Not Worth It
Bucky knew something was off the second he walked into Sam’s office.
It wasn’t obvious—not at first. To anyone else, it might’ve looked like a normal day, the usual rhythm of Sam’s post-mission, post-press-conference, post-whatever the hell Captain America does when he’s not saving the world life.
But Bucky wasn’t anyone else.
He knew Sam too well. Knew the way he carried himself, the way his usual easy confidence filled a room, the way he could make anyone feel like they were supposed to be there, like they belonged.
And today?
Today, something wasn’t right.
The energy in the office was different—quieter. Stiffer.
Torres was sitting near Sam’s desk, unusually reserved, barely looking up from the papers in front of him. Normally, the kid would’ve greeted Bucky with some kind of smartass comment, but today, he just flicked his gaze up once, gave him a tight nod, and went back to whatever he was pretending to read.
Bucky frowned.
Sam was standing near the window, his back half-turned to the room, arms crossed over his chest like he was thinking too hard about something.
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What the hell’s going on in here?”
Torres and Sam both tensed—barely, but enough for Bucky to notice.
Torres was the first to recover. “Nothing, man. Just a long day.”
Bucky wasn’t buying it.
He turned his attention fully to Sam, scanning him like he was analyzing a target. Sam was good at keeping things locked down when he wanted to be, but Bucky had decades of reading people—of reading Sam—and this?
This wasn’t just a long day.
Sam sighed, finally turning to face him. “Barnes.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “Wilson.”
A beat of silence.
Then—
Sam plastered on a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Didn’t know you were stopping by. You finally admit you missed me?”
Bucky didn’t take the bait.
Didn’t let himself get distracted by their usual banter, by the way Sam was trying to steer the conversation into familiar, safe territory.
Something wasn’t right.
And Bucky was going to find out what.
He glanced at Torres, who was still pretending to be busy, flipping through pages like they held the secrets of the universe.
Bucky frowned. “Alright, what the hell’s wrong with both of you?”
Torres tensed again.
Sam’s smirk faded just slightly. “Barnes, it’s fine.”
Bucky stepped forward, his voice dropping slightly. “Yeah? Then why are you standing there like you’re waiting for the sky to drop?”
Sam didn’t answer right away.
Didn’t meet his eyes.
That—
That was bad.
Bucky’s stomach tightened.
Torres finally cleared his throat, setting his papers down. “It’s nothing, Barnes. Just some…political bullshit.”
Bullshit.
His gaze flicked to Sam, expecting him to chime in, to brush it off with one of his usual Wilson responses—something easy, something that would let Bucky know he was okay.
But Sam didn’t speak.
And that—
That was when Bucky knew.
This wasn’t just a bad day.
This was something else.
His chest tightened with something he didn’t want to name, something that had been creeping in more often lately when it came to Sam.
Something close to worry.
Something closer to fear.
He crossed the room in a few long strides, stopping just short of Sam’s desk, forcing himself to keep his voice steady. “Wilson.”
Sam didn’t react immediately.
Didn’t even look at him.
And for the first time, Bucky hesitated.
Because what if—
What if this wasn’t about something else?
What if this was about him?
Had he done something? Said something? Had he pushed too much—been too much?
Bucky had spent most of his life keeping people at arm’s length, and Sam—Sam was the one person he had let closer, the one person he let stay.
Had he finally pushed him too far?
He hated how quickly the thought made his stomach twist.
The silence stretched a moment too long before Sam finally spoke, his voice lower than usual, edged with something tired.
“There’s a problem.”
Bucky exhaled, slow and controlled. “Yeah, I got that much.”
Sam finally turned then, his expression carefully neutral, but there was something beneath it—something guarded, something hesitant.
And that?
That made Bucky’s stomach sink even further.
Because Sam didn’t HESITATE with him.
Not before.
Not until now.
Bucky’s throat felt tight. “What’s going on, Sam?”
Sam exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Caldwell.”
Bucky frowned. “Senator Caldwell?”
Sam nodded.
Bucky’s expression darkened. “What about him?”
Torres finally spoke up, his voice quieter than usual. “He’s making moves.”
Bucky’s jaw locked.
Torres sighed, setting the file down. “He doesn’t think Sam should be Captain America. And he’s not just talking about it anymore—he’s got people behind him, donors, other politicians who are starting to listen.”
Bucky stilled.
He had heard rumors about Caldwell before—hell, the guy had been making passive-aggressive comments about Sam since he first took up the shield. But this? This was different.
This wasn’t just political posturing.
This was an attack.
Bucky’s fingers curled into fists at his sides. “And when were you gonna tell me?”
Sam’s expression didn’t change. “Barnes—”
“No.” Bucky’s voice was sharper now, the weight of his anger creeping into his tone. “Don’t ‘Barnes’ me right now. You knew this was happening. You KNEW, and you didn’t think to say a damn thing?”
Sam let out a slow breath, his eyes unreadable. “Because it’s politics, Bucky. It’s not—”
“Not what?” Bucky cut in. “Not important?”
Sam’s lips pressed together. “Not something I wanted you getting involved in.”
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
Not something I wanted you getting involved in.
He hadn’t wanted him involved.
Hadn’t trusted him with it.
And that—
That hurt more than Bucky wanted to admit.
He clenched his jaw, swallowing against the sharp, unwanted feeling settling in his chest. “So that’s how this is now? You just decide what I should and shouldn’t know?”
Sam’s expression flickered for just a second, something quick and almost guilty. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what DID you mean?” Bucky’s voice was quieter now, but no less sharp.
Sam exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I didn’t want you doing something stupid.”
Bucky laughed.
Short. Bitter.
He shook his head. “You really think I’d be reckless with this?”
Sam didn’t answer.
Didn’t have to.
And that—
That stung.
Bucky took a slow breath, forcing the tightness in his chest down, shoving it into the part of himself that had spent decades locking things away.
Fine.
If Sam didn’t trust him with this, then Bucky would just handle it himself.
His voice was cold when he finally spoke. “Caldwell doesn’t get to decide who holds that shield.”
Sam’s expression hardened. “You think I don’t know that?”
Bucky tilted his head slightly, his jaw tight. “Then why are you just standing here?”
Sam exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his features. “Because this isn’t a fight you win by throwing punches, Barnes. This is politics. It’s a slow game. It’s—”
“Bullshit,” Bucky said flatly.
Sam let out a long breath. “Bucky—”
“No.” Bucky stepped forward, eyes locked on Sam’s. “I don’t give a damn about the politics, Sam. I care about YOU.”
The words hung in the air, heavier than anything else that had been said.
Sam’s expression shifted—just slightly, just enough for Bucky to see the way it landed, the way something unspoken settled between them.
Bucky clenched his fists, voice lowering. “Caldwell’s not gonna win this.”
Sam searched his face. “And how do you know that?”
Bucky’s gaze darkened.
“Because I won’t LET him.”
Bucky didn’t say another word.
He didn’t trust himself to.
Didn’t trust that if he opened his mouth, the anger sitting heavy in his chest wouldn’t spill over, wouldn’t twist into something sharper, something that would cut in ways he couldn’t take back.
So he turned.
Walked to the door with steady, deliberate steps, jaw tight, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
But just before he reached for the handle, he pulled a brown paper bag from inside his jacket and dropped it onto Sam’s desk with a little more force than necessary.
Sam blinked. “What the—”
“Lunch,” Bucky muttered, not looking at him. “For you. And Torres.”
Torres, still sitting in the chair near the desk, glanced between them, clearly sensing the tension. “Wait—you brought us food?”
Bucky ignored him.
He didn’t want gratitude. Didn’t even want Sam to know he had been thinking about him before all this. Before the hurt, before the fight, before realizing that Sam hadn’t even trusted him with something like this.
Sam looked at the bag like it was something foreign, something unexpected, his expression flickering with something Bucky couldn’t place. “You—”
“I’ll see you later,” Bucky cut him off, voice gruff.
And then he was gone.
The hallway was too bright, too open, too full of people moving past him like nothing was wrong, like the ground beneath his feet hadn’t just shifted.
Bucky barely noticed them.
His focus was singular now, a sharp point in his mind, cutting through everything else.
Senator Caldwell.
Bucky hadn’t played the political game much since becoming a congressman, but he knew enough. Knew how men like Caldwell operated. Knew how to find people who thought they were untouchable.
And right now?
Caldwell was about to find out exactly how wrong he was.
Bucky reached the elevators, his reflection flashing briefly in the polished steel doors before they slid open. His face was set, unreadable, but his eyes—
His eyes burned with something cold.
Volatile.
He stepped inside, letting the doors close behind him.
And as the elevator descended, as the weight of what he was about to do settled in his chest, Bucky didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t doubt.
Because Caldwell had made a mistake.
He had gone after Sam.
And Bucky Barnes wasn’t going to let that slide
-----------------
Bucky found Caldwell exactly where he expected him to be—seated comfortably in the private lounge of an upscale D.C. club, the kind of place politicians frequented when they wanted to talk in hushed tones and make deals behind closed doors.
It hadn’t been hard to track him down.
Men like Caldwell didn’t hide.
They sat in their tailored suits, sipping expensive whiskey, making decisions that shaped the lives of people they’d never meet. They moved in circles where power wasn’t just held, but wielded, passed between hands like currency. And they never thought they would be confronted by someone like Bucky Barnes.
Which made this even better.
Bucky stepped inside the lounge, his boots loud against the polished floor. He didn’t belong here, not dressed in his usual black jeans and leather jacket, not moving like a man who cared about the rules of polite society.
Heads turned.
Conversations stalled.
But Bucky didn’t care.
His focus was locked onto one man—the senator sitting at a dimly lit table in the corner, sipping a glass of scotch, engaged in quiet conversation with another suited politician.
Senator Nathaniel Caldwell.
Bucky had seen his face on the news enough times. Heard his name in rooms where men like him were treated as inevitable. A man who spoke with the ease of someone who believed every word he said was truth, who built his career on the backs of others while pretending to be their champion.
And now?
Now, he was the man who had decided to put a target on Sam Wilson’s back.
That meant he was Bucky’s problem.
Caldwell didn’t notice him at first.
Not until Bucky pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, uninvited, leaning forward with both forearms resting on the table like this was his meeting now.
Caldwell blinked, then frowned, clearly irritated by the intrusion. “Excuse me, do I—”
“You do.”
Bucky’s voice was low, steady.
The other man at the table—a balding senator Bucky didn’t recognize—shifted uncomfortably. “I, uh—think I’ll give you two a moment.”
Smart man.
Caldwell’s frown deepened as his companion got up, quickly excusing himself. But when he turned back to Bucky, there was no fear in his expression.
Just annoyance.
Like Bucky was some inconvenience in his well-structured evening.
That was going to change.
“I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure,” Caldwell said, his tone clipped.
Bucky tilted his head slightly, eyes sharp. “Oh, I think we have.”
Caldwell leaned back in his chair, studying him. His gaze flicked over Bucky’s stance, his clothes, the unmistakable weight of someone who didn’t belong here but didn’t give a damn about it.
Then something clicked.
His mouth curved into something mocking.
“Ah,” he said, nodding slightly. “Congressman Barnes.”
Bucky didn’t blink.
Caldwell took a slow sip of his scotch, watching him over the rim of the glass. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Bucky leaned forward just slightly. “You know exactly why I’m here.”
Caldwell exhaled through his nose, amused. “Do I?”
Bucky clenched his jaw. Games. That was what this was to men like Caldwell. Just another political maneuver. Another step in a strategy.
He didn’t realize who he was playing with.
Bucky kept his voice even. “I know what you’re trying to do.”
Caldwell didn’t deny it. Didn’t even flinch.
Instead, he set his glass down, folding his hands neatly in front of him. “And what exactly is it you think I’m trying to do?”
Bucky’s fingers curled against the table’s surface. He was trying very, VERY hard not to break something. “You don’t want Sam to be Captain America. You don’t think he should have the shield.”
Caldwell raised a brow. “Should he?”
Bucky stilled.
It was the way Caldwell said it. So calm, so casual. As if he were discussing policy over lunch. As if he hadn’t just confirmed everything.
Bucky’s voice was quiet. “Careful.”
Caldwell smirked, leaning back. “Why? Because you don’t like my opinion?”
Bucky’s metal fingers tapped against the table—once, twice, slow and deliberate. “Because you don’t get to decide.”
Caldwell’s eyes gleamed, his smirk widening like he was enjoying this. “Oh, but you see, that’s where you’re wrong, Congressman Barnes. I may not wear a uniform, but I do decide things. I have the ear of men who make laws, who control resources, who guide the direction of this country. And right now? There are a lot of powerful people who are starting to think that Captain America should answer to someone.”
Bucky’s blood burned.
Because that?
That was more than just noise.
That was a threat.
He forced himself to stay still, forced his muscles to not react, to keep his rage coiled tight beneath the surface.
Instead, he tilted his head slightly, studying Caldwell like he was trying to figure out how best to take him apart.
“You think you can put a leash on him?” Bucky asked, his voice deceptively calm.
Caldwell smirked. “I think he’s gotten a little… out of control.”
Bucky exhaled through his nose, slow and measured. “Let me tell you how this is gonna go.”
Caldwell arched a brow, amused. “Oh, please. Enlighten me.”
Bucky leaned in just enough that Caldwell had to work to keep his expression neutral.
“You’re going to back off,” Bucky said, voice steady, cold. “You’re going to stop spreading bullshit about Sam, stop trying to twist the narrative, stop PRETENDING like you get to decide who holds that shield.”
Caldwell’s smirk didn’t fade. “And if I don’t?”
Bucky’s eyes darkened. “Then you’ll find out exactly how many strings I can pull when I stop playing nice.”
For the first time, something flickered across Caldwell’s face. Not fear, not quite—but something close to it. Something that understood that Bucky wasn’t a man who made idle threats.
Bucky let the silence stretch for a beat before standing up, pushing the chair back smoothly.
Caldwell watched him go, still trying to maintain his veneer of control.
Bucky paused just before walking away.
“One more thing,” he said, voice quieter now.
Caldwell lifted a brow.
Bucky turned his head slightly, his expression blank, but his eyes—his eyes—were something else entirely.
“If anything happens to Sam,” Bucky said, his tone laced with something sharp, something dangerous, “I’ll make sure you regret it.”
Caldwell’s smirk faltered.
Just slightly.
Bucky walked away without looking back.
----------------------
Bucky was moving too fast.
His grip was tight on the handlebars, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure of how hard he was clenching his fists. His heart pounded in his chest, a steady, thrumming rhythm that felt wrong, that felt too much like combat, too much like a fight that hadn’t even started yet.
The city lights streaked past in a blur, red taillights bleeding into the slick pavement, headlights flashing against his visor like strobe lights. His breath came in steady, measured inhales, but inside, he was seething.
Caldwell.
The name rang in his skull like a gunshot, over and over, pushing at the frayed edges of his restraint.
Bucky had thought he had seen every kind of enemy there was.
He had fought monsters, men who didn’t think twice before pulling a trigger, men who operated in shadows, who made their intentions clear the second they stepped into a room.
But Caldwell—Caldwell was the worst kind of enemy.
A man who didn’t need a gun, didn’t need a knife.
Just power.
Power and a willingness to wield it against people who deserved better.
Against Sam.
Bucky grit his teeth, twisting the throttle and gunning the bike forward, weaving between cars with precision that had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with instinct.
His enhanced senses kept him grounded, kept him aware—the flicker of movement in his peripherals, the subtle shift of the vehicles in front of him, the way a driver three cars ahead hesitated just slightly before switching lanes. He processed it all in real time, moving before he had to think about it, his body reacting as though this was just another mission, just another battle, just another fight that he wasn’t allowed to lose.
The wind roared in his ears, cutting through the rage still simmering hot in his veins. He could hear the engine beneath him, the purr of its power matching the thrumming of his pulse, the steady boom-boom-boom of his heartbeat keeping time with the vibrations of the road.
He didn’t slow down.
Didn’t want to.
Because if he stopped, if he let the world settle around him, he’d have to sit with this.
With the knowledge that some smug, well-dressed bastard had put a target on Sam’s back and thought he could get away with it.
That he had the audacity to think Sam could be handled.
Controlled.
Leashed.
It made Bucky’s blood boil.
Because if anyone knew—if anyone understood just how hard Sam had fought to be where he was, how much he had sacrificed, how many people he had carried on his shoulders just to make it this far—they would know that Sam wasn’t the kind of man you could shove aside.
He had earned the shield.
And no politician was going to take it from him.
Bucky barely registered the last turn before his apartment, tires screeching against the pavement as he finally pulled up in front of his building. His pulse was still hammering, the rage still sitting heavy in his gut, refusing to settle. He swung off the bike in one fluid motion, his boots hitting the pavement with purpose.
He needed out of this.
Needed to do something.
Something to take this fury and shove it into action.
He took the stairs instead of the elevator, two steps at a time, his fingers twitching with the need to move, to fight, to—
He froze the second he stepped into his apartment.
The air was wrong.
Too still.
Someone was here.
Bucky didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t think.
His boot knife was in his hand before his next breath, muscles coiled, instincts sharpened into something lethal. He let it fly in a single, precise movement, the blade slicing through the air with deadly accuracy—
And stopping just short of Sam Wilson’s skull.
Bucky registered it all in the next half-second—the way Sam didn’t flinch, the way his body was already moving slightly to the left, just enough to let the blade sink into the wall behind him, his expression unreadable, his eyes locked onto Bucky with something that looked a hell of a lot like understanding.
Bucky exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stand down.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face.
Sam didn’t move from where he was standing, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, expression calm. “You done trying to kill me?”
Bucky scowled, his pulse still too high. “Don’t sneak into my damn apartment, then.”
Sam arched a brow. “I knocked.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, yanking the knife from the wall and twirling it between his fingers before tucking it back into his boot. “And then what, broke in when I didn’t answer?”
Sam shrugged. “I got tired of waiting.”
Bucky inhaled deeply, trying very hard to remember that throwing another knife would probably just encourage Sam at this point.
Instead, he focused on the real question.
“What are you doing here?”
Sam sighed, finally shifting his weight, his expression softer now. “I figured you’d be pissed.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “That’s one word for it.”
Sam studied him for a long moment. “You went to see Caldwell, didn’t you?”
Bucky didn’t answer.
Didn’t need to.
Sam let out a sharp breath. “Damn it, Barnes.”
Bucky bristled. “What, I was just supposed to sit back and do nothing? Let some politician try to screw you over and not do something about it?”
Sam’s gaze held his, steady and unreadable. “And what exactly did you do?”
Bucky tilted his head slightly. “Just had a chat.”
Sam snorted. “Right. A CHAT.”
Bucky’s expression darkened, something sharpflickering behind his eyes. “I made sure he knows this isn’t a fight he’s gonna win.”
Sam’s mouth pressed into a thin line, exhaling slowly. “You can’t just go around threatening senators, Bucky.”
Bucky’s gaze hardened. “You think I CARE about that?”
Sam held his stare, something unreadable behind his eyes.
Bucky didn’t look away.
Didn’t back down.
Because this wasn’t just about politics.
It wasn’t just about bureaucracy.
This was Sam.
And Bucky would not let anyone come for him.
Finally, after a long silence, Sam sighed. “I’m not trying to argue with you.”
Bucky crossed his arms, still waiting for the part where Sam told him he wasn’t in trouble.
Sam hesitated, then exhaled, voice lower now. “I’m trying to protect YOU.”
Bucky stilled.
His fingers flexed at his sides, his throat tightening slightly. “I don’t need protecting, Wilson.”
Sam shook his head. “Yeah, well. That makes two of us.”
Bucky swallowed hard.
Something shifted between them then, something heavy and unspoken, something Bucky wasn’t sure either of them were ready to name.
------------------------
Bucky hadn’t moved.
Not since Sam had said those words.
I’m trying to protect you.
It was a simple statement, something that shouldn’t have hit the way it did, but Bucky felt it like a gut punch.
Because no one—NO ONE—had ever said that to him before.
Not in a way that mattered.
Not in a way that meant they saw him as something more than a weapon, more than a soldier, more than a tool that didn’t need protecting.
And the worst part?
He didn’t know what to do with that.
Didn’t know how to hold it, how to let it sit in his chest without feeling like it was going to burn through him completely.
So instead, he stood there, arms still crossed, expression carefully unreadable, watching Sam like he might be able to make sense of him if he just stared long enough.
Sam exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before leaning back against the kitchen counter, arms braced on either side of him. His body was more relaxed than before, but his eyes—his eyes—were still sharp, still watching Bucky just as much as Bucky was watching him.
Neither of them spoke for a long moment.
Then Sam sighed. “You gonna keep staring at me all night, or you wanna sit down?”
Bucky didn’t want to sit.
Didn’t want to settle into whatever this conversation was about to become.
But he did.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, then moved stiffly toward the couch, dropping down into it with the kind of forced casualness that didn’t fool either of them.
Sam smirked slightly, but there was something softer in his expression now, something less guarded. “So. You gonna tell me what you said to Caldwell?”
Bucky leaned back, resting an arm along the back of the couch. “Told him to back off.”
Sam raised a brow. “That all you said?”
Bucky smirked, but there was no humor in it. “Maybe I implied some things.”
Sam sighed, shaking his head. “God Damnit, Bucky.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. “He’s a coward, Wilson. A man who hides behind power, who thinks he’s untouchable because he’s got money and influence and a bunch of people whispering in his ear. He’s never been in a real fight in his damn life, and he’s trying to take your shield like it’s a game.”
Sam was quiet for a long moment.
Then—
“I don’t care about the shield.”
Bucky’s stomach twisted.
He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “Bullshit.”
Sam exhaled, shaking his head. “No, Barnes. I DON’T care about the shield. I care about what it means. I care about what it represents for people who never saw themselves in it before. But the actual shield? It’s just metal.”
Bucky swallowed.
Because, deep down, he knew that.
Knew that for Sam, carrying the shield had never been about legacy or pride or some self-righteous duty. It had been about doing what was right, about standing up when no one else would, about proving that Captain America could be better.
And Bucky knew that was why Caldwell—and every other politician like him—was so damn afraid of Sam.
Because Sam wasn’t playing their game.
Sam wasn’t going to fall in line.
And that meant they were going to keep coming for him.
Bucky exhaled sharply. “Then why didn’t you tell me sooner?”
Sam hesitated, his gaze flickering down for just a second before he answered. “Because I knew you’d do exactly this.”
Bucky arched a brow. “You mean protecting my friend from a power-hungry bastard?”
Sam gave him a LOOK, like he wasn’t buying into the easy deflection. “I mean throwing yourself into a fight without thinking about what it’s gonna cost YOU.”
Bucky clenched his jaw.
Because that—
That wasn’t fair.
He wasn’t reckless. He didn’t throw himself into things without calculating the risks, without knowing exactly what he was getting into.
But this—THIS—was different.
This wasn’t about him.
This was about SAM.
And that meant the risks didn’t MATTER.
Bucky exhaled sharply, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting against his knees. “I don’t care what it costs me.”
Sam’s expression flickered, frustration tightening his jaw. “That’s the damn problem.”
Bucky frowned.
Sam inhaled deeply, running a hand over his head, voice lower now. “You don’t care. You don’t think about what happens to you. You don’t stop to consider that maybe you can’t just bulldoze your way through every fight because you’ve decided it’s worth it.”
Bucky scoffed, shaking his head. “It IS worth it.”
Sam’s voice sharpened. “Not to me.”
Bucky froze.
Sam exhaled, his shoulders tense. “I won’t be the reason you lose everything you’ve worked for. I won’t be the reason you throw your life away on ME.”
Bucky’s stomach dropped.
His pulse hammered, and something hot and angry and hurt flared in his chest, burning through his lungs like he couldn’t get enough air.
“None of it matters,” Bucky said, his voice tight, sharp, “if something happens to you.”
Sam stilled.
Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, his throat tightening as he forced himself to keep talking. “You think any of this—the office, the job, the redemption bullshit—means anything to me if you’re not around? If they take you down, if they put you in a position where you can’t fight back, what the hell do you think I’m gonna do? Move on?”
Sam’s mouth pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable.
Bucky shook his head, voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I’ve lost too many people. I’m not losing you.”
Sam let out a breath, but this time, there was no sharp retort, no quick quip to diffuse the weight of Bucky’s words.
Instead, his expression hardened, something like resignation flickering in his gaze.
He nodded, just once.
Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the door.
Bucky’s chest tightened.
He could’ve stopped him.
Should’ve.
But instead, he sat there, jaw locked, heart pounding, watching as Sam left.
And the second the door shut behind him, Bucky felt the weight of something settle deep in his bones.
----------------------
Bucky had spent years mastering control.
It was the only way to survive.
Control over his body, control over his mind, control over the violence that still lived under his skin like a second heartbeat.
But standing in the middle of his empty apartment, staring at the door Sam had just walked out of, he felt like he was losing his grip on all of it.
The silence pressed in, thick and suffocating, wrapping around his ribs like barbed wire. The air still smelled like Sam, like the faint scent of his aftershave mixed with something warmer, something real.
But he was gone.
And Bucky had let him go.
He ran a hand over his jaw, fingers clenching briefly before dropping to his side. His mind was too loud, thoughts colliding into each other, unraveling at the edges, threatening to pull him under.
Because this was his fault, wasn’t it?
It always was.
The way people left him. The way they got tired of trying.
Steve had left. The war had taken Becca from him. Everyone he had ever cared about had either died or walked away, and maybe—maybe that was just what happened to people like him.
People who weren’t meant to be kept.
His fingers curled into fists, his chest tightening, breath coming sharper as he tried to push the thoughts away, tried to fight the pull of them.
But the thing about ghosts?
They never left quietly.
He needed to move.
Now.
Before the spiral took him somewhere he couldn’t claw his way back from.
So he grabbed his jacket, shoved his door open, and ran.
The night air was cold against his skin, biting at his exposed forearms as he sprinted down the sidewalk.
He didn’t have a destination.
Didn’t care where his feet took him, as long as he kept moving.
The city blurred around him, streetlights streaking past, the distant sounds of traffic humming in the background like white noise. The steady thud-thud-thud of his boots hitting pavement was the only rhythm he cared about, the only thing anchoring him to something real.
He pushed harder, muscles flexing, his body moving in perfect sync with itself, enhanced and unnatural in the way it refused to falter.
He should have been tired.
Should have felt the burn in his lungs, the ache in his legs, the sharp pull of exhaustion telling him to stop.
But the serum didn’t LET him break.
Didn’t let him wear himself down.
And that—
That just made him angrier.
He ran harder.
The city blurred into something indistinct, something he could pretend didn’t exist, didn’t matter.
The only thing that mattered was the motion.
One foot after the other.
Forward.
Always forward.
Like he could outrun whatever was clawing at his chest, twisting his ribs into knots, whispering that this is how it always ends, isn’t it?
That Sam had finally figured it out.
That Bucky Barnes wasn’t worth the effort.
That he was too much weight to carry.
Too much of a fight.
Too much of everything.
The thought burned through him, sent another spike of rage cutting through his veins.
So he kept running.
Kept pushing himself until the sky started to shift, dark bleeding into early-morning blue, the distant glow of the sun cresting over the horizon.
And still—
He wasn’t tired.
Not in the way he needed to be.
Not in the way that would make the thoughts stop.
Frustration boiled under his skin, hot and seething, curling his fingers into fists as he turned down another street, forcing himself into a sprint that should have burned, should have drained him.
But it didn’t.
Because the serum wouldn’t let him feel it.
Wouldn’t let him reach the edge of exhaustion, wouldn’t let him collapse, wouldn’t give him an ounce of damn relief.
And that—
That made him want to tear something apart.
By the time he made it back to his apartment, the sun had fully risen, washing the city in soft gold and pale blue.
Bucky stopped in front of his building, panting, body demanding motion even as he forced himself to be still.
His hands were shaking.
Not from fatigue—never from fatigue—but from something else, something deeper, something clawing at the inside of his ribcage, whispering that this is just another lesson in learning to be alone.
He stormed up the stairs, yanking the door open harder than necessary, letting it slam shut behind him.
His apartment was exactly as he left it.
Empty.
Quiet.
And he hated it.
He braced his hands against the counter, staring at the wall, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached.
Sam had left.
And Bucky wasn’t sure he was coming back.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, his pulse still hammering in his ears, adrenaline still making his fingers twitch.
The anger wasn’t burning out.
The hurt wasn’t leaving.
And no amount of running was ever going to change that.
-----------------
Bucky stared at his phone, the screen still lit with Sam’s name from the last call he had never returned. His thumb hovered over the message thread, unread texts sitting there like ghosts, taunting him.
He could text Sam now.
Could say something to undo whatever damage had been done, to patch things up before the silence stretched into something permanent.
But what the hell was he supposed to say?
‘Sorry I lost my temper?’
‘Sorry I care too much?’
‘Sorry I don’t know how to be anything but this?’
His chest tightened, frustration curling hot in his gut, twisting into something sharp.
His grip on the phone tightened—too tight—the weight of everything he wasn’t saying pressing down on him, making his pulse hammer, making his skin itch with something he didn’t know how to fix.
And then—
The phone snapped.
The screen cracked, the case bending under the pressure of his vibranium fingers before he even registered what he had done. The light flickered once before going dark, the last trace of connection to Sam gone.
Bucky exhaled sharply, forcing his hand to unclench, staring down at the ruined device in his palm.
Shit.
For a long moment, he didn’t move.
Just stood there, staring at the broken phone, at the shattered screen, at the quiet proof of how damn useless he was at keeping things together.
At keeping Sam together.
With a rough breath, he tossed the phone onto the counter and turned away, jaw tight, shoulders tense.
There was nothing left to do.
Not without making things worse.
So he left it there.
And let the silence take over.
The next few days passed in a blur of routine.
Wake up. Shower. Try to eat.
Go to work. Pretend to function.
Go home. Sit in the dark.
Repeat.
It was a cycle he had lived through before, back when he was still trying to find a reason to keep moving forward, back when everything felt like a placeholder for something real, something he wasn’t sure he would ever have.
And now?
Now, it felt like he was right back there.
Back in the hollow space between existing and living.
His office felt too bright, the congressional building a reminder that he had forced himself into this life, into this version of himself that was supposed to make up for all the damage, all the blood on his hands.
But what was the point?
If he couldn’t even hold onto the one thing that had started to make him believe it was worth it?
If he had managed to push away the only person who ever made him feel like he wasn’t alone?
His interns noticed.
They didn’t say anything, but Bucky could see the way their eyes flicked toward him when he walked in, the way their smiles were tighter, the way they hesitated before asking him to sign something.
He knew what he looked like.
Knew the hollow expression, the dark circles, the stiffness in his movements.
Knew what it meant to fall apart quietly.
And for the first time in a long time—
He didn’t care.
Didn’t bother trying to pull himself together.
Didn’t try to pretend.
Because if Sam wasn’t going to come back—
Then what was the damn point?
The worst part was the silence.
No texts. No calls.
No stupid jokes about how Bucky needed to buy furniture that wasn’t a safety hazard.
No sarcastic remarks about how he should actually eat something that wasn’t coffee and whiskey.
Just nothing.
Like Sam had finally realized that Bucky wasn’t worth the effort.
And maybe—
Maybe that was the part that hurt the most.
Because if Sam had given up—
Then Bucky wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep pretending he hadn’t already lost something he wasn’t ready to let go of.