--
2016
The first time it happens is in Wakanda. Bucky's been out of cryo for a while now, but it's only been two days since Ayo made the final confirmation that the trigger words are gone.
That he is free.
He spends this newly-found freedom trying to figure out who he is in the small Wakandan hut T’Challa graciously offered him, with goats peacefully grazing nearby.
It's a surprise when Sam shows up even before Steve does. Before Siberia, they had barely talked to each other; stuck in the age-old awkwardness of having one mutual friend but not sharing a friendship with one another.
"Hey, White Jesus," Sam says to him, after roaming his gaze over Bucky's body for five seconds too many. It makes Bucky squirm, wishing he'd have washed his hair or clothes.
Bucky gulps like a fish for a second longer, still stuck in the surprise of seeing somebody who isn't from Wakanda - Sam at that - but then remembers the part he's supposed to play.
"Sup, birdie. Did your wings grow tired?" Friend of a friend.
Sam huffs a laugh, and steps closer, eyes now taking in the hut Bucky just came out of and the small lake behind him. "Nah, Steve sent me to check in on you. He heard, that, you know," that Bucky no longer is a killing machine at the mercy of 10 words, Bucky fills in the blank in his head "um, yeah, so. He'll show up soon enough, but he sent his best person to take a look at how you're doing."
Bucky raises an eyebrow, willing down the small disappointment of knowing Sam was only here because he was sent. Friend of a friend. "His best person?" He looked around. "I don't see Romanoff anywhere here."
"Ha," Sam deadpans, "I see, that humor of yours hasn't been fixed yet." But his posture relaxes a little and his smile seems a little less pitying.
They spend the rest of the day in surprisingly good companionship.
They quip at each other, yes, but the lack of any violent confrontation seems to relax both of them. Or maybe it's just Bucky who is more relaxed than he has been in 70 years.
It takes little time for Bucky to realize Sam is full of kindness – the type of kindness that is shown through small gestures and attention to details others would miss in conversations. An hour or so into it, Sam asks. “Can I ask you a question? What would you like to be called?”
Bucky’s confused and only looks back at Sam, blankly.
“I mean,” the other man explains, “I know Steve calls you Bucky, ‘cause that’s what he used to call you, but I don’t know if you’re still cool with that name. And I know people here just call you White Wolf, but I don’t know, that seems a little ridiculous to me.”
Sam smiles at him then, in a way that makes Bucky think that if he would insist on being called White Wolf, Sam would do it in a heartbeat, even while teasing.
“Bucky is fine,” he mumbles then, because it is. He might no longer be the person that nickname was once given to, but he likes growing into his own version of it.
“You still like your last name?” Sam prods, “And what about a title, you still wanna be seen as a Sergeant?”
Bucky doesn’t reply, just averts his eyes to hide the tears in them. I don’t know, he doesn’t say, but he thinks Sam hears it anyways.
At night, Sam takes Bucky's bed, because, as Bucky has to emphasize four times before Sam relents, Bucky sleeps on the floor anyway.
That's how he finds himself a few hours later, startling into wakefulness with a scream - the words may no longer have the power over his mind when he's awake, but it's another thing when he's dreaming. Bucky can taste copper on his tongue, feels bones breaking, and hears his victims’ last pleas when there's another voice, this one gentle.
"Bucky, hey, man. You alright?"
He looks up, finds Sam a few feet away, looking sleepy but understanding. "Nightmare?"
Bucky just nods, returns his gaze to the floor. He's too afraid his voice will tell the other man all the stories he wishes he'd left behind him.
"You wanna go back to sleep?"
He shakes his head. Sleep won't come any time soon, it never does. He expects Sam to leave him to it, take whatever sleep he himself can get; after all, he too doesn't lead a lifestyle that allows for much of it.
But instead, Sam shuffles closer, letting himself plummet to the ground next to Bucky, leaning against the couch and crossing his arms.
"Good, because I still have to tell you about all the shit Steve's been doing in the last two years. Like you wouldn't believe it."
So, Sam talks, Bucky doesn't. He doesn't ask why Sam stays up with him either. But he listens and finds himself absorbed in the absurd stories about a man out of time and his runaway band of semi-criminals.
Later, he blinks open an eye he hadn't even realized he had closed. There are gentle fingers running through his hair, tracing patterns along his scalp, which makes his body feel tingly.
"Sam?" he grunts and squints against the light, eyes struggling to open entirely.
The hand starts to retract from his scalp, so Bucky lets out a pitiful whine he'll be embarrassed by tomorrow. "No, 's nice."
"Please," he adds when he feels the other man hesitating.
With a rumbling low laugh, the hand begins again carding through Bucky's hair.
He lets out a contented sigh and lets his eyes fall closed completely again.
Before he drifts off, he hears Sam whisper in amusement. "They call you White Wolf, huh? Nah, you're more like a White Kitten."
--
2023.1
Sam ends up staying for a while and returns every now and then until Thanos happens. With each time, Bucky begins looking forward to the next one a little more.
And if that is partly due to the fact that he'd have the best sleep when Sam gently scratches his scalp, then that is a secret only between him and his goats.
After the blip, after Steve leaves, they don't see each other. Bucky's fault, he knows now. He was too caught up in his own hurt he couldn't see that Sam was also hurting and that his reaching out wasn't only an offer for comfort but also the need for it.
Instead of reaching out, he lies his way through therapy and meets up with women for a night, enjoying making them cry out for reasons that have nothing to do with fear or murder. Every now and then he let some handsome guy fuck him in one run-down bar or another and does not think of Sam.
When they reunite, things are tense. Neither of them say what they really mean, both feeling betrayed by the other's actions in their own way.
When the Flag Smasher confrontation is over, Bucky is glad that he and Sam managed to sort out their issues.
He hasn't felt at peace like he does when he visits Sam, Sarah, and the kids for the cookout in Louisiana ever since he'd been in Wakanda. Sam keeps bugging him about his name, seemingly not having found Bucky’s answer in Wakanda to be to his satisfaction (Can’t call you Buck, can’t call you Barnes. So, what is it you wanna be called?)
He stays in Delacroix for a while after that. Helping Sam with the boat, Sarah with the cooking and playing too many fighting games with the boys, not having the heart to tell them that he'd rather pretend to be doing anything rather than what he’d been forced into doing most of his life.
He feels at home here, accepted without a second thought, and he doesn't know what he did to deserve this - deserve Sam.
Because that is what this all boils down to, in the end, Bucky knows. He could have behaved however politely he wanted, but if Sam hadn't been the one to trust him, the one to introduce him to his family and promise Sarah that he is a good person now, not who he used to be, he knows he would not have been received as thoughtlessly.
But he had, and Bucky is beyond grateful.
It is almost disappointing when they are called out to a new mission, but life has to go on.
They are chasing the extremists that had split from the Flag Smashers with the conviction the only way to convince the world of their cause would be mass violence.
The mission should be simple, all the Flag Smashers are basically in their diapers still and none of them are even enhanced. So, it's only Sam and Bucky out here, with Torres waiting in the jet close by for pick up.
The mission should be simple, but it isn't.
Or well, it kind of is - they manage to catch the kids pretty easily. But it isn’t because they underestimated the kids’ willingness to give their life for the cause. Underestimated the appeal of the idea of being a martyr as long as that means taking out one of the 'enemies' too. And who better than Captain America and his sidekick?
Luckily, Sam and Bucky together seem to have made an impression on the kids, and they don't try anything while Captain America and the former Winter Soldier are still fighting them together.
Unlucky for Bucky though, he is holding the last boy to the wall of the warehouse they are in, while Sam escorts the other two to the jet to be transported right to court.
Later, Bucky thinks the boy might have waited for Sam to leave in the first place, because he knew Sam could avoid an attack with his vibranium wings. It’s Bucky who is the weak link now. It’s his own fault really, since he didn’t have the guts to ask Wakanda for a vibranium suit for himself, too, not after everything with Zemo and how they still continued to help him.
Later, Bucky realizes how this particular boy had only been fighting his way to him beforehand; the others focusing on keeping Sam away from Bucky and the boy. Clearly targeting him.
But that is later.
Now, he is busy noticing how the Flag Smasher smirks, presses a button that shouldn't be on his jacket, even as Bucky tightens his restrained hold on him, and then a beeping sound that quickly accelerates.
He tries running out of the warehouse, towards where Sam is heading back to pick them up. He is almost out, catching a glimpse of Sam’s face, frowning in confusion as Bucky screams through the comms for him to back away.
But before he can make it out, his world explodes.
There is something in his side, is the first thing he realizes. The pain can hardly be ignored, it feels like it's ripping him apart.
With every jolt of the world around him, it feels like another bomb explodes in his side.
Bomb.
Recognition bolts through him. Sam was close to him when the bomb went off. He needs to get up, get this thing out of his body to see if Sam is alright if Sam is alive. God, what if-
His left arm that was hastily trying to get the bar of metal out of his side is gently pried away. A warm hand closes Bucky's to a fist and cradles it.
Although Bucky's new vibranium arm still isn’t receptive in the same way as a flesh arm, the carefully crafted receptors still know whose hand this is.
Sam.
Instantaneously, he is exempted from the panic and instead flooded with relief, the rest of his senses powering back on. He blinks to see the outline of Sam's unharmed body leaning over him. Through the ringing in his ears, he can hear him rambling.
"Hey, hey. Good to see you with us again, had me worried there for a second." Sam must have inhaled some of the smoke, Bucky thinks dimly because his eyes are red-rimmed and his voice hoarse and shaky. "C'mon, keep those big blue eyes open for me. That's right, you're doing so good, Bucky. Torres says we're almost there, just a minute longer."
A sharp tug on his hair forces Bucky to open his eyes again, only to look up and see Sam’s face much closer to his now, whispering. "No, it's not time for sleep yet. Just a while longer, okay? Come on, we got this, Buck."
Sam continues talking but Bucky is too focused on the hand that stays in his hair. It’s short now, and probably full of ashes from the bomb, but Sam still runs his hand through it, every now and then lightly scratching Bucky's scalp. It’s the last thing he feels before the world blackens once more.
Later, when Bucky wakes up in the hospital bed with Sam telling him off for falling unconscious on him, Bucky thinks it wouldn't be too wise to tell Sam the final reason why he drifted off wasn't just from the pain or the blood loss, but the comfort of Sam's hand threading through his hair that reminded him of all the times he did that in Wakanda.
No, he will definitely not tell Sam this. That would violate the unspoken rules of the half-assed friend-of-a-friend-turned-into-reluctant-not-partners-but-kind-of-partners-schtick they got going.
Instead, he grumbles back at Sam that he's fine, it's no big deal, don't get dramatic on me, Wilson, and revels quietly in the way that Sam's entire body relaxes at that, even as he launches into a lecture about not getting yourself killed.
He purposefully doesn't bring up the fact that Sam still has both his hands clutched to Bucky's right one, as if it was his anchor.
--
2023.2
Sam insists Bucky come to Delacroix for his recovery.
Bucky only puts up a facade of arguing that he is going to be fine within a few days thanks to the serum because that's just how they do things but really, he wants nothing more than be in that safe haven known as the Wilson family home for as long as he gets to.
So, he makes himself comfortable in Sam's bed, with the other man temporarily on the couch - that had been a longer and more earnest argument, because Bucky didn't see the point in Sam giving up his comfort just because Bucky was in a little bit of pain (Sam had honest-to-god growled at Bucky when he said “a little bit”.) The fight had abruptly come to an end when Sarah, already annoyed by their bickering, had leveled him with a firm gaze and said "Don't be daft, Bucky. You're injured and need the rest most of us all. So, you either take Sam's bed or I'll give you mine. Your choice." So yes, that was the end of that.
The bed is comfortable; too comfortable. Bucky still hasn't gotten used to sleeping on a mattress. But for the first two days, his body's energy is entirely being used up by healing his injuries, so he drifts off into an easy slumber both nights.
It's the third day now, and Bucky has been lying awake for what he thinks is at least an hour. He's tired and feeling a little guilty. Guilty, because though he may not be too well versed in 21st-century etiquette, rubbing one off to the scent of your friend while in said friend’s bed may not be entirely appropriate. But he's been resisting the urge for the past three days and thought it'd help with his restlessness.
It didn't.
Instead, he feels his thoughts spinning more than ever, first to Sam and his smooth skin, the expanse of his back and his muscular thighs -
And then, because Bucky has to chastise his already again interest-expressing dick, his mind wanders back to his usual nightmares full of blood and screams.
After another hour or so, his past and present have merged together so much, that he startles up out of a half-slumber with Sarah's begging him to kill her instead of her sons ringing in his ears.
Suddenly, it's too hot in the room. The bed's too soft, swallowing him up. Sleep, he knows, would now no longer be a comfort but a risk.
A risk of turning him back into his past and a risk not only to himself but to those he trusts.
He darts out of the room accepts the pain from the injury at his ribs as a trade-off for ensuring the others' safety. As he runs down the stairs, his need for air increases just as his ability to breathe seems to be punched out of him.
He barely makes it through the front door, out to the veranda into the mild summer night, before he collapses to his knees. He has half a mind to use his arms to try to cushion his head from hitting the wood; trembling hands coming to fist in his hair.
It's quiet outside, but he can make out footsteps coming closer to him over the roaring in his ears.
It's them. They found him. They'll take him back. They'll find a way to make him forget again.
A door opens somewhere.
God, what if he forgets this? Forgets Sam. What if he hurts him once he's a mindless killer? What if -
There is a hand on his back, and Bucky flinches upwards, doesn't even wait for the hand to touch him long enough to inflict the pain it surely was intended to cause, because he has to fight for this to not happen again.
He can't go back. Won't go back. He'd rather die than give back in.
He catches one of his attackers by their torso, hands lashing out, and pushes them against the wall of the house. They aren't really fighting back, so maybe Bucky knocked them out already.
He cannot go back. He never wants them to call him Soldat again. Asset. Toy.
His left arm lifts back, to throw the punch to make sure his opponent stays down too, but -
He only wants people to call him Bucky now, with the exception of one. Damnit, he hadn't even yet told Sam it'd be okay for him to call him -
- "Buck!"
His vibranium arm halts in the air. The shout sounds too real, too raw.
Bucky opens his eyes, takes in Sam, pressed against the wall by Bucky's flesh arm against his torso, his metal fist only inches from Sam’s face, ready to crush him.
He finds Sam's eyes. There should be fear in them, rage, disgust even.
But he only sees Sam in them. Patience, caution and so much goodness it hurts. That's what finally makes him stumble backward, hands sinking down.
He mutters out apologies while looking at the ground he'd been on seconds before. His vision is blurring again, this time not due to panic, but shame.
"Fuck, I'm so sorry, S- Sam. I can't - I'll. I'll leave. I'm so fucking sorry."
Sam doesn't reply, which Bucky figures is fair, given what he’s just done. Given how much of a risk he is. A threat. So, he makes a move to turn around. Leave Delacroix and the best thing that happened to him in a century behind.
But then arms are around him, holding him back and turning him around. He goes willingly, even if or maybe because the arms are gentle, not forcing him to.
Sam’s arms engulf him, one cradles his neck and the other goes over his lower back. Though his arms rest loose, Sam presses himself close to him, as if to assure Bucky can't escape his grasp.
Bucky wouldn't dare try. Not when he is now being engulfed in the same smell that had kept him up in the first place. The same smell that felt more like safety than any place has had to Bucky in this century.
Not when Sam is angling his head to Bucky's left ear, whispering soothingly.
"Shh. Your name is Bucky Barnes, although you still haven’t told me what title or name you actually want, you asshole. You're safe here. Hydra’s gone, and I won’t let anyone get to you again. We're at Sarah's house, in Delacroix. You're safe here. I' won't let anyone get to you, okay? I got you, Buck. I got you."
Over and over he repeats it.
You're safe. I got you.
I got you.
I got you.
Safe.
When Sam starts to try to lead Bucky back inside, Bucky disentangles himself from the one-sided hug and takes a step back to look Sam in the eyes.
His gaze is soft and his skin glowing in the gentle moonlight. He looks beautiful and so, so kind.
"Thank you, Sammy," he says quietly and means it. "I know I'm safe here. But," he steels himself for his next words, knowing they need to be said. "I am not safe. Not safe for you to be around. I can't stay here, Sammy. Not when I've just almost crushed your skull because I was stuck in some nightmare. Not when it could've been Sarah or the boys instead of you." His voice is shaking traitorously.
"I'm too dangerous to be here, Sammy. I have to go."
His gaze hasn't left Sam's, so he can see the other man's eyes soften.
"No, Bucky. Come on. Sarah and the boys know what it's like to live with a traumatized vet. They've seen me like this plenty of times."
"But I could hurt them, or - or worse."
"You won't," Sam says, with no hesitation. No indication in his face that would point towards dishonesty.
Bucky has to scoff at that, incredulous. "Sam, I literally just attacked you."
"Almost" Sam corrects him, tone as even and gentle as ever. "It was a mistake, on my part anyway, to touch you. Honestly, I thought you were passed out, so that's on me."
"No," Sam stops Bucky's arising protests with a hand on his shoulder. "You wouldn't have hurt me either way. You didn't hurt me. You snapped out of it."
"But what if next time I will hurt you? Won’t be able to wake up in time?" Because there will be a next time. Bucky is beyond lying to himself that he will never have a nightmare again, that he will never wake up in a panic that blurs the lines of past and present. "What if I don't stop myself then?"
"You will." And then, sensing Bucky's lingering resistance, he adds quietly "D'you trust me?"
Bucky nods. "Of course."
Sam locks eyes with him for a second, searching and then his face settles into an easy smile, satisfied with what he seems to have found in Bucky's gaze.
"Then trust me that I trust you. Trust me that I trust you to be around my family. To be part of my family."
Bucky's eyes are filling with tears. After a while, he nods, and croaks out "okay."
They settle on the couch - Sam's temporary bed - drinking some tea and watching late-night TV. During the night, Bucky ends up sitting on the floor in front of Sam, Sam's fingers carding idly through his hair. His head is tipped back against the couch in between Sam's opened legs and he’s enjoying the familiarity and sensation of the touch.
“Why is it so important to you to know what I want to be called officially?” Bucky asks after a while, remembering the little detail from earlier. “You know I’m okay with Bucky, why is the rest important?”
“It doesn’t have to be,” Sam replies, pensive, “but I think it is to you. You’ve gone a century with people telling you who you are, who you should be. And in choosing your name and title, I think you have the power to tell everyone which is the version of you that you see in yourself, and which is the version that everyone should accept.”
Bucky hums in agreement because that does make sense to him. It also makes him feel mushy that Sam thought about it that carefully.
“Sam?” he prods after a stretch of silence.
“Yeah?”
“I understand now. And I know what I like to be called now.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Please call me the Dark Lord.”
That startles out a laugh of Sam, and Bucky can’t help but grin at the little snort behind him and feels his insides all light up.
“You’re such a nerd, asshole,” Sam says, but Bucky can hear the smile still in his voice and his fingers still working soothingly on his scalp. They fall quiet once more and Bucky finds it just a little easier to breathe deeply.
"You know you can tell me when the nightmares get this bad again, right?" Sam asks after a long time spent in silence.
Bucky, half-dozed off, lazily blinks his eyes open, lifts his head even further, and squints against the ceiling lights to catch Sam's eyes over his head. "Hm?"
Sam huffs a breath, gently turns Bucky's pliant body around so that Bucky is facing the couch and Sam, now directly positioned between Sam's spread legs. Bucky feels a blush rising on his cheeks by how close his face is to Sam's crotch and how his hand is still massaging Bucky's scalp.
"I said, you could tell me when the nightmares get bad again, you know?" Sam repeats. "Remember what we did in Wakanda? It worked well, didn't it? I wouldn't mind helping you sleep. And honestly, I'd prefer sharing my bed with you over staying on this couch for another night longer."
Bucky hummed, again losing himself in the sensation on his scalp, a tingling feeling spreading across it. "Yeah" he replies eventually, too tired to pretend this isn't exactly what he's been wanting for a while now. "I'd like that."
Sam smiles at him then, and Bucky thinks he might just be okay.
For the remainder of the week, they sleep in the same bed. Sam sometimes cards his fingers through Bucky's hair even when they're not trying to sleep, just watching TV or playing board games with the kids.
And Bucky sleeps better than he has ever since leaving Wakanda.
--
2024
The next time, Bucky wishes didn't happen.
Not because he doesn't love Sam's fingers gently tugging at his hair, but because of what happened before.
Now, he is wearing one of Sam's air force hoodies over his battle suit, the only thing he had accepted when Sarah came over and stayed until the doctors were sure Sam would be fine with a promise to return as soon as possible. Bucky wonders if Sarah knew this particular hoodie was the one he stole from Sam while he was recovering in Delacroix and which he wore most days, or, honestly, come to think of it, if no matter what hoodie of Sam's she'd have brought in, Bucky had probably worn and come to love all of them at some point or other.
The mission they had been on was a bust from the start. What was supposed to be a simple recon mission in a quasi-abandoned tower with a skeleton crew of hostiles had quickly turned into a violent fight for survival in the definitely not-abandoned building with dozens of hostiles that were armed to the brim, prepared to take down an army of super soldiers.
Sam had flown them onto the roof of the building for easy access, but, before they could so much as get two floors lower, they were attacked by at least 15 heavily armed and well-trained operatives.
They had been holding their ground but decided that escape was the safest option, slowly drawing their attackers with them back to the roof. Torres was shouting over the grunts through their comms the ETA for backup. "10 Minutes!" was his newest update. Too long for them to keep fighting; every fallen agent seemingly replaced by two more competent ones.
Bucky alone had struck down five opponents, but estimated at least twenty were still somewhere around them.
"Run!" Sam screamed at him now, from his position slightly lower on the stairs. "I'll cover us." He brought up his wings as a temporary shield and tossed the real shield to Bucky.
Bucky caught it easily, knocked the last conscious agent he dealt with out, and sprinted the last half-flight of stairs upwards.
He pushed out the door, struck by the blinding sun outside, and held it open with his metal arm for Sam.
When the other man didn't immediately follow suit, he shouted into the comms, "What are you doing, birdie? Building a goddamn nest in there?"
He just heard grunts as an answer. "Haha, funny,” came the reply a few minutes later, Sam’s voice audibly strained.
After a few seconds longer of no Captain America appearing, Bucky prodded, concerned. "You good?"
"All peachy, not hurt. It's just-" another grunt, that gave Bucky the urge to head back into the fight. "It's just, they shocked my wings, or something, man, I don't know. They won't react anymore. Flying us out of here will be a little hard."
"ETA 5 Minutes!" Torres shouted.
"Fuck," Bucky cursed. "I'm coming back in."
"No, no, no, Bucky don't. I can't hold this here for much longer, and it's better if we tried locking them in there and at least stall for time a bit until Joaquín arrives." Another grunt, Bucky’s finger twitched for a gun. "Just, maybe can you smoke 'em? Shoot over my wings so they'll be disoriented for a bit. I'll retreat, we'll block the door then."
"Okay," Bucky replied, already holstering one of his smoke grenades, a new addition to his weapons. "Ready on three, two, one."
He sprung back to the opening of the door, aimed the grenade into the small opening over Sam's wings, not needing to check to know it would hit its marks.
Smoke erupted from behind Sam's barrier and Sam sprinted upwards, wings still half-opened. He managed to squeeze through the metal door unharmed, lunging outside as Bucky slammed the door shut and jammed it with an attacker’s rifle.
He turned around, looking at Sam, who was already crouching on the ground, working on his wrist gauntlet.
"This won't hold for long," Bucky said, putting a hand to Sam's shoulder to lead him further away from the door, closer to the edge of the roof.
Sam got back on his feet and followed Bucky, nodding at him, letting his eyes roam over his body presumably to look for any injuries, and replied, "Yeah, I know. 'm trying to figure out how they're blocking the wings." They were still half-raised behind Sam's back, but now fluttering a little as a reaction to whatever Sam was doing on his gauntlets. "Torres, where are ya?"
"ETA two minutes, Cap." The line crackled with his voice, tone apologetic. "Sorry, we're pushing as fast as we can."
"Don't worry 'bout us," Sam replied calmly, but Bucky saw him eyeing the still-closed door where they could hear forceful blows being administered that would render the barrier useless within a few moments. "The old man and I will hold up alright, we'll just need you for the clean-up."
Bucky's heart warmed at Sam's reassurance of the younger man, even when he himself was the one in danger.
"We'll deal with the last few stragglers, isn't that right, Buck?" Sam turned to him, expectantly looking into his eyes.
Bucky rolled his eyes, slipping back into their good-natured banter but also turned back to the door that was splintering open. "Sure. We'll see who you'll call old after, Birdbrain."
Sam tutted. “Pah, so, you can call me names but still won’t tell me what name you’d like to be called?”
Bucky raised his eyebrows – at Sam, and at the sound of the door slowly splintering. “Really? That’s what you care about? Now?”
“What?” Sam asked innocently, “I need to know who exactly I can address all my fan mail to. Can’t really put Dark Lord on them, huh?”
“Ha,” Bucky hummed. Sam smirked back at him and then they were off again, agents already streaming past the broken door.
They both faced about three each and were both pressed close to the edge of the roof.
Bucky managed to knock out one of his opponents with a clean hit to his temple but had to advance back further when another one whizzed out a taser close to his left arm. He was right on the edge of the roof now, the barrier behind him not even reaching up to his waist.
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Sam struggling with his last agent standing, his wings now again retracting and expanding at his will, even if a little sluggishly.
"ETA 30 seconds," he heard Torres shout, and was flooded with a sense of relief because he could hold his own for 30 more seconds.
But then he saw the agent he had knocked out earlier raise his gun at Sam, who was too preoccupied with his own fight to notice.
"Sam, look out!" He could see Sam startle around to face him and his other opponent falling to the floor behind him, but he knew it wasn't quick enough.
So, Bucky raised his own gun and shot the man's extended arm twice, just before he could squeeze the trigger. Bucky would have shot another bullet for good measure, but he realized belatedly he was out of ammunition.
The agent's gun cluttered back to the ground with a pained scream, and Bucky's eyes flitted back to Sam, relieved at finding the other man unharmed.
His eyes then found face and he was startled to find Sam looking at him wide-eyed, mouth opening in a scream and shield raising in a desperate toss. "Buck!"
Bucky had half a second to wonder what he was on about when he, too, realized he had given up his own defense in order to come to Sam's and was now teetering on the roof's edge, unarmed and with an agent pressing close to him.
The same taser as before came down onto his exposed jugular before he could dodge it. Bucky's body seized up painfully but in a familiar way. He was boneless, current running through him, and the agent's momentum pushed him slightly backward and-
And, just like that, hearing the familiar sound of shield hitting flesh, the current was gone.
But so was the ground underneath his feet.
Desperately, Bucky tried to will his still seizing muscles to raise his arms to catch himself on the edge of the roof but it was too late.
He was falling.
Goddammit, why did it always have to be falling?
The air was warmer this time but the rushing in his ears was just as loud as back in the Alps, although Sam's scream still reverberated in his head.
Of course, just when he had finally really gotten used to living again.
Bucky could feel the ground rushing closer, his breath erratic and painful, expecting to hit the concrete at any second.
But then something slammed into him - not from below but from above.
Something human - Sam. It was Sam.
Sam had jumped after him. Sam was going to fly them out of here.
Sam aligned his body over Bucky's as well as possible, extending his wings, which thankfully seemed to fully work again. Bucky could hear his thrusters working and the wings' resistance slowing them down except -
Except Bucky knew intuitively that they were already too close to the ground. The tower was high, but not that high. Not a skyscraper, by far.
And Sam, though an idiot he may be, was not that kind of idiot. If anything, he knew flying and freefalling better than any other being on this planet save actual birds, which meant he, too, had to know this wasn’t going to work.
Bucky had half a mind to scream what an idiot Sam was as he felt Sam's wings coming around them, closing in and Sam turning them so he was the one falling under Bucky and not the other way around. The last thing he felt was his head being pushed into the crook of Sam's neck and strong hands protectively cradling it before the world went black.
Bucky woke up, disoriented and in pain to a dazzlingly bright hospital room. Nurses and doctors came in to placate him and tell him how lucky he had been to survive a fall like this with only minor injuries and cracked ribs. Lucky, he scoffed at them and kept asking for his partner.
Eventually, surrendering, they let Bucky pace into the waiting area, where they told him to wait until Sam was out of surgery.
Not out of the woods yet but it’s looking good, one doctor told him after a few hours. Slight complications, but we'll keep you updated, please stay calm, said another after a few more hours. And then, finally, after half a day, in which Sarah had arrived - Sarah, who the hospital staff had to call and tell that her brother might not make it because of Bucky- a nurse told them he's stable, you can go see him now.
So here Bucky is, sitting in a hospital room, waiting for Sam to wake up.
He looks like death warmed over, lifeless and still, dark skin covered entirely either by bruises or by gauze, hiding the worst injuries. He is hooked up to IVs and machines. The one monitoring Sam's heartbeat with regular beeping feels like it is giving Bucky his lifeline, too.
He stays right next to Sam's left side on an uncomfortable plastic chair, rigid at first, but then, as the hours go by without Sam waking up, slumping forwards until eventually, his head lays down next to Sam's bandaged hip.
He thinks back to the fall.
Bucky knows rationally that the fall could've only taken a couple of seconds at most. But in his head, as he relives his last memories before blacking out, the fall seems to stretch on for ages.
He feels Sam turning him around again and thinks that bastard, he knew exactly what he was doing, cushioning Bucky's own fall with his body and the vibranium layer of his suit. Bucky relives the moment of impact, and while again the rational part of his brain tells him he must’ve passed out immediately on impact, he swears he can feel Sam hitting the concrete first, can hear Sam's bones shatter, and then, only then does he land on top of Sam's already broken body, all 200 pounds of him. And Sam's goddamn hands had still cradled his head.
He mulls over this for hours, eyes closed but never relaxed enough to actually drift off. He thinks about all the ways he will tell that asshole how stupid he is, how reckless, how dumb, how absolutely stupidly, lovably selfless -
He gets so into his fear-fueled frustrations that he doesn't notice Sam's breathing changing from his even breaths to irregular ones. He only realizes the other man is awake when there is a gentle hand carding through his hair. That fucking hand, goddamnit.
He lifts his head slowly, unable to tear himself away from Sam's hand, which also keeps resting where it is, even if Sam’s arm now has to stretch at an uncomfortable angle.
Bucky looks into Sam's eyes. Warm brown clouded over by a haze of medication and pain slowly roaming over Bucky's body. "B'ck? Y' 'kay?"
Sam's slurred concern is enough to push Bucky right over the edge from relief to anger.
He abruptly stands up, Sam's hand falling down to the bed, takes a step back, and tries and fails to will his voice not to come out too sharply when he bites out, "Am I alright? Jesus, fuck, Sam. You're a goddamn fucking idiot!" His hands come up flying and fist his own hair, a mocking imitation of Sam's gentle caress.
Sam's expression is mostly blank looking back at him, pushing Bucky further.
"You damn fucking well knew you wouldn't be able to fly out there. So, you fucking used yourself as a body pillow for me? Are you out of your goddamn stupid mind, I knew you were dumb but that's surprising ev-"
"B'ck."
He pauses, thrown off of his angry rant by the smallness of Sam's voice.
"'m sorry."
He takes a second to look, really look at Sam. Not only at the bruises covering him, but also at the way his lips are trembling, how one hand is twitching shakily towards Bucky, how there is a shine to his eyes.
Fuck, he thinks, because this time it's himself who's the idiot.
"Sammy, it's all good," he says quietly, plopping back down to the seat next to the bed, lifts Sam's shaking hand with his own back to rest on his scalp. "You did good. We both got out. We're okay."
Sam smiles at him then and leans back into the bed, contented but shaking. His eyes still shine and Bucky is sure so are his own, but Sam’s hand resumes steadily running through Bucky's hair.
After a few moments of silence, his hand inches its way further down to the nape of Bucky's neck, gently pushing the super soldier’s head back to rest on the side of his bed like it did before. "W'n't let you f'll 'gain," he hears Sam whisper almost to himself, only picking it up due to his enhanced hearing. "Can't do th't."
Now, as he is drifting off after having anxiously been awake for more than two days, for the first time, the thought pops up that maybe Bucky's not the only one feeling grounded by Sam's gentle movement through his hair.
--
2025.1
Bucky had always liked having his birthday in winter. Yes, summer had been magical even in the depression era with trips to the beach being the highlight for him just like for all the other kids, while winter usually would mean cold rooms, little light, and empty stomachs. But the warmth in summer could also be stifling, thick waves of heat being trapped between New York's buildings - now, a century onwards, even more so.
Winter had him be swaddled into thick blankets, enjoying the warmth under them even with the air of the apartment freezing. It had his sisters come barreling into his room early in the morning, giggling out their birthday wishes and cuddling up to him under the blankets and had Steve come over red-nosed and shivering, but with the biggest smile anyone could have. His Ma would usually save money for a special hot meal for his birthday, the warmth of it flooding all of the Barnes’s bodies as well as their hearts.
So yes, Bucky had liked his birthdays.
But he also hadn't celebrated one in over 80 years.
There had been no time for it at the front, not with everyone just taking every day as their last, grateful to still be alive. And for his 70 years spent with Hydra, nothing would have been further from his mind than celebrating his existence, not even to mention the fact he wouldn't have remembered when he was born anyway.
After coming back, the most he had gotten was one year while he was in Wakanda, Steve patting him on the back a few days too late and then enveloping him in a hug with a quiet I’m glad you’re here with us.
Bucky was fine with not celebrating another year on his back, granted he already had more than a lifetime of them. Still, he remembered on what day he was born and in the unlikely case he was feeling sociable when someone asked him for his birthdate, he could recite the day, but it wasn't like he was keeping track of it or looking forward to the day.
That’s why it comes as a surprise when Sam shows up at his Brooklyn apartment one Monday morning in late winter with a big grin on his face.
"What's with your face?" Bucky grumbles as he puts the knife down he snatched up at the unexpected knock on his door.
"What's wrong with my face, Buckaroo?" Sam asks cheerily, following Bucky inside and closing the door.
Bucky grunts. "It's happy. Suspicious. Why?"
Sam just barks out a laugh at him, eyes crinkling with joy. "Geez, Buck. The history books weren't lying when they said Sergeant Barnes wasn't a morning person."
Bucky is pretty sure the history books say none of the like. "Well, the history books can suck my dick."
"Woah, hey, okay." Sam backs away theatrically, raising both his arms in a placating manner. "I come in peace, old man. Anything special on the agenda for today?"
Bucky squints at him, even more suspicious. "No, why?"
"’Why’ he asks," Sam mocks with theatrical air quotes wiggling at Bucky. "It's not every day one turns 108, you know."
Oh, right, that.
As he said, it's not that he doesn't know when his birthday is, it's just that he doesn't have any reason to remember it on the day, usually realizing he is a year older a few days after the fact, whenever he needs to pay attention the date again.
Or maybe, he hadn’t had a reason but Sam Wilson seems to be adamant to plant himself as one, crinkling eyes and gap-toothed smile included.
"C'mon, Bucky bear. Chop, chop," he claps Bucky on the shoulder. "I've got your special day all planned, I even got you a present. I'm gonna show you all around Brooklyn today."
Bucky scoffs. "I am from Brooklyn, what are you country bumpkin gonna show me here?"
"Hah!" Sam swats at him. "It's been a hundred years since you've really lived in Brooklyn. Now you're just stewing in this apartment wallowing in your memories. I bet you haven't even been to one restaurant." Bucky has been to a restaurant - to be exact, he has been to two places but he decides not to mention Yori or his connection to Lea.
Peering over Bucky's shoulder into his bedroom, Sam adds, "I see, at least you've kept the bed we picked-"
"you picked for me"
"- we picked in an entirely mutual agreement for you, so it's a little more of a home already."
Bucky stands still, brooding.
"Geez, Buck. Come on, let's have some fun."
And if Bucky follows Sam out the door, then it's definitely not because he finds the way Sam scrunches his nose at him and beckons him to follow with squiggly jazz hands endearing. It is also not because he wants to have fun. Definitely not.
Sam does end up showing Bucky a lot of Brooklyn. Granted, Bucky still somewhat remembers most of the streets and corners, but everything else is new. He wonders dimly how Sam could possibly know the bodega two blocks from his house or the hidden passageway into an underground mall five blocks further down, but he abandons this thought in favor of enjoying himself.
Sam, all the while, is happy to be a tour guide and chatters away, of course stopping every now and then for the occasional rib at Bucky that he immediately reciprocates. It's all strangely ... something, Bucky thinks. Friendly? Yes sure, but more than that. Domestic? Definitely, he hasn't felt this at ease in the 21st century ever. Romantic? Hm.
At noon, Sam steers him toward a hole-in-the-wall restaurant, a table for two already reserved. When Bucky raises a quizzical eyebrow at him, Sam just shrugs and smirks at him "What? Don't ever let it be said that Sam Wilson can't wine and dine." Romantic? The question keeps bouncing around Bucky's head.
The place is just shy of what AJ and Cass would surely describe as hipster and offers a wide range of burgers and other American foods.
When Bucky goes to order a burger, Sam just winks at the waitress and then at him and says, "Don't worry, I got that all sorted out already."
Bucky accepts having to stew in confusion for a bit, knowing prodding at Sam will get him nowhere. He has learned what battles to fight with the Wilson siblings, and out-stubborning them is not one of them.
He understands what Sam was so gleeful about when about 15 minutes later, the same waitress comes back with two plates with massive burgers on them.
"One Royal Falcon for Mr. Wilson," she says and places the burger in front of him, Sam smiles, but his grin turns into an outright roar of laughter when Bucky's face turns red at the waitress's next words. "And one Rogers’ Ass with an extra portion of Barnes' Blue Steel for Mr. Barnes." She puts the other plate in front of a bewildered Bucky and leaves with a far too amused "Enjoy!" over her shoulder.
"You've gotta be shittin' me," Bucky mumbles, just making Sam snort harder at him. "What in god's name is this?"
Turns out, Bucky should have paid more attention to the name of the place: A hero’s corner, which, Jesus Christ.
"Chop, chop, Buckaroo," Sam chuckles at him with mirth in his voice. "It's important to eat what's on your plate, y'know?"
Bucky grumbles at him one last time, but then caves. The burger does look good after all, atrocious name and all be damned.
When they're done, Sam asks him, all smug confidence "So, how was that ass?" and Bucky decides, you know what, he's 108 years old, he's been around the block, hell he's been around too many blocks, it's time to turn the tables a bit.
"Hm," he pretends to think about it for a while. "You know what, not the worst ass I've ever eaten."
Sam sputters, eyes going comically wide, mouth opening in a surprised smile.
"But," Bucky adds, "the real deal is a little better than that, if you know what I mean."
Sam's mouth forms a perfect O at that.
"Wha-?" he splutters. "You 'n Steve? Damn."
After two more seconds of staring at Sam gaping like a fish, Bucky lets his laughter go free.
"Damn, Wilson. Your face. Blushing virgin much, are ya?"
Sam composes himself a bit, slides back a little, and assumes their usual banter, although Bucky's eyes may stay a little too focused on him licking his lips.
"Nah, old man, it's just really weird hearing about old people's sex lives, y'know? Must be hard to get shit up this late in life."
Oh, so this is what they're doing now. Romantic?
"Nah, I'm all good. Thanks for the worry though, Sammy. Really warms my heart." He places his metal hand in a fist over his chest, watching Sam's eyes flicker down. "It's actually surprisingly easy nowadays though. Back in my days," he ignores Sam's huffed old man, "you had to be all sneaky in a dorm or in a back alley, now you can get Tinder or Grindr. Makes it real convenient, you know, doll?"
Bucky doesn't know why he uses the endearment, but he's nothing if not thrilled at Sam's eyes widening again but darkening at the same time.
"Tinder and Grindr, huh?" the other man asks and takes a swig of his drink. "Well, this is all nice and all, but it's like talking about my grandparents fucking, so no thanks."
He wrings his hands, eyes flicking down Bucky’s face for a second.
"Let's focus on the main objective of this rendezvous, though. I still have presents to give to you." At that, he thrusts at Bucky a bound photo book.
"You can hang up the photos individually or keep 'em inside, just in case you'd like to decorate that living hell of a space you call home." Bucky doesn't correct him that the apartment in Brooklyn is not what he calls home.
He's too busy gently leafing through the book, face heating up at the care and thought that has clearly gone into it.
The book was evidently mostly designed by Cass and AJ. The front is decorated with a stick figure drawing of him lifting two kids up into the air by one metal arm and scrawled above it says "Happy Birthday Uncle Bucky."
Then follows another drawing of him and Sam fighting nameless bad guys, AJ and Cass are also in the drawing cheering them on. After, there are pictures Sarah must’ve printed out, one from them at the cookout, all big smiles at the camera, Bucky's right arm wrapped around Sarah's shoulder and his metal one ruffling through AJ's hair. He remembers that moment, remembers how AJ had squealed at him immediately after Sam had taken the picture. How Sarah had sloped her own arm around his waist, a gesture so full of trust, and squeezed him lightly.
Next, there is one photo Sarah must have secretly taken, also from the cookout - Sam and Bucky from behind, looking at the lake and leaning into each other.
The next one is one Bucky does decidedly not remember. It’s a picture of him drooling onto the Wilson's couch, left arm hung limply off the side, colorful magnets decorating it with the words "summer soldier". Cass and AJ are on both sides of him, and he can almost hear them giggle through the picture, wondering vaguely how the hell he did not wake up at that moment. (Deep down, he knows it is because he feels safe there.)
Flipping through the rest, there are more drawings of him, Sam, and one of a giant green monster that hugs (?) Bucky. There is a small letter from Sarah, and more pictures from the Wilson's house, and one picture of Sam and him in their suits, that he vaguely realizes must have been taken by Torres, that sneaky little shit.
He flips to the last page, aware of Sam's eyes on him, and abruptly barks out a laugh.
"Son of a bitch, how did you even get that?"
He's staring at a picture of himself, lying on the ground of a cold forest in Munich, scowling at the camera (‘Get out of my face, Sam, or I'll break it,’ he remembers saying.) The memory seems distant - so much has changed since then. For the better, he thinks.
Sam chuckles back at him, seeming happy to see Bucky enjoying the present. "You know that Redwing was always online, right? So, her old version might've been destroyed, but you bet your sweet ass, Barnes, I will never delete any of that camera footage." He wiggles his eyebrows at him. "Too valuable blackmail material."
And normally, Bucky would quip back at him.
But right now he is just filled with so much of the same feeling he was filled with earlier, and now he can finally put a finger on what exactly it is.
It's belonging. Having people to come home to and not just furniture. Having photographs to hang up on walls that will help relive the good memories when the bad ones seem too present. Having people think of his birthday and go out of their way just to tell him they appreciate him being there.
It's belonging and it's home. Bucky Barnes, 108 years old, has finally found his home.
He reaches up with his right hand, puts it on Sam's shoulder, and hopes to aim for a grateful squeeze that expresses all the gratitude he doesn't have words for. The angle is awkward, reaching over the table, but he can see in how Sam's eyes light up and the corners of his mouth lift up further that he gets it.
"Thank you," Bucky says, voice full of emotion. "Best birthday present I've gotten." Ever, he lets go unsaid.
Sam reaches over his chest to close his own right hand over Bucky's; for a second just resting there, gazing into Bucky's eyes. Then he lets go, smile turning mischievous, "I'll tell Sarah and the boys you said that. They were all excited for you to see it." Then, after a pause, "That's not my present though, you'll get that soon enough."
Bucky wants to protest, say it's already been way too much, just knowing somebody thinking of him is more than enough, having Sam here is way more than enough, but Sam just shrugs him off and quickly waves over the waitress to pay.
He also waves off Bucky's effort trying to pay the bill, turning in mock-affront to the waitress, I'm not gonna let a senior citizen pay on his own birthday, Jesus Buck. Who do you think I am, Satan? right before sending her off with a tip as big as his smile.
They wander around the neighborhood again, Sam insisting on picking the right moment for his present, turning back to easy banter for the time being.
"I'm glad you're here, Buck," Sam says after a while.
"What do you mean? Where else would I be?"
"No, stupid," Sam swats at him lightly, "I don't mean here in Brooklyn. More like, here. In our time. With me."
"Yeah, dummy. I repeat, where else would I be?"
The look Sam throws him is so soft Bucky has to force himself to look away, lest he might never tear his gaze away again. He instead takes in the small square park next to them and the more modern buildings that are around them now. One building right across the fountain in the middle of the small park looks just about finished with construction work, some signs still up around it. It's a nice spot. Bright but quiet. And though the buildings are newer, somehow, it's more reminiscent of the city Bucky once knew.
Sam clears his throat beside him, so he turns back to face the other man.
"So, come to any conclusion about what you'd like your official name to be?" he asks, sounding earnest for once.
Bucky lets out a startled laugh. "Damn, Wilson. You're never gonna let that go, are you?" He sighs, rubs at his eyes for a second but continues when the other man remains silent. "I s'pose I'd like Sergeant Buchanan Barnes best. James isn't me anymore - it's the boy I left behind in the forties. And I like Bucky, but I can't exactly have my official name to be a nickname so, yeah, Buchanan."
"And Barnes?"
"Hm, yeah. Reminds me of where I come from, but not in the same loaded way James does. Feels more, uh, I don't know, loose, I guess? Like I can still make it my own without having to be the boy I was before I went to war, you know? And I'd like to keep the title Sergeant," his voice constricts. "It just reminds me how this all started. That even though I was drafted in the first place, I wanted what I did to be a good thing in the start, and I still want it to be, or I guess I want it again."
Sam remains quiet but looks at him with a smile in his eyes.
"What? No hooray at finally cracking the case? No triumphant joy of -" he trails off when Sam steps closer, nudges him with his shoulder with a quiet hum so Bucky has to turn back around to look over the park.
To again look straight across to the building at the fountain.
For a moment he doesn't understand.
And then he looks closer, behind the signs of construction work.
Sgt. Buchanan Barnes Rehabilitation Center for US Veterans
it says bold and clear at the front.
After a second or two of incomprehension, he spins back around to gape at Sam who is now again grinning, but a little more nervous looking than before.
"I had a feeling you'd say that,” Sam tells him. “'s a good name. Looks good on a building. Bit old-fashioned but, you know I like that."
Bucky continues to gape, Sam shuffles on his feet.
"Sam, I-" he doesn't know what to say. The silence drags on.
"So, um," Sam clears his throat, looks up at Bucky, straight into his eyes. "Good present?"
Bucky, still at loss for words, just turns back to check if the building is still there, still real.
Fuck, Sam must've planned this for so fucking long. Standing there, illuminated by sun rays with the man fiddling nervously next to him, as if Bucky could be anything but positively overwhelmed by this, still gaping at the words on the building, Bucky is so all-encompassingly filled with that same feeling of belonging again.
And he realizes right there and then, that it’s not only belonging. It’s love.
He turns back to Sam in a rush, mouth opening and closing futilely in an attempt to express any of what this means to him. Of what Sam means to him.
So instead of fumbling for words, he opens his arms and practically throws himself at Sam, both hands coming over his shoulders. He has so much enthusiastic momentum that Sam has to take a step back to balance them out, before gently snaking his arms around Bucky's waist.
Here's the thing. Bucky isn't a very tactile person. He likes the gentle, reassuring touches Sam, Sarah, the boys and sometimes even Joaquín (but don’t let the kid hear that) offer him, but he never initiates it. Touch has too long meant something bad for him to force it on others.
But this time, this time Bucky feels how touch can ground you, how you can sometimes tell a person so much more by touching them than by talking to them.
They stay like this for a while, Bucky burying his face in Sam's neck, trembling hands moving up and down Sam's shoulders, Sam's steady hands in turn lightly stroking up and down his waist.
When Bucky pulls back after a while, he can’t help but look at Sam like he's the world and it must show, since Sam's previous nervosity is entirely replaced by a blinding smile.
"Fuck, Sammy. How did ya even plan all this? I mean, what …, just, how?"
"Honestly, it was mostly just me insisting the government build something for vets. The name came after; y'know, being Captain America has to come with some sort of perks." He shrugs a little like it's nothing, no big deal, and the movement rustles Bucky, still pressed close to him but no longer hugging.
"Thank you," he says earnestly, because what else is there to say. Words don't describe it enough.
Sam seems to think the same, lifting his left hand gently from where it still lay on Bucky's waist to move up into the nape of his neck, fingers carding up into his hair.
His hair, fucking goddammit.
Bucky wants nothing more than to pull Sam closer, show him all that he has just discovered he's been feeling for months, maybe longer, but uncertainty still tugs at him.
But then Sam's hand is nudging Bucky's head gently towards his. It's a question, just as much as Sam's hazel eyes leaving Bucky’s for a second to flit down to his mouth - a question he could easily reject, get out of.
But god, does he not want anything less right now.
So he lets himself be tugged closer, and with all the courage he has, closes the final space between them and brings his mouth to Sam’s.
It's soft. It's a new beginning just as much as an affirmation of what has already long been in the making.
It's perfect, is what it is, especially with Sam smiling into the kiss, and chasing after Bucky's mouth when he pulls away for air. Perfect, in the bright winter sun in front of a building built only to help others like him. And perfect, with Sam's left hand still gently running through his hair.
--
2025.2
A few hours later, Bucky has never been gladder Sam made him buy a real bed after all.
They are both loose-limbed and coated in sweat amongst other things, Bucky gratuitously and lazily nuzzling into Sam's side, just because he can. He can’t believe they’ve only done this now.
After a few minutes of Sam just lying on his back, eyes still closed in peaceful bliss, he lifts an arm to put around Bucky’s shoulders and pulls him closer.
He presses a kiss to Bucky's forehead, and Bucky can feel his smile as he brings his hand into Bucky's hair and starts to gently tug at it.
Bucky nuzzles into Sam's neck and is ready to just nod off like this. Content, loose and happy.
But a minute or twenty later, Sam's hand slowly falls from his head, landing on his bare shoulder instead.
"Don’t st'p. Feels g'd," Bucky mumbles half-asleep against Sam's skin.
He can feel more than hear Sam's laugh rumbling through his chest, as he presses another kiss to Bucky's forehead. But his hand goes back to its original place anyway.
"You know you have a hair-pulling kink, right?" Sam asks against Bucky's skin, voice amused.
Bucky lifts his head, scrutinizes Sam from breaths apart. "What? No, I don't."
Sam laughs again, and scrunches his nose at him. "Yeah, you do, mister grumpy," he smoothes the crease between Bucky's eyebrows that automatically appeared in his indignation with his fingers. "The second time you came, I didn't even have to touch you. As soon as I pulled at your hair a little, well..." He mimics an explosion with his hands.
Bucky can feel his face heat up in embarrassment, which is irrational because his fucking dick just was in Sam, thank you very much, but he hides it in the crook of Sam's neck anyway.
"Yeah, okay, maybe," he muffles defensively against the other man’s skin, "I guess you got a point. So what?"
"Aw, no, don't be like that, baby," Sam uses his leverage in Bucky's hair to pull his head back up, bringing their lips together for a quick kiss. "Don't worry. I like it. It's cute and kinda hot, to be honest."
His face heats up even more at Sam's word, so he just settles back down, listening to his heart flutter.
He is ready to drift off again when a thought strikes him and makes him lift his head to Sam’s face again. Sam is still looking at him through half-lidded eyes and with a private smile tugging at his mouth. He looks devastatingly beautiful.
"Wait," he says sternly, keeping his thoughts on track. "Is that why you always played with my hair? 'Cause you knew it was doing it for me?"
Sam's eyes crinkle at him but he says with overenthusiastic innocence, "No, I swear, your honor. My intentions were entirely of an altruistic nature."
Bucky gapes, only half with real outrage and more with genuine surprise how he got so lucky with this man. All the while, Sam, the bastard, is still idly caressing his hair with one hand, not even hiding looking smug about it.
"You bastard," he whispers into Sam’s mouth and leans in for another kiss with a giggle that soon turns into an open-mouthed moan when Sam's fingers catch on a knot in his hair.
---