The late-summer heat is hanging low and heavy over the marina this morning thanks to the pile of bruised, angry-looking clouds building steadily on the horizon. The storm won’t break for a few hours yet, but there’s already a hint of rain on the air.
Bucky rocks back on his heels and huffs out a breath. The sky isn’t the only thing that’s a bit bruised at the moment, he thinks wryly, but he stifles that train of thought before it can get much further. He plucks restlessly at his T-shirt with one hand, trying to circulate air against his skin. The air has a pressing, suffocating quality that isn’t doing much to ease his prickling nerves. He gives up shortly after, though, resigning himself to the coating of sweat sitting slick on… well, pretty much everything.
“What are you doing out here, Buck?”
Bucky looks up and is met with the full force of Sam Wilson’s concerned face. Bucky’s seen that expression more times than he can count - Sam wears his heart on his sleeve, for better or for worse - but it’s rarely directed at him. And Bucky should be happy Sam cares enough, and he is , really he is, but today it grates on him for reasons he can’t begin to articulate.
He swallows it as best he can for Sam’s sake and says, “Hull needed patching.” He gestures vaguely at the boat behind him as he speaks.
Sam quirks an eyebrow. Bucky wills him to let it go, just this once.
But Sam is… he’s Sam. He’s earnest and sincere and sees right through bullshit like nobody’s business. Sam cares , and he throws himself headlong into that caring the same way he throws himself headlong out of C130s with no ‘chute and no semblance of a plan. And that is the precise reason why he has the shield. Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers are cut from the same cloth, all right, and anyone who says differently is woefully off base.
Steve never learned to leave well enough alone, so Bucky knows better than to expect Sam to do any different. This does not, however, mean he is particularly happy when Sam parks himself on the dock and says, “Okay, spill. What’s wrong?”
There’s pressure mounting behind Bucky’s eyes now, not unlike the pressure building in the air. He exhales slowly through his nose before trying to formulate a response that will satisfy Sam.
“Just a dream,” he says at length. “That’s all.”
Except there is no just . Not when Bucky jerks awake after these dreams, chest heaving, sweat beading along his hairline, the taste of iron making his stomach roll and the sharp tang of it thick in his nostrils. Not when the moments of disorientation that follow are frighteningly overwhelming, second only to the nauseating realization that whatever he’s dreamed of was real at some point in his life.
Sam’s face pinches. Bucky has to look away. Just take your answer and go, he thinks. Not everything has to be a discussion, and even now, after everything, there are some things Bucky has no intention of talking about. Ever. With Sam, or anyone else. But inevitably, right on cue -
“Wanna talk?” Sam offers.
Bucky restrains himself from snapping in reply, but it’s a close thing. He manages to grit out a stiff “no” and acts like he doesn’t see Sam’s face tighten. It feels cheap, considering Sam is going out of his way to check in on Bucky and is already gearing up to pitch himself right in the middle of today’s shitshow.
It’s Sam’s turn to blow out a breath. “Bucky…”
“It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before.” Bucky sets aside the jug of epoxy previously resting on his knee with more force than is strictly necessary. The heavy thump of plastic against the deck is unnaturally loud in the stillness that’s settled around them. He has the distinct impression that the whole world is watching them with bated breath.
“I know,” Sam says, hands raised in a placating gesture. “I just figured I would offer, ‘cos sometimes you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”
There’s an element of truth to this, as per usual. Bucky would even be willing to acknowledge that, if not for the ugly thing brewing in his chest. Anger and shame and another half-dozen things besides vie for his attention, and he can’t quite reconcile the clamoring inside his head with the silence outside of it.
The silence stretches. Bucky watches the slow roll of the water as it washes against the dock in lazy slaps. It’s calm for now; the wind hasn’t picked up yet. He squints when the sun hits the surface in just the right way, throwing the light into his eyes, and remembers another day, another river, fingers grasping for purchase as he dangled one-handed from the ruins of the helicarrier - the smoke heavy and acrid in his throat, blinding him but not enough that he can’t see the man falling below him - you know me - the sudden, horrific clarity - you’re my mission -
“ - Bucky .”
“Sam,” he says automatically, wondering absently how many times Sam’s called his name. He blinks, hard, and in spite of everything he’s tempted to roll his eyes when he sees the look on Sam’s face.
“You alright, man?”
“God, you’re worse than Steve,” Bucky grumbles, in no hurry to answer the question. “And he had no business being a mother hen when he couldn’t go five minutes without getting himself in trouble - ”
“You’re avoiding the question,” Sam interrupts, but there’s something fond in the way his mouth curves up ever so slightly.
Bucky wrinkles his nose but plays along, for Sam’s sake. “I’m okay.”
“That was convincing.”
“I’m fine, Sam.”
Sam mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like I don’t get paid enough for this . Bucky elects not to comment on it. Then, also for Sam’s sake, he adds, “I’ll be alright.”
He very carefully refrains from adding not like there’s any other option. It’ll only upset Sam – he hates when Bucky says things like that. And - Bucky can see why. Mostly. He figures it’s the same reason Steve used to look impossibly sad whenever Bucky referred to himself as a weapon.
You’re my mission.
Ice crawls up his spine despite the oppressive heat. Logically, he knows that this latest round of nightmares doesn’t diminish the progress he’s made; Dr. Raynor frequently makes a point of reminding him that healing isn’t linear. Bucky can even bring himself to believe it sometimes, for all that he rolls his eyes whenever she says it. But there is another part of him, equally logical, that knows he has miles to go. Those miles feel insurmountable some days.
He risks another dose of worried Sam Wilson in favor of releasing a heavy sigh. It seems to fight him every step of the way – Delacroix’s particular brand of humidity is like a living thing on days like this.
“You know,” Sam says thoughtfully, softly, “no one expects you to be one hundred percent.”
Bucky weighs this. Some people - a lot of people - might disagree, fearful of what less than one hundred percent might look like for a recovering supersoldier just a few years removed from HYDRA. But here, in this slice of Louisiana that’s built on something sweet and slow, that he’s come to think of as a sanctuary, he’s welcomed with open arms as he is.
Sarah summed it up pretty well a few months ago, not long after he first showed up on her porch gun-shy and skittish but determined: when people here look at you, they see you. The person you are now. And then, as the headiness of it sank in, she’d added, We’re not afraid of you, Bucky.
She’s a remarkable woman, Bucky thinks - not in the least because she’d taken his initial reticence in stride, had the good grace not to misinterpret it as standoffishness. Sarah Wilson believes in second chances, even when she has every right not to. He can think of plenty of people with less claim to hurt who scoff at the idea.
He glances sidelong at Sam. He and Sarah are similar in that way.
Sam’s brows furrow. “What?”
Bucky shakes his head. Sam purses his lips, searching Bucky’s face. The skepticism doesn’t come from a place of mistrust, Bucky knows. Sam means well. He always does, even if he makes a hobby of driving Bucky up a wall.
Sam studies him a moment longer, then settles back. “Okay, Buck,” he says. “Okay.”
The silence that settles over them is just as charged as it was before, but it’s amicable now. Bucky lets it wash over him, sink deep into his bones. The clouds are growing darker; this storm’s gonna be a doozy. He tips his face to the sky, enjoying the almost-but-not-quite too hot sun on his face while it lasts.
He both hears and feels the approaching footsteps reverberate behind them. He looks around in time to see Sam lift a hand in greeting and can’t help smiling at Sarah’s subsequent “hey.” He doesn’t bother rearranging his expression even when Sam shoots him a sharp look.
“You two going to sit here all day like a bunch of old men?” Sarah’s smile is open, teasing.
“Considering present company - ” Sam begins with a significant look at Bucky.
“You’re welcome to join us,” Bucky interrupts.
Sarah tilts her head. “Work’s not gonna do itself, you know.”
He shrugs. “It’ll be there.”
Which isn’t untrue. There’s always something to be done – Sarah has two boys and a house and the boat to look after, not to mention the community at large. Bucky and Sam pitch in as much as she lets them, but at the end of the day Sarah runs the show. Sam claims this is a family trait and Delacroix would fall apart without his sister to prop it up. Bucky agrees.
He smiles up at her and waits. Her face softens, and she lowers herself gracefully to perch next to Sam, sweeping a few errant braids over her shoulder with one hand.
“Cheater,” Sam grumbles.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bucky returns, letting himself indulge in a look of wide-eyed innocence.
“Asshole.”
“Sam,” Sarah chides, the same way she does when the boys are getting a bit too rambunctious.
“You know, you should be on my side,” Sam says, pointing an accusing finger at his sister, who looks supremely unimpressed. Bucky is reminded forcibly of his own sisters.
“Whatever you say, Sam,” Sarah replies, and doesn’t dignify Sam’s protests with a response. She does, however, glance at Bucky for a fraction of a second and wink. His heart seems to give a more forceful thump, and he grins in return.
If this is the future he gets after seventy years of horrors he couldn’t begin to imagine had he not lived it, he thinks, it isn’t half-bad. Sam has lapsed into discontented muttering, and Sarah is gazing out at the horizon thoughtfully, her eyes creased in amusement. There’s a future there , too, but he’s still figuring that one out. In the meantime...
No, Bucky decides, not bad at all.