Chapter 2
The whole drive back to D.C., Sam’s hands shook. Yes, that is bad for driving, but he couldn't stop, he couldn't stop. His mind kept flashing back to the HYDRA base, even as he put miles and miles into the car to get away from it.
Before Bucky had saved his life, HYDRA had nearly gotten him. They were right on his heels, there were so many of them and just one of him…
Sam almost died today. Whether one of their bullets had caught him, or if Sam would've had to take care of himself, he almost died.
And he would’ve. Killed himself. He would've put a bullet in his brain before he let those bastards play with it. Sam shook with anger this time, thinking of what they did to Bucky. What they could've did to him, today. Thank god for Bucky. Bucky.
He starts to think about Bucky then, but the anger became all consuming, and the fear, the fear was too much because, he almost died today.
Sam pulls over then, and dials Steve’s number before he could think twice. “Steve.”
“Sam. Sam, are you alright?”
He’s not sure if it was his ragged breathing or the pitch of his voice that gave it away, but when he heard Steve’s voice, he started to silently cry.
*
Sam comes home every day from the VA, expecting to see a sarcastic super spy sitting on his sofa, but weeks pass, and he doesn’t. He talks to Steve every couple of days on the phone. After Sam’s panic attack weeks ago on the side of the freeway, Sam managed to tell him about how Bucky saved his life.
He remembers how Steve’s breath caught in his throat, the surprise of hearing about Bucky after listening to Sam break down, a million miles away.
Sam thinks Steve was a little hurt too, how Bucky had watched them for weeks, but only came out when Steve left. Sam thinks he may have been hurt too, if Riley had pulled the same shit.
As expected, Steve didn't come back from New York. The only time Sam saw him was on the news, and he started watching less and less of that. Every time he saw Steve perched on some pedestal dressed uncomfortably in a suit, Sam wanted to laugh or throw something because this wasn't supposed to be how his story ended, how their story ended? He was supposed to be there, fighting evil with him.
Especially when he suspected that the only reason Steve stayed away was because he felt guilty. Guilt about leaving him to fight HYDRA alone, guilty for leaving him to deal with Bucky. perhaps he was even guilty about speaking to him on that run, all those months ago.
But Sam wasn't upset, not anymore. He was over almost dying. That’s what soldiers do, they get over it when in battle. He wasn't in battle, not any more. But he was increasingly aware of the handgun he kept in the glove compartment of his car, because what if HYDRA wanted to finish him off? What if they wanted to fuck around in his head, just like they did to Bucky. Maybe they’d give him metal wings, attached to his spinal cord so he can’t take them out. Maybe he was in battle.
But one Tuesday, there’s someone sitting on his porch when he comes home from work. It was a long day, one of his vets had killed themselves, pills. There wasn't enough caffeine in the world to get through the talk with the family, and Sam wondered, would his family have ever found out if he offed himself in a HYDRA cell?
He’s so tired that at first, Sam thinks the glint of metal attached Bucky was a trick of the light, but then it all comes back to him.
There’s a wanted, part metal fugitive assassin on Sam’s porch, and all he could think was how long has it been since the bastard had eaten?
He looked worse off than when Sam had last seen him. Skinner for sure, and tired. Of fighting or of living, Sam wasn't sure. Bucky was holding his flesh arm to his chest with the help of his metal one.
Bucky drops a concealed gun at Sam’s feet, without being prompted. Sam simply picks it up, and slides it in his belt, a motion ingrained in him from the military. He unlocks the door to his home, kind of surprised Bucky didn't just pick it himself, or just break the fucking door down. He hasn't met Sam’s eyes once, and he wants to know what caused the change in demeanor.
He gestures to his sofa, and walks into the kitchen, wondering what he could feed this super soldier that was obviously starving himself. But when he ducks his head from around the fridge, he sees Bucky standing in front of the sofa, a blank look on his face.
“Hey… what’s wrong?”
Bucky speaks for the first time today, his voice coming out raspy. “I’m bleeding - I shouldn't sit.”
“Man, it’s fine.” Sam rushes to the linen closet and grabs a couple towels, laying them out on the sofa. He guides Bucky’s shaking figure down on to it. “Look, I’m gonna patch you up. You’re arm looks like it needs to be set. I was pararescue, I can handle it. Is that ok?”
Bucky nods.
“Great. If the pains not too bad, I’m gonna see what I can find for you too eat first. You look like your starving. Any requests from the kitchen?”
“We can order pizza or Chinese, and I’ve got stuff to cook?”
“Cook? Like…you’re gonna cook for me?” Bucky’s eyes widened.
Damn. The guy probably hadn't had a home cooked meal since 1942. Sam swallowed the lump in his throat, because if Bucky wasn't crying about this, then Sam wouldn't either.
“Yeah. I’ve got stuff for some casseroles, I can make a chicken, lasagna, turkey burgers…”
“Lasagna?” Bucky says, more like a question than an answer. Sam’s heart clenches, but he hides it behind a mask he perfected in the military. Bucky wasn't the only solider in the room.
“Lasagna it is.”
Sam cooks and warily lets Bucky cut vegetables with his left hand after he offers and stopped bleeding. He cuts them perfectly even and that makes Sam a little nauseous, wondering what else they'd forced him to cut up in tiny little pieces.
The dish is placed in the oven, and Sam heads to the closet to grab his medical bag. Bucky sits back a top the towels, suddenly drained.
“Bucky, I want to help you. But I’m going to need you to trust me ok? I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise.”
He meets Sam’s eyes warily, but the blue there is perfectly clear. “Keep the gun close. In case…I get confused.”
“Will that make you comfortable?” It really doesn't make Sam feel comfortable. He feels like HYDRA, patching him up, with a fail safe nearby incase something goes wrong.
But Bucky nods.
“Okay,” Sam exhales. “I’m not going to need it, but okay.”
He gathers tools from his bag, gauze, antiseptic, bandages. He puts the gun on the coffee table behind him, out of Bucky’s reach but close enough for him to reach it, if need be. “I’m going to need you to take off your shirt.”
Bucky smirks, a glimmer of that day in the mountains returning. “Samuel Wilson. I’m not sure what kinda gal you think I am, but you’re gonna need to take me to dinner first,” he drawls, some of that old Brooklyn coming back to him.
Sam chuckles, despite the potential severity of the situation. “It’s in the oven. Now, shirt off.”
Bucky complies, but he moves slowly. Every inch of skin revealed was covered in bruises. They were in every shade of healing, black and purple; fresh. Yellow and sickly green; old. His ribs had to be broken - a few of them. There was a deep knife wound on his left side under his fourth rib, and Sam prayed it wasn't infected. His metal arm glints in the soft light of the living room, strangely beautiful; the only part of him unharmed.
“Sam -“
“Bucky, so help me god if you ask me if I like what I see…”
He snorts, but his face looses any trace of laughter when he flinches, bringing a hand to his abdomen before he can catch himself. “I’m fine,” he manages, voice tight. “I just need to be patched up, and then the serum will do its work…”
Sam closed his eyes. “You aren't fine. I don’t know how much I can do here, man. You need to see a doctor, a real medical -“
“No!” Bucky exclaims, rearing forward to grab Sam’s arm with his right hand, never his left. “No doctors, please no doctors, please.”
Sam remembers what Steve told him. Those people torturing Bucky were doctors, some of them. People who swore under oath to help others hurt him, tortured him, raped his mind. “What makes you trust me?” He asks, honestly curious.
“Steve does,” Bucky says simply. “I don’t remember everything about Steve but I remember he was the most stand up guy in town. He trusts you, so I do, too.”
Sam smiled softly. “I’m glad. So here’s what I’m going to do…”
Sam made sure to explicitly tell Bucky exactly what he was doing to his body as he patched him up. He set the dislocated shoulder first, knowing it was probably causing quite a bit of discomfort. He told him it was going to hurt, like hell, but Bucky took it in stride, biting down on Sam’s throw pillow like it was a practiced motion.
He didn't scream or cry, kept silent as Sam pulled his shoulder into place. He cleaned Bucky’s abdomen, the deep cut on the side needed stitches, which Sam could do. He didn't scream then either, just a minute flinch as the needle pierced skin, in and out, in and out. There wasn't much Sam could do about the ribs or the bruises. Bucky’s body needed time to knit itself together, and the serum would do its job now that he was able to rest.
Sam directs Bucky to his shower, telling him to wash before he put the bandages on. While he’s in the shower, Sam’s hands start to shake. He’s scared, but not for himself. He doesn't think about the gun on the table, or the one in his car. He doesn’t.
He regains his calm expression when Bucky comes out, looking like a drowned rat, though thankfully, a clean one. He’s wearing Sam’s plaid pajama pants, and Sam almost wants to laugh at how domestic this is, dinner in the oven and all. But then he sees the wounds on Bucky’s bare chest and the laugh dies in his throat, with the realization that Bucky probably wouldn't get the joke.
Bucky doesn't speak as Sam wraps gauze around his abdomen, hoping it would help his body heal faster. Sam helps him into his shirt, even though Bucky makes a face at the assistance. His wince when his right arm goes up meant Sam’s instincts were correct.
Dinners done by now. Sam sets the lasagna on the counter and pulls out plates and beers. He gets a healthy portion out for himself, and a larger portion for Bucky, because who knows how long its been since he’s eaten.
Dinner is a silent affair, though Bucky’s almost moans of appreciation into his plate signifies that he’s enjoying the meal. He goes back for seconds, and Sam watches him eat, spending extra time on his own meal.
When Bucky comes up for air, he gives Sam his awkward almost smile. “Thanks Sam. For fixing me up, and feeding me. It was real good.”
When Sam smiles back, its genuine. “You’re welcome. Anytime, honestly.”
Sam does the dishes and refuses Bucky’s help. “Godammit I set your arm a half hour ago. Sit down.”
They watch TV for a couple hours, though Sam stays away from the news. He doesn't want to see what’s going on in New York, doesn't want to make Bucky anxious. Sam yawns, and Bucky starts to get up. “Hey thanks for everything, I’ll get out of your hair now,” Bucky says.
Sam’s eyes blink open. “What? Are you crazy? You aren't leaving, especially in this weather. I’ve got a spare bedroom with your name on it.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
He laughs. “No, no. But you can put your name on it if you want.”
Sam directs Bucky to the room practically reserved for wayward fugitives of the law. He gets a whispered thanks in response, and Sam doesn't think about the gun on the table in the living room.
*
They go to bed, but Sam has a nightmare with explosions and fire and Riley falling from the sky, same as usual. He can’t sleep after, also as usual, and gets up to see if Bucky’s still there. He is, but isn’t in his room. Instead, Sam finds him sitting in front of the fridge, eating all the leftover lasagna cold, with the damn fridge still open.
“Sorry.” he says, but takes another bite anyway.
“It’s fine. I told you earlier, mi casa su casa or whatever.”
“Why are you awake,” Bucky asks bluntly, his first direct question to Sam this whole time.
Why are you? Sam wants to ask, but doesn’t. There’s so many things that he wants to ask, but can’t. “Nightmare. It’s usually hard to get back to sleep after,” he shrugged, unashamed to talk about his issues. He’s a counselor at the damn VA for gods sake. Even if he was embarrassed, the amount of issues Bucky had would overshadow any and all embarrassment.
Bucky met his eyes for the first time, and nodded inceptively, so Sam kept talking.
“I’m a counselor at the VA… but I think you knew that already.” Bucky nodded in between bites.
Sam continued, once again struggling not to feel immensely creeped out. “I help other veterans get back into civilian society. It’s hard, man. And I know first hand. I think its ridiculous when they have some civilian shrink come in. If you haven't lived it, watched your friends die right in front of your eyes, than you shouldn't be preaching about the 5 steps to recovery.”
He took a breath, not realizing how heated he’d just gotten, sitting in front of his open fridge at 3 in the morning with Americas most wanted eating lasagna out of the goddamn pan.
“It’s fine.” Bucky echoed his words from earlier. “I like hearing you talk. And I agree with you.”
“You should come. To a meeting. I have a feeling you already know my work schedule, but I’ll print one out. They’re anonymous, everyone is too deep in their own shit to recognize you from a textbook.” He grinned at Bucky, who managed an odd expression back, like he didn't know how to smile anymore. Sam’s heart was feeling weird again, and he hoped he wasn't have a fucking premature heart attack.
“You’re a veteran too, Bucky. Of a whole lotta worse shit than any of the guys down at the VA. But you have just as great of a chance at redemption.”
Bucky closed his eyes tightly, the glow from the fridge making his eyelashes stand out individually. “Okay,” he breathed. “Okay.”
“Good. Now give me some of that lasagna.”
And when Bucky held out the fork he’d been using up to Sam’s mouth, he almost laughed at the intimacy, but took a bite anyway. He wondered if that’s how his handlers treated him, only letting him eat after they had their share.
Bucky was right. It was damn good cold.