Chapter 5
When Sam woke up the next morning, Bucky was gone.
His room was empty when Sam ducked his head in. But there was a pot of coffee on the counter, still warm, waiting for him.
There was a note set out beside his usual mug.
Sam,
I’m sorry. I needed a few days. Don’t worry, I’ll be back.
Try not to miss me too much.
B.B.
But the thing was, Sam could already feel his absence.
He could feel Bucky’s absence as he washed and dried the dishes himself. Sam turned on the radio to drown out the silence that wasn't comfortable, but deafening. It was Bucky’s station.
He wondered where Bucky was, if he was okay, if he was safe. Why did he go? And why now? Things seemed to be getting better really, even though the bruises on his neck were still visible.
Sam didn't care about that. He didn’t. Not anymore.
Before he could think twice about it, he pulled out his phone to send Bucky a quick text.
Thanks for the coffee, man.
Hopefully Bucky wouldn't read it as the underlying check in it really was, the are you alright he was too afraid to send.
After a few minutes with no response, Sam turned off his phone and began his day, drinking the rest of Bucky’s coffee in one gulp.
*
After the lonely morning he'd had, Sam should've known that the rest of his day wasn't going to go well.
Every time he shifted, more of his neck became visible. Sam could feel eyes on him all day, It had never occurred to him to pick up some makeup for it.
But when his supervisor called him into his office at the end of the day, Sam really knew he was screwed.
He figured his boss was going to ask him to stay home until the bruises faded, or to cover them up. So it took him completely by surprise when she asked about his home life.
“My…home life?”
She nodded, looking almost as awkward as Sam felt. “A few of your coworkers expressed some concern for you today after seeing,” she gestured to his neck.
Fuck. Sam wracked his brain for a story. Because he defiantly couldn't tell his boss about his new roommate, the one one that may be responsible for all the greatest assassinations in the last fifty years. He’s the Winter Soldier, the one in the videos from the Triskellion.
A laugh escaped Sam’s lips, and he quickly coughed to cover it up. “My…significant other is a vet too.” Sam began. “They struggle with some PTSD and nightmares, the same stuff I deal with out in group sessions, the same stuff I’m still dealing with today. But they’re fresh out.” He shrugged. “Sometimes I forget. Sometimes, stuff happens.”
Sam finished his story, with a neutral look on his face. He wasn't sure what made him decide to make Bucky his pretend boyfriend, but here we are. He made sure to keep all of his pronouns ambiguous, not in the mood to come out to his boss.
Her face softened immediately. “Oh, Sam. I’m sorry for calling you in here. You’re a good man. Get some makeup for that, and go home early.” He began to rise from his chair.
“But Sam,” she cautioned. “Be careful. And give your partner my regards.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
But when he arrived home, drugstore bag in hand, there was no partner waiting for him. Real or fake.
The house was empty, and even though he knew it was implausible, seemed several degrees colder. Sam had been spoiled. First with the light Steve shined into every corner, and then the past few days with Bucky, Bucky who made the place somehow feel…fuller.
He curled up in front of the TV and settled in for a night of mindlessness after changing into some lounge clothes. Sam looked into the kitchen, but was decidedly not hungry after looking at the unwashed coffee pot that Bucky had left him.
The low voices coming from the TV had almost lulled him to sleep when Sam’s phone rang. A picture of Steve’s face mid laugh alerted that he was calling, and Sam dodged across the room for it.
“Hello?”
“I didn't wake you up or anything did I?” Steve asked.
Sam scoffed, eyeing the clock. “It’s only 9.”
“You sound tired!” he protested.
“Really, Steve? Are you gonna tell me I looked bad today too?” he teased.
“Well I didn't see you today Sam,” he paused. “But I’m sure you looked great. You always do.”
Sam floundered for a moment, lost for words. “I miss you, Steve.” he said simply.
Steve sighed, a tired and frustrated one. “I miss you too, Sam. Stark Tower’s not like your place. Or frankly, even like being on the road with you.”
He smiled into the phone. “Really? You aren't enjoying the Stark living experience?” he teased.
“It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s not…home.”
“And where’s home?” Sam asked carefully.
For a moment, Steve didn't speak, and Sam simply listened to him breathe. “You’re the closest thing to home I’ve had in a long time.”
“I feel the same. My place is kinda lonely without you hogging the remote and all the blankets even though you're a living, breathing space heater,” Sam joked, to ease some of the tension.
“Hey! I get cold sometime too,” he protested.
“I know.” He thought about watching Steve sleep in the car while he drove, watching both the road and the way Steve’s fingers would twitch when he was dreaming about the ice. Sam would gently wake him up, and Steve would gasp like he'd been underwater.
“Who was home before?”
“After my mother? Bucky.” Steve didn't hesitate. “He was always there for me.”
“And now you're there for him.”
“Yeah,” Steve breathed. “When we find him, I’m going to make sure he knows how much you helped. I think you guys would be good friends.”
Sam wanted to laugh. He was definitely helping alright. “What makes you say that?”
Steve didn't hesitate now either. “You’re honest. A stand-up guy who isn't just willing, but likes to help others.”
Sam felt warm with the praise. “Sounds like you.” he teased.
He could almost picture Steve shrugging. “We all aspire to be as awesome as Sam Wilson.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Tell me more about Barnes. Before.”
Steve had spoken about Bucky before, often on the road. But Sam had never asked him to, and Steve took his time finding an answer.
Sam listened to Steve weave a story about old Brooklyn. Alleyways and trashcan shields, Bucky Barnes as the knight in shining armor. Pulling him out of the gutter, sitting beside his bed reading softly when Steve was ill. Proclaiming all the best things about him to any girl who’d listen, to try to score him a date for the dance hall. Wearing his best suit to his mothers funeral and telling Steve he didn't have to do it on his own.
He spoke when he deemed it necessary, and listened attentively. But as time ticked by, Steve’s voice lulled him closer and closer to sleep. When he finally drifted off, the phone still on his chest, Steve narrated his dreams and Bucky stared in them, a white knighted hero.
*
After a few days, Sam returned to a normal routine. Wake up. Worry about Bucky. Go to work. Worry about Bucky some more, which would lead to him worrying about Steve. Come home, do sad bachelor things like make a meal for one and watch reruns on the TV just to fall asleep worrying about Bucky, who'd often follow him into his dreams.
Sam had never heard Bucky really laugh. But he dreamed about it. Sometimes he'd be flying - God did he miss his wings - and Bucky would wave from the ground below, the grin from the Smithsonian on his face, metal arm glinting in the sunlight as he waved.
Steve would be there too more often than not, looking at the two of them with a true to life fondness that Sam had come to happily associate with him.
These dreams, while a bit odd were a happy reprieve from the nightmares. But they weren't enough to make them disappear either. The blood, the carnage, the screams as his best friends body plummeted to the ground. They were goddamn pararesuce, but they couldn't save themselves.
Riley from death, or Sam from nightmares that he'd carry with him, as punishment for not saving him.
He wished he didn't dream at all.
*
A few more days, and Sam had almost given up. Not on Bucky, but on having him back anytime soon. But of course, just as he'd began to lose hope, did he come back.
Sam was welcoming vets into the days afternoon group meeting, same as usual. The last stragglers were arriving when Steve noticed someone in his peripheral vision. He spun around, and was greeted with the sight of Bucky, shyly looking down at his shoes.
“Bucky?” Sam asked in surprise, before moving closer to him.
He didn't back away. “Sam,” he said, and before he could think twice about his actions, Sam wrapped his arms around him, enveloping Bucky into their first hug.
Bucky seemed shocked at first, figure shaking minutely, but slowly brought his right arm around Sam. He soothingly rubbed his hands along Bucky’s back, making sure not to forget his left side. Sam backed away only when their hug became a bit to long for both their very public setting, and for Bucky himself.
“You told me I could come to a meeting,” he said, by way of explanation. Bucky tucked his left hand back into his pocket, and he fit right in with the other veterans.
It took Sam a moment to regain his equilibrium after taking stock of their very public audience. “I did,” he said. “But where the hell have you been——“
“Don’t you have a group to run?” Bucky smirked, and that shouldn't make Sam as distracted as it does. “We’ll talk about it after. Dinner on me?”
Once again, Sam was thrown off by this version of Bucky that had returned to him. But he nodded, and gestured toward an empty seat for Bucky to sit in, before taking his place at the front of the room. He looked around at his audience, a group of American heroes, and then he glanced at Bucky, who's face was open in a way that he'd never seen before on him.
Of course, he'd seen it in glimpses; when he'd hurt and then helped heal Sam, under the glow of the refrigerator. But as members of the group welcomed him and shook his hand, Sam was struck by something like love for his group. And that love extended on to Bucky.
“You know, I love you guys,” Sam began. “You all like to say that I’m the one making you feel better, but honestly, you guys make me better.”
The guys laughed and cheered a bit, so he continued. “I know the handout says something different, but I want to talk about something else today.” he paused. “I want to tell my story.”
Bucky met his eyes from across the room. Sam looked right back.
“Most of you know my story. Sam Wilson, Air Force, pararesuce, flight surgeon. I saved a lot of guys. But we all know that the ones that haunt us are the ones we didn't save. The ones that were at the end of our guns, the ones we had to take out, regardless of whether we wanted to or not.”
Sam squeezed his hands into fists. “Some of you know about my buddy Riley. We were both in the EXO-Project together. He was my brother. His dumbass would always fly too high, go too far, risk too much to save someone else,” he steeled himself. “But what took him wasn't anything particularly brave.”
“It was a simple in-and-out day to day operation. We didn't know there was enemy fire. But their was, and he went flying out of the sky. I flew after him, but I couldn't get close enough, and bullets were coming for me too. I’ll never forget his screams.”
“And I felt guilty, for the longest time after that. Guilt because I couldn't save him. This voice inside my head told me it was my fault. That I could’ve done more. That I failed him. I’ve gotten past that today, but sometimes-sometimes that voice finds me again. It’s not going to be easy. But you just have to try to remember that its not your fault.”
Sam searched for Bucky’s eyes in the crowd. “It’s not your fault.”
*
“Thanks again for telling your story boss. We really appreciate it.”
Sam shook hands with the last guy, before turning to meet Bucky, who had yet to leave his chair. He was staring down at his metal hand, playing with the hem of his sweatshirt. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey yourself,” Sam replied, before Bucky met his eyes. He wiped at them quickly with his flesh hand, and Sam looked away politely, though he was sure they were past that stage.
“Let’s get out of here,” Bucky said. Sam took his hand.