Fuck, I'm a Congressman now.
Bucky Barnes adjusted the cuffs of his dress shirt, his vibranium fingers making an almost imperceptible whir as they flexed. The suit they’d stuffed him into was a little too tight across the shoulders, the tie a little too stiff against his throat, and the entire ordeal of standing in front of a crowd of photographers as a newly appointed congressman was just shy of unbearable.
He’d fought HYDRA, outrun assassins, and clawed his way out of decades of mind control, but somehow, standing in a marble-clad hall in Washington, D.C., taking the oath of office, felt like the most surreal moment of his life.
His name echoed through the chamber—“Congressman Barnes.”
He tried not to flinch at the title. He still felt like Bucky, or maybe even just James, on his worst days. Congressman felt like a name meant for men who looked comfortable in their own skin, who had ambitions beyond just surviving.
Sam Wilson, standing off to the side, looked every bit the Captain America he was. The navy blue of his new uniform set off his broad shoulders, and the way he stood—proud, unwavering—made Bucky’s stomach twist in a way he was still unwilling to analyze.
Bucky had fought beside Steve Rogers long enough to know what leadership looked like. But seeing it now, worn so effortlessly by Sam, made something in his chest tighten. Sam was everything America needed in a Captain—bold, sure-footed, righteous. And Bucky? Bucky was still trying to convince himself he deserved to be anything more than a man haunted by ghosts.
The ceremony ended, and the crowd dispersed into murmured conversations. Bucky was barely a few steps off the stage when Sam was there, arms crossed, head tilted just so. That knowing smirk was already on his lips.
“You clean up nice, Congressman Barnes.”
Bucky snorted, loosening his tie. “Feels like wearing someone else’s skin.”
Sam’s smirk softened into something quieter, more thoughtful. “Nah. You earned this. Every bit of it.”
Bucky swallowed hard, uncomfortable with the warmth that curled in his chest at Sam’s words. He didn’t know what to do with it—didn’t know how to hold it without feeling like it would burn through his hands. “We’ll see how long that lasts.”
Sam sighed, shaking his head. “You could try giving yourself some credit for once.”
Bucky’s lips twitched, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he let his gaze wander over the ballroom, taking in the senators, the reporters, the power players of Washington. He wasn’t sure which group he was supposed to belong to.
Sam’s voice pulled him back. “You wanna get out of here?”
Bucky blinked at him. “And go where?”
Sam shrugged. “Someplace quieter. Less ties. Maybe somewhere with decent bourbon.”
It shouldn’t have been a question that made Bucky’s heart stutter, but it did. He forced himself to play it cool. “You saying you wanna be seen in public with a government stooge?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Please. I was seen in public with you when you had a hit out on you. I think I can handle this.”
There was a laugh bubbling under Bucky’s ribs, but he held it back. “Fine. But if you make me go somewhere with craft cocktails, I’m walking out.”
Sam’s grin was slow, a little too pleased. “Guess that means we’re getting wings and whiskey, then.”
Bucky should have said no. Should have made some excuse about early meetings and responsibilities. But he didn’t.
Because Sam was still looking at him like he was something more than a relic of the past, and Bucky wasn’t ready to let go of that just yet.
----------------------
The bar Sam had chosen was the kind of place Bucky would have liked if he weren’t feeling so damn self-conscious. The lighting was dim, the booths were worn-in leather, and the smell of fried food mingled with cheap beer and whiskey. It was comfortable. Safe.
Which was exactly why it made Bucky uneasy.
The patrons were a mix of blue-collar regulars and bikers, men with weathered faces who looked like they belonged here. Bucky knew their type—had probably been their type once. Hardened men who didn’t ask questions but sure as hell knew how to stare. And right now, they were staring at him and Sam.
A couple of bikers near the bar sized them up, eyes flicking over Sam’s sharp suit and Bucky’s too-clean dress shirt. Bucky could feel the weight of their judgment—two men in a place that didn’t cater to politicians or superheroes.
“Relax, Barnes,” Sam said, his voice just low enough to be amused. “No one’s gonna fight you.”
Bucky grunted. “Not unless I start it.”
Sam chuckled and slid into a booth, looking entirely at ease. Bucky followed, still feeling like he was wearing the wrong damn skin.
A waitress strolled over, chewing gum like she had all the time in the world. “What’ll it be?”
Before Bucky could answer, Sam leaned in. “Burgers. Double patties. Extra cheese. Side of fries.”
Bucky frowned. “Wings.”
Sam shook his head. “We’re not just getting wings, man.”
“Yes, we are.”
“No, we’re not.”
The waitress sighed, looking between them. “Y’all deciding today or next week?”
Bucky shot Sam a glare. “You can get your burger. I’m getting wings.”
Sam smirked. “And I’m gonna eat some of your wings.”
“Not if you value your fingers.”
The waitress snorted. “Alright, two orders of wings and a double cheeseburger. You boys need drinks?”
“Bourbon,” Bucky said.
“Same,” Sam added, clearly pleased with himself.
As the waitress left, Sam leaned back against the booth. “See? We compromised.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “That wasn’t a compromise. That was you stealing my food.”
Sam grinned. “Welcome to friendship, Barnes.”
Bucky huffed but found himself relaxing just a fraction. Maybe it was the familiarity of bickering with Sam. Maybe it was the bourbon. Or maybe it was the fact that, despite the eyes on them, despite the gnawing discomfort in his gut, sitting across from Sam in a dingy bar didn’t feel entirely wrong.
Bucky drummed his vibranium fingers against the sticky tabletop, his other hand curled around his glass of bourbon. The ice had already started to melt, the amber liquid pooling higher in the glass. Across from him, Sam had one arm still draped over the booth, exuding the kind of effortless confidence that made Bucky feel like a restless soldier all over again.
The bikers near the bar hadn't stopped staring.
Bucky knew their type—territorial, always sizing people up, looking for an excuse. It wasn’t that they recognized him, not necessarily, but he wasn’t one of them anymore. Maybe he never had been. And then there was Sam, who carried himself like he belonged anywhere he damn well pleased, a fact that undoubtedly pissed some of them off.
One of them, a burly guy with a salt-and-pepper beard and a leather vest covered in patches, leaned in to mutter something to his friend. The other man chuckled, shaking his head.
Bucky rolled his shoulders. He wasn’t in the mood to fight, but if one of them made a move, he wasn’t above throwing the first punch.
“Damn, Barnes, you’re wound tighter than a drum.” Sam’s voice cut through his brooding, light but pointed. “Didn’t realize a plate of wings and whiskey counted as a war zone.”
Bucky grunted, taking a sip of his drink. “They keep staring.”
Sam took a casual glance toward the bar and shrugged. “Probably just surprised to see a congressman and Captain America in a place where the beer costs less than ten bucks.” He smirked. “Or maybe they’re just admiring your charming personality.”
Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, real charming.”
The waitress returned, setting down their food—Bucky’s wings, Sam’s burger, and a giant plate of fries. As soon as she walked away, Sam grabbed a wing off Bucky’s plate without hesitation.
Bucky scowled. “That’s mine.”
Sam grinned, biting into it. “Consider it my tax.”
Bucky’s fingers twitched against the rim of his glass. “You just ate before I could claim defensive action.”
“I’m Captain America,” Sam said, licking sauce off his thumb. “You wouldn’t.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You wanna test that theory?”
Sam chuckled but didn’t push it further. He took a bite of his burger, chewing thoughtfully before speaking. “Alright, real talk. What’s got you looking like you wanna punch the wallpaper?”
Bucky sighed, rolling the glass between his palms. “Just… places like this.” He gestured vaguely around them. “Used to feel like home. Now, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.”
Sam’s amusement faded into something softer. “Bucky, you ever think that maybe you don’t have to fit into just one place? That maybe home isn’t a single thing?”
Bucky frowned at his wings, picking at the edge of one without eating it. “I used to know exactly what I was. I don’t anymore.”
Sam studied him, then shook his head. “Man, you keep looking at yourself like a puzzle missing half its pieces, but I don’t see that. I see a guy who fought like hell to put himself back together.”
Bucky’s throat tightened, but he masked it by taking another sip of bourbon.
Sam kept going, his voice steady but sure. “You’re not the Winter Soldier. You’re not just some guy playing dress-up in a congressman’s suit. And you sure as hell aren’t lost. You’re just scared of being seen as more than what you were.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, forcing himself to look Sam in the eye. “And what if I don’t deserve that?”
Sam’s expression didn’t waver. “Then I guess it’s a good thing what we deserve isn’t always what we get.”
Bucky didn’t have an answer for that. Instead, he grabbed a wing and took a slow, measured bite, avoiding the way Sam was looking at him—like he was something worth believing in.
Bucky’s phone then buzzed in his pocket, cutting through the low hum of the bar. He sighed, fishing it out and glancing at the caller ID. His new intern, a kid named Daniel who was still green as hell, was calling.
“Gotta take this,” Bucky muttered, sliding out of the booth. Sam just lifted his glass in acknowledgment, already halfway through his burger.
Stepping outside, Bucky leaned against the brick wall, pressing the phone to his ear. “Barnes.”
“Uh, sir—Congressman Barnes,” Daniel corrected himself quickly. “Sorry for calling so late, but there’s a scheduling issue with your committee meeting tomorrow. Senator Cartwright is pushing for a reschedule.”
Bucky exhaled sharply. “Of course he is. What’s the alternative?”
As Daniel rattled off potential times, Bucky’s gaze flicked back through the bar’s front window. His stomach tightened. The bikers had gotten up from their stools, and two of them had approached Sam’s booth.
Even through the glass, Bucky could see the way Sam’s expression remained cool, but the tension in his shoulders had shifted. The bigger of the two men leaned in, saying something Bucky couldn’t hear. Sam’s face remained neutral, but whatever it was made his jaw tighten.
Bucky didn’t need to hear the words to know exactly what they were saying.
“Sir? Are you still there?”
Bucky’s grip tightened on the phone. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Listen, Daniel, just push the damn meeting and tell Cartwright if he’s got a problem, he can take it up with me.”
“But—”
Bucky hung up. His feet were already moving.
As he re-entered the bar, the first words he caught made his blood run hot. “You ain’t Captain America,” one of the bikers sneered. “That shield don’t belong to you.”
Sam, to his credit, looked completely unbothered. He leaned back in the booth, sipping his bourbon like the guy had just commented on the weather. “That so?”
The biker’s lip curled. “You think just ‘cause the government handed it to you, we’re supposed to fall in line? You ain’t him. You ain’t never gonna be him.”
Bucky clenched his jaw, the old rage bubbling under the surface. He was almost at the booth when the biker shifted—his body leaning forward, one meaty hand reaching out like he meant to grab Sam by the front of his shirt.
Bucky’s hand shot out, clamping down on the biker’s wrist before it could make contact. The room went still.
“Try it,” Bucky said, voice low, lethal. “See how that goes for you.”
The bar fell into a heavy silence, thick with expectation. The scent of stale beer and fried food no longer masked the sharp tang of impending violence, the kind that lingered in the air before a punch was thrown. Bucky’s grip tightened on the biker’s wrist, his vibranium fingers locked in an unyielding vice, metal pressing hard enough into flesh to make a point but not quite enough to break bone—yet.
Sam sighed, setting his glass down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink against the wood unnervingly casual. He glanced at Bucky, his expression hovering somewhere between exasperation and amusement. “Man, you really gotta work on your impulse control.”
Bucky didn’t let go. He didn’t even blink. “And you really gotta work on your self-preservation,” he muttered, low enough that only Sam could hear.
The biker—the one whose wrist was still caught in Bucky’s grip—gritted his teeth and tried to yank his arm back. A mistake. Instead, Bucky applied the slightest bit more pressure, just enough to watch the man’s face shift from anger to something closer to uncertainty.
Behind him, the other bikers at the bar shifted in their seats, the scrape of boots against the floor a quiet warning. The bartender had stopped pouring drinks. A few patrons had turned to watch, sensing that the night was about to get a whole lot more interesting.
“You gonna let go, or you gonna stand there squeezing my arm all night?” the biker grunted, masking his discomfort with bravado.
Bucky’s lip curled. “You put your hands on him, and I put you through that wall,” he said evenly, jerking his head toward the brick structure near the jukebox.
Sam exhaled, long and slow. “Okay, we’re really doing this, huh?”
The biker sneered at Sam. “You don’t belong in that suit. Never did.”
And that—those six words—were what made Bucky’s grip tighten again, hard enough that the man’s knees buckled just slightly from the pressure.
“You know what’s funny?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, but there was nothing soft about it. It was the voice of someone who had fought wars long before this man had ever stepped foot in a bar. “A hundred years ago, people like you were saying the same thing about Steve.”
The biker’s jaw clenched.
Bucky leaned in just a fraction, his words slow, deliberate. “And yet, here we are. The world moved on. But you? You’re still the same scared little man, crying about change like it’s something you get a vote in.”
The biker bared his teeth, nostrils flaring. “You talk real big for a washed-up assassin.”
Sam let out a quiet chuckle and shook his head. “Oh, buddy. You really, really don’t wanna go there.”
Bucky’s patience was wearing thin. He wasn’t about to make Sam fight his battles—Sam didn’t need him to—but there was something that sat deep in his chest, something cold and sharp, when he saw men like this thinking they could question Sam’s place.
Sam, who had bled for this country, who had saved more lives than most of these men could count, who had carried the damn shield with more dignity than half the people in Washington put together.
And yet, here they were.
Bucky had spent decades being stripped of his agency, his mind, his ability to choose who he was. And Sam? Sam had fought tooth and nail for the right to be Captain America, only to have small men with loud mouths act like it was up for debate.
It made Bucky’s blood boil.
But before he could decide whether or not to break the man’s wrist, Sam finally stood, stretching his arms out like he was shaking off a long day.
“Alright,” Sam said, voice level but firm. “We’re done here.”
The biker shot him a glare. “Not on your say-so.”
Sam gave him a slow, knowing smile. “No. But it is on mine,” came the bartender’s voice from across the room.
All eyes turned toward the man behind the bar, who had been watching the entire thing with an unimpressed stare. He was big—bigger than the biker, even—but he didn’t need to flex his size to make himself a threat. His presence alone was enough.
“You wanna keep running your mouth, you can do it somewhere else,” the bartender continued, tossing a rag over his shoulder. “Or you can keep standing here until he breaks your arm clean through. Your call.”
The biker hesitated. The moment stretched.
And then, finally, with a rough yank, Bucky let him go. The man stumbled back a step, rubbing his wrist, his face twisted in a scowl. He glanced between Bucky and Sam like he was weighing whether or not he had another play left.
He didn’t.
With a final sneer, the biker spat on the ground and turned on his heel, shoving past his buddies toward the door. The rest followed, some murmuring under their breath, others shaking their heads like they had just avoided a mess they wanted no part of.
The moment they were gone, the tension in the bar snapped like a frayed wire. People went back to their drinks, the jukebox hummed back to life, and just like that, it was as if nothing had happened.
Sam sighed and sat back down, shaking his head. “Man, you really know how to make a scene.”
Bucky didn’t sit. His hands were still clenched at his sides, his pulse drumming harder than it should have been. He was still angry. Still rattling apart inside, even though he knew Sam could handle himself.
“Hey.”
Bucky blinked. Sam was watching him, studying his face the way he always did when he knew Bucky was caught in his own head. “I’m fine,” Sam said, his voice softer now, but firm. “It’s not the first time someone’s been an asshole, and it sure won’t be the last.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, his jaw tight. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Sam’s lips twitched. “No, but I’d appreciate it if you didn’t get arrested your first week in office.”
Bucky huffed, finally dropping into his seat. His whiskey was still sitting there, untouched since before he’d left for his phone call. He picked it up, turning the glass in his hands.
“I don’t like people talking to you like that,” he muttered after a beat.
Sam smiled at him, something knowing in his eyes. “I know.”
And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Sam always knew. Always understood the things Bucky didn’t say, the anger he barely kept in check, the quiet weight of guilt he carried in his bones.
So Bucky just nodded, took a long sip of his drink, and let the warmth of the bourbon settle the storm still rolling in his chest.
The whiskey burned smooth down his throat, but it did nothing to temper the slow, rolling heat of anger still lodged under his ribs. He set the glass down with more force than necessary, watching as the amber liquid sloshed against the sides. Across from him, Sam just sighed and picked at the last few fries on his plate, unconcerned, unaffected—like the whole thing had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.
Bucky knew better.
Sam was good at letting things roll off his back. Too good, sometimes. But Bucky had seen the way his jaw had tightened, the way his shoulders had tensed for just a fraction of a second before settling back into that calm, unbothered mask. He’d seen it, and it made his fists clench all over again.
“Bucky.”
Bucky barely looked up.
“You’re staring,” Sam said, voice laced with amusement, but there was an edge to it.
Bucky grunted. “You’re too damn calm.”
Sam’s brow lifted. “And you’re too damn mad.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, drumming his fingers against the table in short, clipped taps. He could still feel the phantom tension in his arm, the way the biker’s wrist had fit so easily in his grip. A few more pounds of pressure, and—
“Let it go.” Sam’s voice was softer now, a contrast to the chaos still thrumming through Bucky’s veins. “They’re not worth it.”
Bucky scoffed. “I don’t give a damn about them.”
Sam hummed, a knowing sound. “Then what’s got you looking like you’re two seconds from breaking this table in half?”
Bucky didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he let his gaze drift, taking in the bar, the way life had resumed as if nothing had happened. The bartender was back to pouring drinks, conversations hummed around them, and the jukebox had settled on some classic blues track that should have been relaxing.
But Bucky wasn’t relaxed.
His fingers curled into a loose fist against the table. “I hate that people still look at you like that,” he admitted, his voice lower than before, rough around the edges.
Sam’s expression flickered, something unreadable in his eyes. “Yeah. Me too.”
That shouldn’t have made Bucky’s chest ache the way it did.
Sam took a sip of his drink, rolling his shoulders before meeting Bucky’s gaze again. “But I didn’t take this job thinking everyone was gonna welcome me with open arms. I knew there’d be pushback. Knew there’d be people like them.” He tilted his head. “But that’s not really what’s bothering you, is it?”
Bucky looked away. Sam was too damn good at reading him, and it was infuriating.
“You think I should’ve fought back,” Sam guessed. “Or that I should’ve let you throw that guy through the window.”
“I wouldn’t have thrown him through the window,” Bucky muttered, frowning at his glass.
Sam gave him a look.
Bucky sighed. “Fine. Maybe the wall.”
Sam snorted, shaking his head. “Man, you’ve got to start picking your battles.”
Bucky finally met his eyes again, jaw tight. “And you’ve got to stop acting like you’re just supposed to take it.”
Sam’s gaze softened, but there was steel underneath it. “I don’t take it, Buck. I choose when and where I fight.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He hated how much sense that made. Hated even more that Sam was right.
“You can’t fight every idiot who doesn’t think I deserve the shield,” Sam said, finishing off his bourbon with one last swallow. “It’s not your battle to fight.”
Bucky’s throat felt tight. “Maybe not,” he admitted. “But I’ll be damned if I ever let anyone lay a hand on you.”
Something flickered across Sam’s face—surprise, maybe, or something quieter, something deeper. He tilted his head slightly, considering Bucky like he was seeing something new.
The intensity of it made Bucky shift in his seat, suddenly too aware of the weight of those dark eyes on him.
Sam exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with something almost resembling fondness. “You really are a stubborn son of a bitch.”
Bucky huffed. “Took you this long to figure that out?”
A smirk tugged at Sam’s lips, but there was warmth in it this time. “Nah. Just finally making peace with it.”
Bucky found himself staring again, and this time, he didn’t look away. Sam didn’t either.
The moment stretched between them, thick with something unspoken.
Something dangerous.
Something Bucky wasn’t sure he was ready to name.
The jukebox crackled, a new song drifting through the air—low and slow, the kind of tune that felt like smoke and promises.
Sam leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers against his empty glass. “You ready to get out of here?”
Bucky swallowed, nodding once. “Yeah.”
They stood at the same time, moving in sync without thinking, without trying. Sam tossed a few bills onto the table, and Bucky shoved his hands into his pockets as they made their way toward the door.
As they stepped out into the cool night air, Sam glanced at him, a small smirk playing at his lips. “For the record,” he said, “if you ever do decide to throw someone through a wall for me, at least make sure it’s a little more subtle next time.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “No promises.”
Sam chuckled, and the sound curled around Bucky, warm and steady.
---------
The walk back to Sam’s car was quiet, save for the rhythmic crunch of gravel under their boots. The streetlights above flickered in lazy, buzzing intervals, casting long, jagged shadows across the pavement. Bucky’s hands were stuffed deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders tight, mind restless.
Sam, on the other hand, looked entirely at ease. One hand casually resting in his pocket, the other swinging at his side as he walked. Like he hadn’t just been cornered in a bar and forced to deal with a bunch of ignorant assholes. Like Bucky hadn’t come close to snapping a man’s wrist over it.
Like he wasn’t the center of Bucky’s goddamn universe.
Bucky hated this—hated the way his pulse still hadn’t settled, hated the way his eyes kept flicking to Sam in his periphery, tracing the sharp angles of his profile, the smooth curve of his mouth, the way his jacket clung to his frame.
Hated that it wasn’t anger sitting thick in his chest anymore.
It was something else. Something worse.
Sam turned his head, catching Bucky’s eyes before he could look away. “You’re still brooding.”
Bucky scoffed, focusing straight ahead. “I don’t brood.”
Sam made a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a laugh and a disbelieving hum. “Right. And I’m a six-foot-tall raccoon.”
Bucky smirked despite himself.
But then Sam did that thing—tilting his head, studying him like he was trying to pick Bucky apart piece by piece, and just like that, the humor was gone, replaced by something heavier. Something real.
“You okay?” Sam asked, voice softer now.
Bucky almost laughed at the irony.
Was he okay? He wasn’t even sure what that meant anymore. His body was here, wasn’t it? His heart was still beating? He’d managed to go a full night without waking up to the taste of blood and metal in his mouth, so that was something.
But then there was this—this thing inside him, clawing at his ribs, pressing against his throat.
This thing that made his fingers itch whenever Sam got too close, that made his stomach tighten whenever Sam flashed that slow, easy smile at him, that made his lungs seize whenever Sam touched his arm, his shoulder, his wrist—brief, fleeting, never long enough.
This thing that had been there for years now, whispering to him in the quiet, in the space between words, in the moments when Sam wasn’t looking.
So, no. He wasn’t okay.
But he couldn’t tell Sam that.
Couldn’t tell him that every time someone challenged his place as Captain America, Bucky wanted to burn the world down for him. That every time Sam walked ahead of him, Bucky had to fight the instinct to reach out, to catch his fingers in the sleeve of his jacket and hold on, just for a second longer.
Couldn’t tell him that some nights, when the weight of everything got too heavy, the only thing keeping him tethered to the present was the sound of Sam’s voice on the other end of the phone.
So instead, he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and said, “Yeah. I’m good.”
Sam didn’t look convinced. “You sure? You got that look again.”
Bucky arched a brow. “What look?”
“The one that says you’re five seconds away from punching a brick wall and pretending it helped.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh. “That’s a real specific look.”
Sam smirked. “Yeah, well. I’ve known you long enough to read the signs.”
Bucky hated that. Hated that Sam could see through him so easily.
Hated that a part of him liked it, too.
They reached the car, and Sam unlocked it with a quick beep. He paused before getting in, leaning against the door, watching Bucky with something unreadable in his eyes.
“You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know,” he said, voice low. “I know you’re used to it, but… you don’t have to.”
Bucky’s throat went tight.
Sam wasn’t talking about the bar fight anymore.
He swallowed hard, the words stuck somewhere behind his teeth. He wanted to say something—wanted to tell Sam that he didn’t know how to do anything else. That it was easier, safer, to keep things locked up, to keep his hands to himself, to keep the feelings buried deep where they couldn’t hurt him.
That Sam was the only thing in his life that made him want to be selfish.
But instead, all he could manage was a quiet, “Yeah. I know.”
Sam studied him for a second longer before nodding, pushing off the car. “C’mon. I’m driving.”
Bucky rolled his eyes but climbed into the passenger seat without argument.
As they pulled onto the road, Bucky let his gaze drift out the window, watching the streetlights blur past. Sam’s hands were steady on the wheel, his fingers drumming lightly against it in time with the low hum of music coming from the radio.
Bucky let himself watch, just for a second.
Let himself want, just for a second.
And then he turned away, staring out into the dark, willing himself to forget.
------------
The drive back was quiet, but not in the way Bucky liked.
Silence could be peaceful. It could be an unspoken agreement between two people who didn’t need words to understand each other. It could be a moment of shared comfort, the kind of quiet that let him breathe.
But this?
This was something else entirely.
This was the silence of all the things he wasn’t saying.
Sam drove like he always did—one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out an absent rhythm against the dashboard, his fingers keeping time with whatever blues song hummed low through the speakers. The city lights cast long shadows across his face, the glow of streetlamps slipping over his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the furrow of his brow.
Bucky tried not to look.
He failed.
It was a problem, this thing inside him. This ever-present, slow-burning ache.
He felt it in moments like these, when the world had quieted, when there was nothing between them but the hum of the car engine and the steady pull of gravity, keeping him pinned in place, forcing him to sit in the passenger seat and feel.
The worst part?
Sam didn’t even know what he was doing to him.
Didn’t know how his presence settled under Bucky’s skin like something permanent, like something impossible to carve out. Didn’t know that every casual touch—every shoulder bump, every time their knees knocked together, every brief clap of a hand against Bucky’s arm—sent him spiraling into the kind of want that made his hands shake.
Didn’t know that Bucky had spent years now trying to convince himself that this was nothing, that he didn’t need anything more, that whatever this was, it wasn’t eating him alive.
Didn’t know that Bucky Barnes, hardened soldier, war criminal, congressman, survivor, was absolutely, undeniably, hopelessly in love with him.
And Bucky didn’t know how to stop.
The car rolled to a stop outside Bucky’s building, the soft click of the gear shift breaking the silence. Sam let out a long breath, drumming his fingers once against the wheel before turning to look at Bucky.
“Hey, man. I know I keep saying it, but are you good?”
It was a simple question.
One Bucky had been answering with the same damn lie for years.
“Yeah.”
Sam’s lips pressed into a flat line, eyes scanning his face like he was looking for a crack in the foundation. Like he knew Bucky was lying but wasn’t sure how to call him on it.
Bucky held his ground, kept his face carefully blank, kept his hands curled into fists against his thighs so he wouldn’t do something stupid like reach out.
Finally, Sam sighed and shook his head. “Alright, Barnes. Keep your secrets.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, forcing something close to amusement onto his face. “You’re insufferable.”
Sam grinned, that slow, easy smirk that made Bucky’s stomach twist. “And yet, you keep hanging around.”
Bucky rolled his eyes and reached for the door handle. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”
He stepped out of the car, letting the cool night air hit him, hoping it would chase away the warmth still curling under his skin.
But then Sam did something that ruined him completely.
Something that knocked the air right out of his lungs.
Something that sent his heart careening into his ribs like a war drum.
“Hey,” Sam called after him, voice softer now, more careful.
Bucky turned, brow furrowed. “What?”
Sam hesitated for just a fraction of a second. Then—so casually it might’ve killed him—he said, “You know you’re enough, right?”
Bucky stopped breathing.
The world went still, the noise of the city fading into the background, swallowed by the weight of those five words.
You’re enough.
Not too broken. Not too late. Not a burden. Not something ruined beyond repair.
Enough.
Bucky’s fingers curled into his jacket, his chest tightening like something was trying to claw its way out. He wanted to say something, wanted to tell Sam that he was wrong, that Bucky would never be enough, not for him, not for anyone, but the words caught in his throat, choking him silent.
Sam was still watching him, waiting.
Bucky forced himself to nod, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Yeah,” he lied. “I know.”
Sam gave him one last lingering look before nodding, tapping the wheel with his fingers. “Get some sleep, Barnes.”
And then he drove off, leaving Bucky standing there, drowning in everything he couldn’t say