout. The way in which they cycle through positions is usually very dependent on practical factors, like which of them is injured that day and in what way. But since they’re both unharmed at the moment, he’s worried Bucky might decide to turn over so Sam can kneel up behind him, or something else that won’t allow them to kiss and cuddle the way Sam can’t seem to admit he needs right now.
But before he can even find the words, Bucky reaches under the bed for their “designated pillow,”—as he calls it—situating himself comfortably on his back with his hips propped up. He seems to know it’s a missionary-type-of-night without even asking; he’s supported his upper body on his left elbow and reaches out for Sam with his right hand, guiding him gently back into the cradle of his hips by the waist.
“Like that first night, right?” says Bucky, smiling up at Sam as he settles his weight on top of him, burying his face in the side of Bucky’s neck and inhaling the scent of Bucky’s shampoo. All he can do is nod against Bucky’s shoulder, breathing hard, feeling the cool press of vibranium against his cheek.
Bucky snakes his hand down between them to guide Sam inside him. Sam feels the soft brush of Bucky’s lips on the top of his head and moans as he is enveloped and consumed by wet warmth, pushing forward almost subconsciously in search of that home safe feeling that he always finds here in this bed with Bucky.
It never feels like Mission Complete until we’ve gone home for a little Marvin Gaye, if you know what I’m saying, Sam had declared once as they were laying around catching their breath in bed afterwards.
Bucky had agreed, panting, It’s the final step of post-mission procedure. Get patched up at HQ, file the paperwork, fly home, time for some Sexual Healing. He’d left out some things that often get in the way—sleeping, showering, eating, being too busted up to move—but paired this with a significant raise of his eyebrows.
Sam had slid his gaze back down Bucky’s body. I’m getting the sense that you’re ready to go again.
Bet you can’t get it back up, was enough of a goad, but paired with that dreamy smirk? Challenge fucking accepted.
Sam had restarted the playlist.
Sam rocks his hips, kissing just under Bucky’s ear as Bucky wraps his arms around him. He feels rather than hears Bucky’s deep exhale underneath his chest.
“Is this okay?” Bucky asks breathlessly.
Is this okay? is Bucky Code for, I want something, but I need you to ask me about it before I can tell you what it is. He is also genuinely checking in, opening the door for Sam to do the same. It’s a language no one but Sam could ever possibly know; knowledge acquired over the years of learning Bucky’s mind and body.
“Yeah,” is all Sam can manage to say. “You good?”
“Little faster,” Bucky breathes out. “Kiss me?”
It does not matter what position they’re in—Sam would turn himself inside out to get to Bucky’s mouth whenever he hits him with that kiss me? It twists Sam’s heart into a knot the way it’s a question, like a request Bucky’s not sure will be granted. Like Sam would ever deny him the sweet, simple pleasure of a kiss while they rock together. Gets him every time.
Sam picks up speed so instantly it’s like Bucky’s voice is hotwired into his brain and finds his lips without even thinking. He lets himself get utterly lost in the sensation of Bucky’s mouth on his, the heat of Bucky’s body, Bucky’s whimper that Sam swallows down, Bucky…
“Just like that,” Bucky pants against Sam’s mouth. “Don’t stop.”
“I won’t,” Sam promises. “You want me to–”
“Not yet,” whispers Bucky, eyes closed, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.
“Okay,” Sam tells him. “Say when.”
“Mhmm.” Bucky punctuates this with a quiet groan before he goes back to kissing Sam.
Sometimes, actually more like usually, they reach a stage during sex that feels the way gliding does when he’s flying. When the wind conditions and the altitude and the momentum coalesce just right, and Sam is reduced to a molecule of air coasting fast and free on the wind, uninhibited. And when he and Bucky get that rhythm and that push-pull just right, it catapults Sam out of his mind and into his body. He becomes nothing more than a limitless bowstring of pleasure, pulling tauter and tauter as he chases release.
Not tonight, though. He is hyper aware of everything –the feel of the sheets against his legs, the pleasant ache of exertion in his muscles as he thrusts, the sound of Bucky breathing through his nose. Instead of no thoughts at all, he’s having all the thoughts at once, though he can’t seem to hold onto them as they flit through his brain, try as he might to catch one and keep it.
Bucky arching off the bed and into Sam gives way to
the feel of Bucky’s tongue gliding across Sam’s lower lip which Sam abandons for
Bucky’s hands scrabbling for purchase across Sam’s back; the left one smooth, hard and soothing, the right one warm, nails scraping gently, deliciously against Sam’s skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake.
Sam is already shifting his weight onto his left arm when Bucky goes, “Yeah, now.”
Sam supports himself on only his left arm while his right reaches between them to jerk Bucky off. It’s moments like these where he feels particularly grateful for the rigorous Captain America workouts that allow him to keep himself aloft one-armed without breaking rhythm. Gotta be good for something besides just keeping him fighting.
He turns his head and watches the way Bucky’s eyelashes flutter as Sam’s hand wraps around him, setting a pace in perfect tandem with his thrusts by muscle memory.
“Oh, oh, keep going,” Bucky groans, but the words are unnecessary; Sam can tell he’s got it right in the way Bucky’s arms around him have gone still. “Don’t stop.”
A lesser man than Sam might lose his stride at the way Bucky tightens around him as he strokes, but Sam is laser focused, letting his own pleasure ratchet up alongside Bucky’s without missing a beat.
The way Bucky whimpers on every downstroke washes over him like warm summer rain.
“I’m gonna come,” Bucky gasps, but what he actually means when he says that is: I’m already there, because Sam’s hand is being coated in come, the space between their bodies growing slick and slippery. Sam sinks into the sound of Bucky’s heavy breathing, presses closer to feel the way Bucky trembles and clenches around him.
“Okay,” Bucky pants–Sam’s cue to let go of him–so he brings his hand back up through the mess and lets it rest next to Bucky’s head as they head into the home stretch.
Without the extremely sexy and satisfying distraction of Bucky’s orgasm, Sam is all caught up in his feelings again. Bucky widens his stance and plants the sole of one foot on the mattress, the other heel reaching up to dig into the meat of Sam’s ass, minute changes in angle that allow Sam to go a little harder, deeper. He turns his face to pepper kisses along Sam’s cheek, jaw, chin–anywhere he can reach.
And there it is–that elusive rhythm–like a swoop and glide. Sam barely has a second to appreciate it before he’s falling, hurtling uncontrollably towards his orgasm, unable to stop or change course as he gathers speed–
“I got you, Sam,” Bucky murmurs in his ear between kisses. “I got you.”
He says that sometimes when Sam’s right on the brink, and Sam has always liked it but never totally followed what he was talking about. It just seemed like something to say, sweet, but barely coherent. But now, as he takes a deep breath and lets go, he thinks he finally understands.
It shouldn’t be any different than it normally is; he’s come inside Bucky going on a couple hundred times now. But with this one, he feels kind of like he’s losing something, like something of his that he’s been clinging onto for far too long is slipping through his fingers and into Bucky’s steady, waiting hands.
Bucky, who has stubbornly stuck by his side, whether Sam wanted him there or not. Bucky, a man who fell from a cliff and lost everything –from his family and friends to his special typewriter to his own mind –but who jumps off of buildings without a second thought knowing Sam will catch him. Bucky, who has put all the trust and love and hope he has into Sam. All of that goodness that the world tried again and again to burn out of him, and he turned right around and into Sam’s arms; kept believing in Sam to show him right, even when everything else was wrong.
Sam’s toes curl against the sheets as he comes and comes and comes, looking down into Bucky’s eyes and emptying his soul into him. Bucky, who said Sam makes him feel like he’s not falling in love. He’s flying .
And the moment Sam comes down, he’s hit by a wave of affection so strong that he has nothing else to do but curl himself around Bucky and cry— deep, wracking sobs that he tries and fails to muffle into Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky, god bless him, only startles a little before wrapping his arms around Sam impossibly tighter, gently stroking the back of Sam’s head and his neck with his warm right hand. Sam’s tears slide off of Bucky’s vibranium shoulder like a deluge, collecting on the sheet below them as Bucky murmurs a soft you ok? in his ear. All Sam can manage is a mhmm between sobs, and Bucky doesn’t demand to know what’s wrong, doesn’t hush him—changes nothing. Just holds him and holds him and presses occasional kisses to Sam’s temple, breathes slow and heavy, lets Sam get it all out with all the patience in the world.
“I’m sorry,” Sam manages finally, after what feels like hours but was actually probably closer to ten minutes.
“Oh, don’t be,” Bucky says immediately, with feeling. “Do you feel better?”
“Yeah,” Sam admits. He hates crying— hates it, with a fiery passion—but goddamnit if he doesn’t feel like a huge weight just lifted off his chest.
“Like my therapist says,” Bucky tells him, hand still stroking the back of Sam’s neck. “Crying is good. I never believe her until I do it, and then it’s always like, oh wow, I needed that. And then I forget and start the cycle all over again. ”
Sam breathes a laugh into Bucky’s neck as he turns his head. “Ok, fine,” he relents. “But this isn’t awkward for you or anything?”
Bucky just blinks at him. “For me? The guy whose greatest wish in the entire world is for you to let him take care of you? No, no it isn't awkward . I am in my fucking element here.”
“You take plenty care of me,” Sam grouses, thinking about the many hundreds of weeknight meals Bucky’s cooked for him, the chores and cleaning and errands and grocery shopping Bucky handles mostly alone without complaint. Not that Sam doesn’t have shit to do–turns out Captain America is a much more demanding, paperworky job than the Winter Soldier–but Bucky’s impressive balance of battle partner/house husband definitely constitutes taking care of Sam on more than one level.
“Why are we even arguing about this?” Bucky asks him, clearly baffled, and that earns him a real laugh. Which, Sam realizes, was almost certainly the goal in the first place. This feels safe and comfortable, the levity and banter that is their bedrock and their solace.
That said, Sam’s need to blow his nose has become dire, so he lets out a huge, unsteady breath, slipping out of Bucky and sitting up to grab tissues. He lets Bucky handle cleanup while he empties his nose into the tissues with a sound like a foghorn.
Bucky also plucks out a couple of tissues, but after turning around and surveying the damage, he looks back at Sam and says, “I think we better just go ahead and change the sheets. Shoulda put down a towel first.”
They always say they’re going to lay out a towel before they get going and then never do it, but it turns out to be for the better this time. Changing the sheets is just the kind of calm, mundane task to help ground Sam back into reality, and the pleasure of snuggling back up into bed with Bucky, wrapped up together in soft, clean cotton is well worth the bother.
“Hey,” whispers Bucky, nuzzling his nose against Sam’s.
Sam is at least fifty percent asleep already. “Mm?”
“Did you mean it?”
“Mean what?” Sam opens his eyes to see Bucky’s lower lip between his teeth.
“What you said earlier. About… um. Us getting married? Cause I’ve been thinkin’ about it and I know I really sprung all that stuff on you out of nowhere about me, and how I feel. I mean, I’m glad I finally told you, I just… My timing was awful. I’m sorry about that, by the way. So if it was just like, the heat of the moment… I won’t be upset with you if you want to walk the marriage thing back, is all I’m saying.”
Sam can’t deny that Bucky’s got a realistic read on the situation, but he has no regrets whatsoever. The timing was inopportune, sure, but if that’s what it took for Bucky to feel ready to spill his guts, then oh well. Sam’s position on the matter remains unchanged, but the proposal sort of got lost in the emotional rollercoaster that this day has become. Still, they probably haven’t given it the kind of attention it deserves. Sam is having trouble deciding if the look on Bucky’s face means he regrets saying yes, or if he’s just nervous in general, so he decides to start by giving him an out.
“I did mean it, and I stand by it. But I’m feeling like I kind of dropped a marriage proposal on you out of nowhere. It’s not a big deal if you—”
Bucky must know Sam’s only saying this for his benefit because he interrupts him.
“No, I do,” he says, the picture of earnestness. “I want… I want to get married. Honestly I only never brought it up because I didn’t think of it. I just… I shut the door on that dream real quick once I realized I was gay gay. Obviously, back in the day that wasn’t a thing two guys could do, and I guess I kinda forgot it was an option.”
Once I realized I was gay gay is one of the few mostly-complete memories Bucky has recounted to him. It’s a story he’s heard from two people even–the night before Bucky shipped out for Europe and he and Steve took these girls to the Stark Expo. That’s some on-brand Bucky Barnes nerd shit if Sam’s ever heard it—his last night in New York maybe ever and he goes to a fucking science convention. The way Steve told it was very different from Bucky, but one detail remained unchanged: Bucky’s date.
Bucky, who is wholly devoid of sexual or romantic attraction to women, nevertheless has a robust and enthusiastic aesthetic appreciation of feminine beauty. He regularly throws around words like gorgeous, stunning, beautiful, to describe everyone from Judy Garland to the cashier at Giant Food. But Bucky’s Stark Expo date is the only woman Sam has ever heard Steve refer to as pretty. This is notable because as far as Sam knows, Steve has only ever been attracted to Peggy Carter. Sam is also personally convinced that Steve was in love with Natasha, but Steve has steadfastly refused to talk about her–which, so healthy, typical Steve behavior–so it seems doomed to remain an unconfirmed theory.
Bucky had finished that story about the Stark Expo with, I wish I could remember her name. She was a really great gal, lots of fun, maybe the prettiest dame I ever met in my life. I remember thinking to myself, ‘this is it, Barnes. If she ain’t doin’ it for you, no girl will.’
And then, a lifetime later, here he is. Cocooned with Sam in their sheets, in their bed, agreeing to marry him.
“But you want to now?” Sam asks him again. Can never be too sure about these things.
“Yes,” says Bucky. Firm, unequivocal. “Now. As soon as possible.”
“I mean,” Sam considers, “ as soon as possible would be like… go down to the courthouse, sign some papers—“
“Yeah, no,” Bucky says immediately. “Your family would murder us if we did that. I could never face your mom again. She’d kick me out of the book club; I’m this close to finishing Son of the Storm and I–”
“Okay, Jesus, don’t have a heart attack,” Sam laughs, and then he is struck with an idea. “You ever been to Barton’s house?”
“Barton’s–no,” Bucky furrows his brow. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“It’s like a cute little farmhouse,” says Sam, “on a nice, big property. It’d make a real picturesque wedding venue.”
“Oh! You wanna ask Clint if they’ll let us use it?”
“Hell no,” laughs Sam. “I wanna ask Laura if they’ll let us use it. Clint’s such a curmudgeon, he’d say no for sure. But I bet Laura will go for it; she likes us.”
Bucky smirks, reaches out to put his hand on Sam’s cheek. “Oh, she likes us, huh? Is this the royal us, or…?”
“Don’t go fishing for compliments, it’s not cute,” Sam lies right to his face. It’s actually crazy cute, but Bucky doesn’t need to hear that. “She’s had your garlic rolls before, remember? Of course she likes you.”
This seems to pacify Bucky, who nods contemplatively. “How far in advance do we have to ask? I don’t–I don’t know if I can adequately express how little I know about wedding planning.”
“That makes two of us,” Sam tells him. “My high school girlfriend had the whole thing planned out for us, but we never even got engaged, so…”
Bucky’s eyes get very big. “That’s a little presumptuous of her.”
“Nah,” says Sam. “I think that’s fairly standard high school behavior. I do remember I was supposed to wear a lavender suit though. I wasn’t sold on that idea.”
Bucky’s little moue at the mention of a pastel suit is utterly predictable. ”Not that you wouldn’t look hot in anything, but a lavender suit doesn’t seem very you.”
Sam chuckles. “I can assure you none of her ideas had anything to do with me or what I like.”
“I had a lavender pocket square back in the day,” Bucky tells him, and before Sam can even ask, he adds: “Old school coding. Used it to pick up other guys.”
“I think I’d heard that somewhere before, that that was a thing,” Sam says. “Kind of hilarious that Susie had me pinned before I was even out to myself. A whole-ass lavender suit… But you know, I’m not really a black suit guy either—what do you think of bright red?”
“You could pull that off,” Bucky says instantly. “Or I could pull it off of you. Either way: I’m easy.”
Sam chuckles. He is. Bucky’s easy— this, their love, is easy. Despite all odds, all the trauma and the pain and the upheaval. It’s the thing in Sam’s life that never gives him any doubt. People change, leave, switch sides—but as long as they live and breathe, Sam and Bucky will want each other, love each other, fight for each other.
…Or blue could work,” Bucky is saying. “What else? Oh, what about a strawberry ice cream cake?”
Sam leans in to press his lips to Bucky’s forehead. “Long as I get you, the rest is all details.”