Chapter 4
Sam woke from a dream where he was falling from the sky, to a reality where a hand was crushing his windpipe.
“Bucky?” he gasped in surprise, barely able to get the words out.
Bucky, or perhaps the Winter Soldier was standing above him. His dark hair shadowed his face, his posture was rigid and his eyes were devoid of emotion.
“Bucky please,” Sam forced out around the hand that thankfully wasn't metal. “Bucky it’s me Sam Wilson, friends with Steve? Your Bucky Barnes and it’s 2014.”
Bucky’s grip on his throat stayed sure.
“Sam Wilson, pararescue? I told you about my grandma earlier.” His vision was starting to darken at the edges. “I’m your friend, Bucky.”
Bucky faltered, and he seemed to return to himself. Then he realized what his hand was doing. He jumped away from Sam like he'd been stung.
Sam sucked in deep breaths, using his hand to steady himself on the bed.
“Oh god.” Bucky whispered. “I—I’m sorry I don’t know what happened, I didn't —-“
Sam held out a hand to stop him. His vision was returning to normal, and he rose his head a bit to speak.
“Don’t,” Bucky growled.
Sam froze.
“That’s gonna bruise. Lemme get something for it? Don’t talk, alright? We don’t wanna make it any worse now?” Bucky said, and backed out of the room quickly.
He obeyed, a little shocked by the quick turn of events, and rested his head on the cool wall above his headboard, drained.
Sam must’ve fallen asleep for a moment, because when he opened his eyes again, Bucky was armed with several things. He held a hot cup of tea in his metal hand, before carefully passing it off to Sam.
“Drink this. It’ll help with the sore throat your gonna have tomorrow.”
His hands shook like they sometimes did when he was stressed, but he managed not to add any first degree burns to his situation. The tea was the perfect temperature, hot enough to soothe but not scalding. It tasted like chamomile, the kind that he’d picked out for Steve to warm him up after he woke from nightmares of ice. There was lemon in there too, which was kind of Bucky.
After he’d finished half the cup, Bucky took it from him after passing him a painkiller from his medicine cabinet. Sam swallowed without complaint, with a sip of his tea.
“Good,” Bucky praised, before sitting on the bed beside him. Sam could feel his body heat, hotter than a normal person just like Steve was. He waved a tube of some sort of cream in his face. “Now, I found this in your bathroom. It’s for bruises. I think you should put some on your neck…because it’ll probably bruise.” He muttered another apology under his breath.
Sam ignored it. He was completely exhausted. The clock beside the bed read 3:38 and his neck was just starting to tingle in pain. Sam nodded in agreement about the cream. He was most likely going to look like a beat up hooker tomorrow anyway.
“Ok. Do you want to put it on, or should I?” Bucky asked tentatively.
As an answer, Sam kept his eyes shut. After all, he hadn't been given permission to talk. Bucky sighed, and he could hear the unscrewing of a cap.
Now most people who’d just been choked out(and not in the sexy-time way) would probably not want the person to touch their neck again. But frankly, Sam didn't really give a fuck. The drugs had yet to kick in, and he just wanted to sleep.
But Sam couldn't help but gasp at the first cool touch to his throat. Bucky jerked away instantly, but Sam was quick too. He pulled Bucky’s hand back, sighing when the coolness touched the skin that was just beginning to bruise.
Bucky massaged the tips of his fingers into Sam’s neck, and for some odd reason, he felt completely at ease. He was baring his throat to an assassin, and he'd never felt safer.
Sam was almost lulled to sleep when he noticed Bucky’s breathing. It was ragged, and only then did his brain allow him to revel at the intimacy of the moment they were sharing. All of a sudden, every touch to his neck felt like wildfire, sparking against his skin.
Suddenly, the touches extended below his neck. “Are you giving me a massage right now?” Sam asked, voice wavering slightly.
The slight rasp seemed to jar Bucky out of his concentrated state. “Do you want a massage?”
“Yes.” Sam breathed. “Use your other hand, too.”
“Why?” Bucky asked. Sam could feel him becoming tense again.
“Because my back hurts. And the metal might cool my neck off,” Sam whined. He did not whine. What the fuck did Barnes give him? He had to be high.
Bucky muttered some shit under his breath that Sam didn't bother trying to catch. He brought his hand up to Sam’s back slowly, and even Sam held his breath.
The cool hand touched the middle of his back, that spot that hurt every millennial who looked down at a screen and pushed. And Sam moaned.
Bucky pulled his hands away with a quickness, and Sam gasped from the loss of contact. “What are you doing?”
“It sounded like? Like it hurt?” Bucky asked, biting his bottom lip between his teeth.
“No. God no. It felt amazing. Please, I promise…it’’s good.” Without Bucky’s hands on him, he was beginning to feel a bit awkward.
Luckily, Bucky returned to him without anymore fuss.
Tense shoulders all the way to the tightness in mid back. Bucky’s strong hands massaged out pain that had probably lingered since the very same hands had ripped his wings out before.
And Sam was putty underneath them. Soft sounds he couldn't control escaped his lips, and he leaned into Bucky’s ministrations.
The metal didn't bother him at all. In fact, if were gonna be honest, he was partial to the metal at the moment.
Bucky hesitated the lower he got, and Sam finally moved away, though a part of him didn't want to.
“Oh god, Buck.” He sighed happily. “Thanks.”
Sam felt like a wet noodle, one who knew he was going to pass out as soon as he hit the pillow.
“It was the least I could do,” Bucky whispered. He passed Sam the remainder of his tea which he quietly sipped at. While his mouth was occupied, he was able to look at Bucky’s face. Bucky looked just about as riled up as Sam felt. His eyes were dark, but not in a Winter Soldier way. His lips were red and bitten, like he'd been focused. Each second that passed though, made him look more and more uncomfortable.
“Hey.” Sam put down the tea cup, and pulled Bucky to him. Sam laid down and pulled Bucky next to him. He moved without complaint, almost as if the massage had affected him as much as it had Sam. Maybe it had.
“We’re good. I’m not mad. We’re ok.” He takes both of Bucky’s hands; metal and flesh into his, and a little shiver runs down Bucky’s spine. “You’re good here tonight?” Sam asks.
“Yeah,” Bucky’s voice shakes with an emotion that Sam cannot name. “Yeah.”
*
Sam woke up feeling good. His body was relaxed, and there was a warm weight on his right shoulder. His still sleepy brain snuggled closer to it, and the weight froze.
Sam forced his eyes open, and was surprised to see Bucky’s wary ones staring at his face.
Then it all came back to him. Dinner. Bucky’s episode. Him almost dying. And then the massage. Sam blushed a little thinking about it, thankful for the thousandth time that his complexion didn't allow it to show. What the heck had gotten into him?
“I’m sorry,” Bucky said immediately, looking ready to pull back into himself.
Yesterday had been progress. Yes, it had began in a deadly way, but he came out of it, and he felt guilt. Remorse. And then Bucky channeled those feelings into a positive, caring action.
“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” Sam reassured. “Except for letting me sleep way past my alarm.” He frowned at the clock on his bedside table. It was nearly 10 A.M.
Bucky’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sam…are you ok?”
“What do you mean?” Aside from the rasp in his voice, he felt fine.
“I woke you up hours ago. You took one look at your neck, and the way you were talking…it was better for you to stay home.” There was mild alarm in Bucky’s voice.
“Oh, I…don’t remember. What the hell did you give me last night?” he asked. Sam honestly had no recollection of the conversation.
Bucky slid out of bed, still clad in Sam’s plaid to the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. He waved a familiar pack of pills from where he stood.
Even from a distance, Sam recognized them. “Oh god.” he muttered.
“What is it?” Even Bucky’s eyebrows were tense in worry.
Sam laughed. “Those were my sisters. She had them from when she got surgery on her leg after a car accident. I was high as shit last night. Those are really strong. Thank god I didn't go to work.”
Bucky visibly relaxed. “So you’re ok then?”
Sam took stock of his body, the same way he did when he woke up every morning in the desert. Aside from the pain in his neck, he felt fine. Good. He told Bucky.
“That’s good. You should probably go back to sleep though.”
Sam smiled inwardly. “Alright, Buck you can cut out the mother hen thing. I really appreciate it, but I’m a grown man. I’ll just take it easy today.” He touched Bucky’s shoulder, and he didn't even flinch.
Progress.
*
Bucky had insisted(in few words) on making breakfast, so they dined on slightly runny eggs and watery grits after Sam directed him around the kitchen from his seat at the table.
Sam watched him while sipping on the strong coffee Bucky had gotten into the habit of making. He moved around a foreign kitchen with an intensity that Sam could easily see transferred onto a battlefield.
Bucky apologized before Sam could even thank him for cooking so Sam made a point to get seconds for the two of them, even if he wasn't necessarily hungry anymore. They ate in silence, but it was comfortable in a way that it hadn't been previously.
They did the dishes while listening to the radio, one of those Top 40 stations that Sam usually avoided like the plague. Bucky however, surprisingly seemed familiar with quite a few of the songs, and hummed lowly along to them.
Sam washed, and Bucky dried, and Sam listened to Bucky. The finished the dishes before Bucky began to sing. “Want to take a walk?”
He visibly hesitated, but nodded and went to his room - the guest room to get changed. Sam did the same, not bothering to shower just in case the slight ache in the back of his skull decided to manifest into him passing out, naked and soaking wet.
When he exited his room, Bucky was already dressed, in more of Sam’s clothes. He could tell that the other man was armed, probably a small knife, by the way he was holding his right hand in the pocket of his borrowed jacket.
Sam decided not to mention it immediately. They exited the house, Sam locked the door, and they two of them began walking down the street.
It was late morning on a weekday, kids were in school and adults were at work. Barely any cars drove by, and it was unseasonably warm for early March. It was a good day to introduce Bucky to the neighborhood.
He waved to a few people he saw, mostly young mothers or retirees, people he saw when he used to run around the neighborhood, before he began running on the Mall. Bucky was a silent shadow beside him.
They approached a familiar yellow house on the corner of his street, where just like always, Mrs. O’ Reilly sat on the porch, smoking a cigarette.
Sam had met her not long after he'd first moved into the neighborhood. She was struggling to get groceries out of her car, and he stopped his run to offer his assistance.
“You’re not gonna mug me, are you?” The tiny old lady had said, hands on her hips.
Sam had laughed, truly laughed. He didn't do that much after Afghanistan. “Nope. Cross my heart.”
After that, they became friends.
“Samuel Wilson, is that you?” Mrs. O’ Reilly peered at them from over her glasses, a smile on her face.
“Yep. You’ve gotta stop smoking those,” he shook his head with a small smile at the pack in her hands.
She snorted. “I’m 83 years old. They haven't killed me yet.”
The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifted at one end.
“And who’s this handsome young man you’ve brought with you today?”
Bucky’s cheeks colored under her speculative gaze, a look he’d never seen on him before. But Bucky looked up from his feet, and put out his right hand for her to shake. “Barnes, ma’am. James Barnes. Nice t’meet you.”
“Well hello James. You sound like someone plucked you right out of 1940’s Brooklyn. Takes me back.”
Bucky froze. But Mrs. O’Reilly didn't notice. “Brooklyn was so beautiful then. A mess, during the war. But beautiful still. I’ll never forget going out dancing, or riding the Cyclone on Coney Island.” She sighed. “It’s not the same anymore. I went again, a couple decades ago. When I was a girl it made you feel like you were dying, riding on that thing. But now they’ve got all these safety regulations and doodads. Nothings the same.”
“I rode that. I rode the Cyclone. With Steve. ” Bucky said quietly, his voice almost lost in the breeze.
“I know you did, Buck.” Sam looked up at the sky, and then back at Mrs. O’Reilly. “You’re right. Nothing is the same.”