Showing Up
The nightmare had its claws in him before he could even fight.
It started the way it always did—disorienting, warped, like someone had cracked open reality and let all the wrong things bleed through. He was running, though he didn’t know from what. His boots pounded against wet pavement, the echo of his own footsteps chasing him down alleys that twisted in ways they shouldn’t.
The air smelled like gunpowder, like burning metal and blood.
And then—Sam.
He was standing in the middle of the street, but something was wrong. The shield was in his hands, but it was drenched in something dark, something that dripped thick onto the pavement. His face was blank, his body too still.
Bucky tried to call out to him, but no sound came. His voice was gone, stolen from him like so many other things. He reached out, but his fingers passed through Sam, as if he wasn’t real, as if he was nothing but smoke and fading light.
And then Sam turned his head, looked at him with something cold, distant.
“You let this happen,” he said.
Bucky shook his head. No. No, he wouldn’t—he couldn’t.
But then the ground beneath him shifted, split open, and suddenly, it wasn’t just Sam standing there anymore.
It was Steve.
It was the bodies.
A pile of them, endless, stretching into the void.
All of them his fault.
Bucky dropped to his knees, his chest tight, his vision tunneling.
And then—
The world shattered.
Bucky shot upright with a choked gasp, his body lurching forward as if trying to escape. His sheets were tangled around his legs, his skin damp with sweat. His breath came in ragged gulps, his chest rising and falling too fast, his hands curled into fists so tight his vibranium fingers had torn deep into the mattress.
The room was dark, save for the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. Everything was silent except for the wild pounding of his heart.
And then—
A loud bang at his door.
Bucky’s head snapped up, his pulse spiking all over again.
“Bucky!”
Sam.
Another heavy bang, the door rattling under the force of it.
“Bucky, open the damn door!” Sam’s voice was sharp, urgent. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”
Bucky tried to get his bearings, tried to force himself to move, but his limbs felt sluggish, weighed down by the nightmare still clinging to him. His phone was on the nightstand, screen still lit. He must have hit redial in his sleep.
Another bang.
Bucky forced himself upright, stumbling toward the door on unsteady legs. He barely managed to get it unlocked before Sam shoved his way in, eyes scanning the room like he was expecting a fight.
His stance was wide, ready, adrenaline crackling off him in waves.
“Where is he?” Sam demanded.
Bucky blinked at him, still trying to pull himself fully into the present. “What?”
Sam’s hands were clenched into fists, his entire body vibrating with tension. “Who was in here? Who were you fighting?”
Bucky finally realized what had happened. He had called Sam—probably muttering, maybe gasping, maybe worse—and Sam had assumed the worst. Had assumed that someone had come for him.
His stomach twisted.
“No one,” Bucky said, voice hoarse. “It was just—” He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “It was a nightmare, Sam. That’s it.”
Sam stared at him, chest rising and falling, his breathing still too sharp, too quick. His hands flexed at his sides like he wasn’t convinced.
Bucky didn’t blame him.
After everything, after all the years of watching his back, of pulling Bucky out of fights, of watching him bleed—of saving him—of course Sam had thought the worst.
Sam always thought the worst when it came to him.
Bucky swallowed hard, rubbing at his face. “I must’ve hit my phone in my sleep. I didn’t mean to call you.”
Sam let out a breath that was half a scoff, half frustration. “Jesus, Barnes.” He dragged a hand over his face before dropping it to his side. “You scared the shit out of me.”
Bucky looked away. “Didn’t mean to.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” Sam snapped, then immediately sighed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “Shit, man.”
Bucky shifted uncomfortably, suddenly hyperaware of how raw he felt, how exposed.
Sam was still watching him, taking in the dampness of his skin, the way his hands were still trembling slightly.
Bucky hated that he saw it.
Sam exhaled again, quieter this time. “Was it bad?”
Bucky hesitated. “Yeah.”
Sam’s lips pressed into a thin line.
Then, before Bucky could think, before he could do anything—Sam reached out, gripping his arm, grounding him in a way that felt too easy, too instinctual. His palm was warm against Bucky’s skin, solid, real.
“You back now?” Sam asked, voice softer.
Bucky’s throat was tight. He nodded. “Yeah.”
Sam studied him for another long moment before giving a sharp nod. “Alright. I’m staying.”
Bucky blinked. “What?”
Sam was already kicking off his shoes, shrugging out of his jacket. “You heard me.”
Bucky scowled. “Sam, you don’t have to—”
“I KNOW I don’t HAVE to,” Sam interrupted, shooting him a look that brokered no argument. “But I’m STAYING.”
Bucky opened his mouth to protest again, but Sam just crossed his arms, gaze steady. “I JUST thought someone had broken in here to kill you, Barnes. You think I’m about to just leave you after that?”
Bucky swallowed. “I’m fine.”
Sam huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah. And I’m the goddamn Queen of England.”
Bucky let out a long, slow breath, running his hands over his face. He was too exhausted to argue.
Sam took that as an answer and moved to the couch, dropping down onto it like he belonged there. He stretched out, getting comfortable, before shooting Bucky a pointed look.
“Well?” Sam gestured toward the bedroom. “Go to sleep.”
Bucky hesitated. He should tell Sam to leave. Should insist.
But he didn’t.
Instead, he exhaled, feeling the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him like an anchor, and turned toward the bedroom.
He paused in the doorway.
“Thanks,” he muttered, voice quiet.
Sam didn’t miss a beat. “Always.”
Bucky swallowed hard, then turned out the light.
------------
Sleep didn’t come easy. Not that it ever did.
Bucky lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the slow, steady hum of Sam’s breathing from the other room. It should have been comforting. Should have been enough to lull him back into something resembling rest.
But it wasn’t.
It was SAM.
HERE.
In his space.
Bucky turned his head, staring toward the door, barely visible in the dim light filtering through the blinds. He wasn’t used to this—not anymore. Not to someone STAYING, not to someone just BEING THERE without asking for anything in return.
And Sam hadn’t just stayed—he had insisted.
Like it wasn’t even a question. Like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Bucky let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over his face. He was in trouble.
He had been in trouble for a long time.
He turned onto his side, squeezing his eyes shut, forcing himself to try again.
He wasn’t sure when he finally drifted off, but when he woke, it was to the sound of movement.
Soft, quiet, but unmistakable.
Bucky tensed instinctively before he placed it—Sam.
For a second, he just listened. The faint creak of the old couch, the shuffle of fabric, the slow, measured breath of someone who wasn’t quite awake but wasn’t fully asleep either.
Bucky sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The clock read 4:32 AM. Too early, too late—somewhere in between.
He stood, padding toward the living room.
Sam was still on the couch, lying on his back, one arm resting behind his head. His shirt had ridden up slightly, exposing a sliver of warm brown skin against the dim glow of the city lights. His expression was peaceful, lips slightly parted, his breathing deep and even.
Bucky hesitated in the doorway, something twisting in his gut.
He shouldn’t be watching him.
Shouldn’t be letting himself linger in this moment, shouldn’t be allowing himself to want.
But he did.
God help him, he did.
He forced himself to move, stepping further into the room, trying to focus on anything else. The weight of the nightmare still sat heavy on his chest, but now, with Sam here, it wasn’t quite so suffocating.
Sam shifted slightly, cracking one eye open. “You pacing in the middle of the night now, Barnes?”
Bucky huffed, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
Sam stretched, letting out a low, sleepy groan before he turned onto his side, facing Bucky fully. “Didn’t wake me,” he murmured. “I don’t sleep much either.”
Bucky frowned. “Since when?”
Sam smirked, voice still thick with sleep. “Since becoming Captain America, probably. Kinda comes with the job.”
Bucky’s jaw tensed. He hated that. Hated that this burden was as much his as it was Sam’s.
Sam seemed to sense it, because his smirk faded into something softer. “Sit down, man,” he said, nodding toward the couch.
Bucky hesitated for only a second before lowering himself into the armchair nearby.
Sam watched him for a beat, then sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “You wanna talk about it?”
Bucky shook his head. “Not much to talk about.”
Sam arched a brow. “You called me in your sleep.”
Bucky exhaled sharply. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I KNOW you didn’t mean to,” Sam said, tilting his head. “Doesn’t change the fact that you did.”
Bucky pressed his lips into a thin line. He didn’t know how to do this. Didn’t know how to put words to the things clawing at his ribs, the guilt, the fear, the endless ache of never being enough.
But Sam just sat there, waiting, his patience infuriatingly unwavering.
And somehow, that was what made Bucky break.
He swallowed hard, his voice rough when he finally spoke. “It was about you.”
Sam didn’t react. Didn’t move, didn’t blink. He just listened.
Bucky clenched his hands into fists. “You were—” He exhaled sharply, forcing himself to keep going. “You were dead. Or you were dying, and I couldn’t stop it.”
Sam’s expression softened, but he didn’t interrupt.
Bucky looked away. “You told me it was my fault.”
Silence.
Then, softly—
“It wasn’t.”
Bucky let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah. Try telling my brain that.”
Sam shifted, sitting up now, resting his elbows on his knees. “Listen to me, Barnes,” he said, voice firm. “I don’t care what your nightmares tell you. You’re not gonna lose me.”
Bucky’s throat felt tight. “You don’t know that.”
Sam held his gaze. “Yeah. I do.”
Bucky inhaled shakily, his chest too tight, his hands too restless. “I don’t know what I’d do if—”
He cut himself off, because God, what the hell was he even saying?
But Sam just nodded, like he understood.
Like he knew.
Sam leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Look, man. I know you carry a lot of weight. A lot of shit that ain’t yours to carry.” His voice softened. “But I’m not going anywhere, alright?”
Bucky clenched his jaw, his throat burning. “You can’t promise that.”
Sam shrugged. “No. But I CAN promise that I CHOOSE to be here. Every damn day.”
Bucky’s breath hitched.
Because there it was.
The thing that sat unspoken between them, the thing that Bucky had been running from for so damn long.
Sam chose him.
Had always chosen him.
And Bucky?
Bucky didn’t know how to deserve that.
He dropped his gaze, staring at the floor, his hands clenched tight. “I don’t know how to do this.”
Sam tilted his head. “Do what?”
Bucky exhaled shakily. “Let someone stay.”
Sam was quiet for a moment. Then—soft, steady—
“Then it’s a good thing I’m stubborn as hell.”
Bucky let out a quiet, broken laugh, shaking his head.
Sam grinned, but it was softer now. “C’mere, man,” he said, reaching out.
Bucky hesitated.
And then, before he could talk himself out of it, he moved.
Sat on the couch beside Sam, close enough that their shoulders brushed, close enough that he could feel the warmth of him, solid and real.
Sam didn’t say anything else. Didn’t push, didn’t pry.
He just sat there.
Let Bucky breathe.
And for the first time in a long, long time—
Bucky let himself stay.
----------------
Bucky had spent the last hour convincing himself that he didn’t need sleep. That the exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin was just another thing he could push through, another battle he could win by sheer force of will.
But even he had his limits.
He had been running on fumes for too long, surviving off the barest scraps of rest, never letting himself drift too far into unconsciousness before jerking himself awake. Sleep was a battlefield he had long since learned to avoid.
And yet, here he was—sitting on his own damn couch, watching Sam Wilson make himself at home, acting as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
Sam had taken over the far side of the couch, stretching out with the kind of ease that Bucky had never quite managed. His arms were folded behind his head, legs sprawled comfortably, his expression somewhere between casual amusement and unwavering patience.
Bucky hated it.
Hated that Sam had waltzed into his apartment like he belonged there.
Hated that it didn’t feel wrong.
“Alright,” Sam sighed, cracking one eye open to look at him. “You plan on sitting there like a statue all night, or are you actually gonna try to get some sleep?”
Bucky scoffed, his fingers twitching against his thighs. “I don’t sleep.”
“Yeah, I gathered that.” Sam’s voice was laced with dry amusement. “Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t at least try.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders. “I DID try, Samuel. Didn’t work.”
Sam hummed, tilting his head slightly, watching him with that same infuriating patience. “Maybe you just need a change of scenery.”
Bucky arched a brow. “You suggesting I go take a nap in the damn kitchen?”
Sam smirked. “I’m suggesting you stop pretending like sitting there and brooding is a better option.”
Bucky huffed, shaking his head. “I don’t brood.”
Sam let out an exaggerated hum, like he was pretending to consider it. “Nah, you totally brood.”
Bucky clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to throw a pillow at him.
Sam grinned like he knew exactly what Bucky was thinking. “Look, man. Couch is big enough. If you’re really that allergic to your bed, why not just crash here?”
Bucky stiffened.
Sam had said it so casually, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the most dangerous suggestion in the world.
Bucky wasn’t used to sharing space.
Even before HYDRA, before everything, he had never been the type to relax around others—not like this. The idea of lying down in the same space as someone else, of letting himself be that vulnerable, made every nerve in his body go taut.
Sam must have caught the hesitation in his expression, because his smirk softened, just a little. “Relax, Barnes. I’m not asking you to cuddle. Just lie down before you keel over.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I don’t keel over.”
Sam chuckled. “Right. You just sit there looking like you’re five seconds from passing out, but sure. Not keeling over at all.”
Bucky grumbled something under his breath, but the truth was, he was tired.
Exhausted in a way that felt bone-deep, in a way that left him feeling unsteady, frayed at the edges.
His body was screaming at him to take the offer, to just rest, but his mind was fighting him at every turn, every instinct screaming that it was too much, too close, too dangerous.
Sam sighed again, shifting slightly on the couch to make more room. “Look, you can sit there all night arguing with yourself, or you can actually do something about it. Your call.”
Bucky clenched his jaw, his fingers twitching at his sides. He hated that Sam was right.
Hated that part of him wanted this.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted, moving inch by inch, like his body was still trying to decide whether or not this was a mistake. He kept his movements measured, deliberate, easing himself back against the couch cushions, keeping his back pressed firmly against the armrest, as far from Sam as the space would allow.
It wasn’t much.
But it was something.
Sam didn’t comment, didn’t say anything about the way Bucky’s entire body was still wound tight, how his fingers flexed and curled against the cushion like he was bracing for something to go wrong.
Instead, he just let out a slow breath, shifting slightly to get comfortable again. “See? Not so bad.”
Bucky made a noncommittal sound, his jaw tight.
Sam smirked. “You’re SO bad at this.”
Bucky shot him a glare. “At WHAT?”
“Relaxing.” Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Jesus, Barnes. You act like lying down on a couch is a tactical mission.”
Bucky huffed, his fingers twitching against his thigh. “Maybe it is.”
Sam snorted. “Well, in that case, you’re failing spectacularly.”
Bucky exhaled slowly, staring up at the ceiling. The tension in his chest hadn’t fully eased, but the exhaustion was beginning to win out.
His body felt heavy, every muscle aching in protest.
The silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
For once, Bucky didn’t feel the need to fill it.
Sam shifted slightly, stretching his legs out more. “So what’s the plan here? You gonna lie there all night acting like I tricked you into this, or you actually gonna try to sleep?”
Bucky let out a slow breath, his eyelids already starting to feel heavier than he’d like to admit. “No promises.”
Sam smirked, folding his arms behind his head. “I’ll take it.”
The weight of the day, of the nightmare, of everything that had been pressing down on him for so long, finally started to loosen.
It wasn’t much.
But for now, for tonight at least—it just was enough.
-----------
Bucky woke to warmth.
It wasn’t the kind of warmth that came from blankets or the sun filtering through old blinds—it was body heat, steady and consuming, pressing against his side, anchoring him in place.
For a moment, still caught in the slow, hazy pull of sleep, he almost let himself sink into it.
Then his brain caught up.
Then he felt it.
Sam.
Wrapped around him.
Bucky’s breath hitched, his entire body locking up, his instincts screaming at him to react—to move, to pull away, to do something before it was too late.
But it was already too late.
Sam was draped over him, his chest pressed flush against Bucky’s side, his face just inches from Bucky’s own. His arm—bare skin on bare skin—was burrowed under Bucky’s shirt, palm spread firm over his stomach, warm fingers curled just slightly against his ribs.
Bucky’s heart stopped.
Everything inside him ground to a halt.
And then, worse—so much worse—Sam shifted.
Not much. Just a slow, easy stretch, his body pressing even closer, his breath ghosting across Bucky’s jaw in a soft, unconscious sigh. His fingers flexed slightly against Bucky’s skin before relaxing again, his grip firm, familiar, like he had every right to be touching him like this.
Bucky swallowed.
Hard.
This was bad.
This was VERY bad.
Slowly—carefully—he tried to move, to slide just a few inches to the side, to ease himself out of this mess before Sam woke up and realized what had happened.
But the second he did—
Sam tightened his hold.
A low, almost inaudible hum slipped past Sam’s lips, something lazy and content, his fingers gripping just slightly harder, his body shifting with Bucky instead of away from him.
Like he wanted him to stay.
Bucky stopped breathing.
His skin burned where Sam’s fingers pressed into him, where every inch of them touched.
This was—
This was not happening.
This was happening.
Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle coiled so tight he thought he might snap in half. His own hands stayed rigid at his sides, unsure of where to go, what to DO—because there was no way in hell he was touching Sam back, not when his body was already betraying him so completely.
Sam shifted again, a slow, heavy movement, his face tilting slightly—closer, closer—until Bucky could feel the whisper of his breath against his cheek.
The space between them was nothing.
Just a few inches.
Just one wrong move away from disaster.
Bucky clenched his jaw, every muscle screaming at him to pull away, to break the moment before it could break him.
But Sam’s grip didn’t loosen.
Didn’t let him go.
And then—
A slow inhale.
The shift of consciousness.
The exact moment Sam woke up.
Bucky felt it before he saw it—the way Sam’s breath caught slightly, the way his fingers twitched against his skin.
Then Sam’s eyes fluttered open, slow and lazy with sleep, hazy brown staring at him from far too close.
Bucky went still.
Didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
For a long moment, neither of them said anything.
The room was too quiet, the air too heavy, the moment stretching unbearably thin.
Then—
“…Well, shit.”
Sam’s voice was rough with sleep, low and warm, his face still inches from Bucky’s own.
Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it. Tried to find words, but they refused to come.
Sam blinked, slow and unbothered, his eyes still too damn close, his body still pressed against Bucky’s like he belonged there.
And then, to Bucky’s absolute horror, he smirked.
Bucky swallowed again, trying and failing to keep his voice steady. “Wilson, get your damn hand off me.”
Sam hummed like he was actually thinking about it, then flexed his fingers again—his warm, bare fingers, still pressed against Bucky’s stomach beneath his shirt—before finally, finally pulling his arm away.
Bucky exhaled sharply, barely resisting the urge to shove him off the couch.
But Sam still didn’t move.
Didn’t sit up.
Didn’t put any more distance between them.
He was still close, his body still lingering, his breath still brushing against Bucky’s jaw in a way that sent heat curling low in Bucky’s stomach.
Then, still smirking, still lazy with sleep, Sam murmured, “Damn, Barnes. Didn’t know you were so sensitive.”
Bucky twitched.
Physically twitched.
“I swear to GOD—”
Sam grinned.
Then, finally, he sat up, stretching his arms over his head like this wasn’t the single most unhinged moment of Bucky’s entire existence.
Bucky did not move.
Did not sit up yet.
Because he could not move.
Not without making things worse.
Sam let out a loud, exaggerated sigh as he finally stood, stretching again like he had no idea what he had just done. “Damn, that was a good sleep.”
Bucky inhaled through his nose.
Do not react.
Do not react.
Sam glanced down at him, still smirking. “You get some rest too, sweetheart?”
Bucky’s brain blue-screened.
He made a noise that was not human.
Sam laughed.
And Bucky knew—knew—he was never going to live this down.
-----------------
Bucky had not planned to fall back asleep.
The couch wasn’t particularly comfortable—at least, that was what he had told himself when Sam had made him lie down the night before. He figured he’d rest his eyes for a bit, let Sam’s presence settle the leftover weight of the nightmare, and then get up before his body could betray him.
But now, hours later, he woke up slow and warm, his limbs heavy with the kind of rest that had been foreign to him for years.
And that was the first sign something was wrong.
The second sign was the smell.
Bucky frowned, his senses still pulling themselves together, but the unmistakable scent of coffee and something cooking drifted through the air.
Cooking.
That wasn’t right.
His body tensed on instinct, his mind scrambling to connect the dots. He wasn’t used to waking up to anything other than silence or, on his worst days, screaming. But this? This was different.
There was movement in the kitchen—small, steady sounds. The scrape of a spatula against a pan, the soft clink of a mug being set down, a quiet hum of something—a song, maybe, though too low for Bucky to recognize.
And then—Sam’s voice, muttering to himself.
Bucky blinked hard, forcing himself to sit up, running a hand over his face.
What the hell?
He pushed off the couch, moving toward the kitchen like he wasn’t entirely sure what he would find.
And then he saw it.
Sam Wilson, standing at the stove, flipping something in a pan like he did this all the time, like it was normal. He was still wearing the same T-shirt from last night, a little wrinkled from sleep, socked feet moving easily across the kitchen floor.
Bucky stopped in the doorway, stunned.
Sam glanced over his shoulder, unsurprised. “Mornin’, Sunshine.”
Bucky’s brain short-circuited.
Sam turned back to the stove, flipping a pancake effortlessly before grabbing the coffee pot and refilling his mug. “Didn’t think you’d sleep that long.”
Bucky was still staring at him, at the impossibly domestic scene unfolding in his own damn kitchen. “What the hell are you doing?”
Sam gave him an unimpressed look. “COOKING, Barnes. What does it LOOK like?”
Bucky shook his head, trying to process. “In my kitchen?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Well, yeah. Thought that was obvious.”
Bucky blinked at him. Then at the counter. Then at the neatly stacked pile of pancakes on a plate, like Sam had just decided to take over his kitchen and make himself at home.
The sheer audacity of it.
“What—why—” Bucky floundered, narrowing his eyes. “You breaking into my fridge now?”
Sam snorted. “Man, you got, like, NOTHING in there. How the hell do you even survive?”
“I manage,” Bucky muttered.
“Barely,” Sam shot back, flipping another pancake onto the plate.
Bucky crossed his arms, still feeling thoroughly out of his depth. “Why are you cooking?”
Sam huffed, turning off the stove and grabbing two plates. “Because you look like you haven’t eaten a proper breakfast in about seven decades, and I figured I’d do both of us a favor.” He shot Bucky a look. “Besides, you actually slept last night. That deserves some kind of reward.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted. He ignored it. “I don’t need a reward.”
“Too bad,” Sam said cheerfully, sliding a plate in front of him. “Eat.”
Bucky glanced down at it. A full stack of pancakes, butter melting into the top, syrup drizzled perfectly.
He swallowed hard.
This was too much.
The warmth of it, the ease of it—like this wasn’t weird, like this wasn’t the most domestic thing Bucky had experienced in decades, like Sam hadn’t just woken up in his apartment and decided to make breakfast like they did this every damn day.
Bucky clenched his jaw, looking back at Sam. “You didn’t have to do this.”
Sam met his gaze, something softer in his expression now. “Yeah,” he said, shrugging. “But I WANTED to.”
Bucky exhaled, something catching in his chest.
Sam just nudged the plate closer.
And for reasons Bucky didn’t want to analyze, he picked up the fork.
-----------
Bucky didn’t know what to do with this.
The plate of pancakes in front of him.
The sound of Sam moving around his kitchen like he belonged there.
The fact that the apartment felt less empty than usual, filled with something other than silence or the faint hum of an old heater struggling to keep up with the cold.
Bucky was used to waking up alone. He was used to opening his eyes to nothing but walls and shadows, to eating meals that barely qualified as food, to the monotony of a life spent trying to exist rather than live.
But now, Sam was sitting across from him, flipping through a newspaper he must have swiped from outside the door, drinking his coffee like this was normal.
Like they were normal.
Like this wasn’t completely upending Bucky’s entire reality.
Bucky picked up his fork, still unsure of what the hell he was supposed to do with any of this. He hesitated for only a second before finally cutting into the stack, taking a bite.
The warmth of it melted over his tongue—soft, rich, the perfect balance of butter and syrup.
And God help him, it was good.
Bucky chewed slowly, trying not to let it show on his face, but Sam caught it immediately.
A smug grin stretched across his face. “Good, huh?”
Bucky scowled, shoving another bite into his mouth. “It’s fine.”
Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Damn, Barnes. You EVER gonna admit when you like something?”
Bucky pointed his fork at him. “Not when it’ll feed your ego.”
Sam smirked, taking another sip of coffee. “Too late.”
They ate in easy silence for a few minutes, the clinking of utensils against plates the only sound between them.
And that was the strange part.
Not just the food, not just the fact that Sam had made himself completely at home, but the fact that it wasn’t awkward.
It wasn’t forced.
Bucky should have been on edge. He should have been uncomfortable, restless, waiting for the moment when this all came crashing down.
But instead…
He felt settled.
He didn’t like that realization.
Didn’t like what it meant.
He had spent so long keeping people at a distance, making sure no one got too close. Because close meant dangerous. Close meant attachments.
And attachments?
They never lasted.
But Sam was still here.
Still sitting in his kitchen. Still acting like this was just another day.
Like Bucky was someone worth sticking around for.
He clenched his jaw, shaking off the thought before it could take root. Instead, he focused on his plate, finishing the last few bites, pushing aside whatever the hell this was.
Sam glanced at him, tilting his head slightly. “You thinking real hard over there, Barnes.”
Bucky snorted. “Thinking about how you made yourself at home without asking.”
Sam grinned. “Oh, you mean my home? The one I apparently have to take care of now because you live like some kind of damn cryptid?”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I manage.”
Sam huffed. “Yeah, I saw that. No food, barely any furniture, and your idea of dinner is probably eating peanut butter out of the jar with a combat knife.”
Bucky didn’t confirm that.
Sam just sighed dramatically. “You’re a lost cause.”
Bucky smirked. “You keep saying that, but you’re still here.”
Sam stilled for half a second.
It was barely noticeable, just a flicker of hesitation, but Bucky caught it.
Then Sam smiled, but it was softer this time, something unreadable behind his eyes. “Guess I am.”
Bucky looked away, gripping his coffee a little tighter.
This was dangerous territory.
Because Sam was still here.
And Bucky didn’t know what to do with that.
So instead of answering, he muttered, “I still don’t trust you in my kitchen.”
Sam laughed, easy and warm. “Tough shit, Barnes. I’m coming back tomorrow.”
Bucky’s stomach did something complicated.
And for once, he didn’t fight it.
-------------------
Bucky was exhausted.
His entire day had been a blur of politics, forced smiles, and pointless meetings, all of which left him with a pounding headache and an overwhelming desire to put his fist through the nearest wall. He had been a soldier, an assassin, and now, somehow, a congressman, but he had never encountered an enemy more insidious than Washington bureaucracy.
By the time he reached his building, all he wanted was to get inside, strip out of this stiff suit, and maybe drink himself into a false oblivion.
But as soon as he reached his apartment door, he knew something was wrong.
It was subtle—nothing obvious, no signs of forced entry—but his instincts had been honed over decades of surviving ambushes and assassinations, and right now, every nerve in his body was telling him that someone was inside.
His keys remained in his pocket.
Instead, he backed away, heading for the fire escape.
With practiced ease, he scaled the metal structure, reaching the small window that led into his guest room. He pressed his back against the wall, carefully nudging the window open just enough to slip inside. His feet landed soundlessly on the floor, muscles coiled and ready.
The apartment smelled different.
Not in a bad way, but it was noticeable—something warm, something spiced.
Someone was cooking.
Bucky frowned, stepping silently through the guest room, keeping to the shadows. He moved through the hallway, reaching the concealed gun safe near the coat closet. His fingers worked quickly, unlocking it, pulling out a sleek handgun.
Whoever had broken in was about to have a very bad night.
His footsteps were silent as he moved toward the kitchen, his gun raised, heart hammering with adrenaline.
He rounded the corner—
And nearly shot Sam Wilson in the head.
Bucky froze.
Sam, standing at the stove, didn’t even flinch.
He just glanced over his shoulder, arching a brow. “Well, shit. Didn’t realize breaking and entering was your preferred way to come home.”
Bucky’s grip on the gun tightened, his mind still catching up to what he was seeing. Sam, in his kitchen. Sam, cooking dinner. Sam, very much not a threat.
Slowly, Bucky lowered the gun, scowling. “Are you KIDDING ME?”
Sam turned fully now, arms crossed. “You’re the one who just broke in through your own damn window.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Why the hell are you in my apartment?”
Sam huffed. “Well, technically, you invited me back yesterday when you didn’t kick me out.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “That is NOT how that works.”
Sam grinned. “Too late. I’ve already moved in.”
Bucky’s brain short-circuited for a moment before his eyes flicked around the room—and that was when he really noticed.
The apartment looked... different.
There were blankets now—one draped over the couch, another folded neatly over the armrest. The coffee table had a few new books stacked on it, ones Bucky sure as hell didn’t own before. And the fridge—slightly ajar from where Sam had obviously been rifling through it—was full.
Bucky turned back to him, suspicious. “What did you do?”
Sam shrugged, far too pleased with himself. “Restocked your kitchen. You eat like a damn stray cat.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “That doesn’t explain the blankets.”
Sam smirked. “Look, man. I get the whole ‘grumpy old man living in an empty cave’ aesthetic you got going on, but this place needed some warmth.”
Bucky stared at him, completely at a loss. “You bought books?”
Sam tilted his head toward the table. “Figured you might need something to read besides government files and existential dread.”
Bucky was still processing this, still trying to wrap his mind around the sheer insanity of Sam breaking into his life and casually making himself at home.
Sam turned back to the stove, flipping whatever he was cooking in the pan. “Hope you’re hungry, by the way. I made enough for both of us.”
Bucky let out a slow, deep breath. “Wilson.”
“Barnes.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “This is not your apartment.”
Sam shot him a smug look over his shoulder. “It is tonight.”
Bucky groaned, holstering his gun and dropping heavily onto the couch.
Sam laughed. “Yeah, yeah. You’re welcome.”
-------------------
Bucky was still trying to figure out how the hell his life had ended up here.
One moment, he had been existing in his own carefully controlled solitude, keeping things simple, predictable—manageable. And now, Sam Wilson had all but taken over his kitchen, moving around like he’d been here for years, completely at ease.
The scent of spices and something actually edible filled the apartment, the kind of meal that didn’t come out of a can or a microwave.
It was too much.
But the thing that really threw him—the thing that settled like a weight in his chest—was the books.
They weren’t random.
No, they were books he had mentioned in passing—barely even conscious of it at the time.
A collection of modern poetry he'd once said he was curious about, a historical analysis on World War II from an angle he'd never read before, a damn gardening book after he had grumbled about not being able to keep plants alive.
Bucky stared at them, his stomach twisting with something he couldn’t quite name.
Sam had listened.
Not just heard him—actually listened.
That realization hit harder than he wanted it to.
He was still staring when Sam called over his shoulder, “Man, you keep looking at those books like they owe you money.”
Bucky shook himself out of it, crossing his arms as he leaned against the back of the couch. “Just trying to figure out why the hell you bought me homework.”
Sam snorted, flipping something in the pan with expert ease. “Homework? Please. You need some culture, Barnes.”
Bucky arched a brow. “You bought me a gardening book, Wilson.”
Sam smirked. “Yeah, because I’m tired of watching you kill innocent plants.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but before he could come up with a comeback, Sam casually added, “Besides, I figured if I keep hanging around, I might as well not be living in a sad, bookless cave.”
Bucky paused, his chest tightening.
If I keep hanging around.
Like this was just… a given.
Like Sam had already decided he wasn’t going anywhere.
He clenched his jaw, pushing that thought down before it could settle too deep.
Instead, he let his eyes flick to the stove, watching as Sam moved around the kitchen with infuriating confidence.
“You sure you’re not just trying to impress me?” Bucky muttered, eyeing the pan. “I thought the ‘all-American hero’ thing was enough.”
Sam scoffed, glancing over his shoulder. “Please. If I wanted to impress you, I’d be making steak. Or, I don’t know, reassembling your arm into a toaster so you can finally be useful in the morning.”
Bucky let out a short, sharp snort before he could stop himself, his nose crinkling slightly in amusement.
That alone would have been bad enough.
But then—before he even realized it—his lips twitched, the snort giving way to something quieter, softer. A real laugh—just a short exhale, just a breath of something unguarded—and suddenly, a grin pulled at his face, small and genuine.
Not the forced smirks, not the rare ghost of a smile he usually gave when he was trying to brush something off.
A real grin.
It barely lasted a second.
But Sam saw it.
Bucky felt it the moment Sam froze for just a fraction of a second, his grip on the spatula pausing mid-motion.
Sam didn’t speak. Didn’t joke.
He just looked at him.
Something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, but then something else. Something softer.
Bucky realized what he had done too late.
Realized how unguarded he had just been, how he had let himself slip.
His expression sobered almost immediately, but Sam was still watching him, still holding onto whatever had just happened.
Bucky cleared his throat, sitting up straighter. “You keep staring and I WILL revoke your kitchen privileges.”
Sam chuckled, shaking his head as he turned back to the stove, but that soft smile lingered for just a little too long.
And Bucky?
Bucky was still feeling the ghost of his own grin, lingering at the edges, threatening to pull him under.
-----------------
Bucky had started noticing it gradually, the way Sam had made a habit of just appearing—not quite a shadow, not quite an intrusion, but something steadier, something that settled into the quiet spaces of his life before Bucky had even realized it was happening.
At first, it had been small things.
Sam knocking on his apartment door early in the morning, a casual, “Figured you wouldn’t feed yourself,” as he handed Bucky a breakfast sandwich, the edges still warm from the bag.
Or swinging by in the evening, arms full of groceries, pushing past Bucky’s protests with an easy, “Jesus, Barnes, you been surviving off protein bars and regret?” before restocking the fridge himself.
And then it escalated.
Bucky should have known better than to answer his door that one afternoon, only to have Sam standing there with that infuriatingly pleased expression, arms crossed over his chest like he was so sure he would get what he wanted.
“Get your shoes on,” Sam had said, like it was an order.
Bucky had narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
“Because,” Sam had replied, stepping into the apartment uninvited, already rifling through Bucky’s embarrassingly sparse coat closet, “we’re going shopping.”
Bucky had scoffed, arms crossing over his chest. “For what?”
Sam had turned, giving him a deadpan look. “For literally anything that proves you’re not a goddamn hermit. You own, like, three shirts, and I swear to God, if I see you in another one of those sad grandpa jackets—”
“They’re practical,” Bucky had muttered, but somehow, somehow, an hour later, he had found himself standing in the middle of a department store, feeling deeply betrayed by his own choices.
And then, somehow, somehow, he had walked out of that store with a new leather jacket—one Sam had BULLIED him into buying.
“See?” Sam had said afterward, patting Bucky on the back with far too much satisfaction. “Look at you, being a functioning adult.”
Bucky had glowered at him. “I am never taking you shopping again.”
Sam had just laughed.
But the worst part?
The worst part was that Bucky hadn’t hated it.
He hadn’t hated any of it.
The knocking on his door. The unannounced visits. The way Sam would toss things at him—a bag of jerky, a new book, a pack of gum—shrugging and saying, “Figured you might like this,” with the kind of effortless certainty that Bucky didn’t understand.
How did he know?
Bucky never told him these things.
Which was why, on a seemingly normal afternoon, in the middle of yet another mind-numbing day of politics, he damn near short-circuited when his office door swung open, and in walked Captain America.
Bucky blinked.
For half a second, he felt like a soldier again, caught in that brief, instinctual awe, the kind that came with seeing someone so sure-footed, so goddamn commanding step into a room.
Because Sam, in the full Captain America gear, was a sight to behold.
The navy blue suit hugged his frame perfectly, the silver star gleaming against his chest, his shield strapped securely to his back, his presence filling the space like he had every damn right to be there.
Bucky had seen him in it before, obviously—had fought alongside him, had watched as Sam made the mantle his own.
But standing here, in his office, in a setting that had nothing to do with war or battle or saving the world—it was different.
It took him a solid second to snap himself out of it.
“Barnes,” Sam greeted, grinning, strolling in like this wasn’t the single most out-of-place thing Bucky had ever witnessed. “Nice place you got here.”
Bucky blinked again, finally shaking off the momentary lapse. “How the hell did you get past security?”
Sam smirked, setting a coffee cup down on Bucky’s desk with a quiet thud. “I’m Captain America, Barnes. People let me do things.”
Bucky’s brain stuttered between responses before he finally settled on, “That is NOT how that works.”
Sam tilted his head, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You sure? ‘Cause it DEFINITELY worked.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face before his gaze fell to the cup now sitting in front of him.
That was when he really froze.
It wasn’t just any coffee.
It was his coffee.
His exact order.
From a place he NEVER mentioned to Sam.
Slowly, cautiously, he picked it up, staring at it like it might explode.
Sam, ever the picture of smug patience, leaned against the desk. “Something wrong with it?”
Bucky’s grip on the cup tightened slightly. “How do you know this is my order?”
Sam’s smirk widened. “I pay attention.”
Bucky stared.
Sam had figured it out.
A coffee shop Bucky only ever went to when he had meetings in a different part of the city. A drink order he never actually said out loud, just nodded at when the barista asked if he wanted the usual.
And yet—somehow—Sam had figured it out.
The weight of that realization sat heavy in Bucky’s chest, pressing against his ribs like something too big to hold.
He lifted the cup, took a slow sip.
It was perfect.
Exactly the way he liked it.
Sam watched him expectantly, waiting.
Bucky lowered the cup, staring at him for a long moment. “…Why do you keep showing up?”
Sam’s expression didn’t change. If anything, his smirk softened just slightly.
“You really gotta ask that?”
Bucky swallowed.
Because, no.
He shouldn’t have to ask.
But Sam just leaned back, crossing his arms, watching him carefully. “Because you let me.”
Bucky inhaled slowly, gripping the coffee a little tighter.
Because, yeah.
That was the problem.
He had let him.
And maybe, just maybe, he didn’t want Sam to stop.
Sam suddenly pushed off the desk, rolling his shoulders. “Y’know, I’ve never been to this part of D.C. before.”
Bucky frowned. “What?”
Sam gestured toward the window. “This area. Haven’t really seen much of it.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “And you’re telling me this WHY?”
Sam shrugged, far too casual. “Figured you could give me a tour.”
Bucky huffed. “I’m not a tour guide, Wilson.”
Sam grinned. “No, but you DO work here. Might as well make yourself useful.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. He glanced at his schedule—technically, he had a break before his next meeting.
And technically, there was no reason he couldn’t go.
Sam just stood there, patient, waiting.
Bucky sighed, setting his coffee down.
“…Fine.”
Sam beamed. “Knew you’d see reason.”
Bucky muttered something under his breath about bad decisions before grabbing his coat.
Because, yeah.
Maybe Sam showing up wasn’t the worst thing in the world.