“Hey man, where’d you get all these bruises from? Doesn’t your special super soldier metabolism fix all that shit up in like, nanoseconds?”
Bucky rolls his eyes and tries to subtly roll the sleeves of his jacket back down as he responds. He’s surprised Sam can even see, in the darkness of the night. The kitchen lights are off. “Obviously not.”
Sam walks a little bit closer then, closes in. The only thing separating them now is the edge of Sarah’s table. “Okay, Mr. ‘I might have broken seven ribs but it’s cool, I heal.’ What-”
“Of course you bring that up,” Bucky scoffs, without any actual anger behind it. “I did heal, so that negates your point.”
It’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Who said I had a point?” He edges in a little closer. “If anything, you’re proving my potential point even more by disputing its existence.”
Bucky’s pretty content to leave the conversation here, actually, so he just gives an obviously disbelieving “Mhmm.” He turns to walk away but Sam unfortunately keeps talking.
“Ok, so if you do heal, super soldier, why are you still banged up? Our last mission was like, three days ago. Even my bruises have healed by now.”
And really, Bucky swears that Sam has a weird sixth sense about this stuff. Always knows when to push when he doesn’t want it (but probably needs it). Never too much, but never too little, either.
And while it’s great to watch Sam apply that intuition to, say, a traumatized civilian that got caught in the crossfire of their latest mission, it’s not so fun to be at the receiving end. Getting the strangely stern look that mixes with empathy and desire to help, all at once.
But apparently just walking out of rooms without responding is impolite , so Bucky offers a noncommittal “I dunno.”
Sam stares at him for a bit, and Bucky can feel the heat of his gaze on his own back, so he turns around. “James,” Sam says eventually, with faux sternness, like Sarah reprimanding AJ and Cass after they’ve played video games for longer than their allotted time.
“Samuel,” He fires back.
Their casual banter is easy, but like most things, there’s underlying complications. Really, all Bucky wants to do now is retreat to some private little corner where he can hole himself away for a while and lament the fact that regular pain meds don’t work for him. Not deal with Sam investigating him.
Sam steps even closer, hands hovering over the sleeve of Bucky’s jacket. Asking for permission. Asking to see.
It was dumb to roll his sleeves up. Dumb to expose the bruises from a few hours before, to get comfortable in the darkness that was supposed to hide injury. Hell, that’s why he stayed in the alley afterwards for a few minutes (hours), because he didn’t want to come home looking like a painting of reds and blues and purples in case AJ or Cass were still up. (Also the fact that he maybe passed out a little, maybe was a bit too hurt to move for a couple moments, but that’s not the point. The point is that Sam wasn’t supposed to see.)
It’s… It’s not that he thinks Sam will be truly angry, truly disgusted to the lengths Bucky will go to make amends, but… He knows Sam pretty well. Knows that he’ll get that stern look of disapproval that must be a Captain America thing, since Steve had it, too. That sad little frown that says- not in so many words- ‘I thought you were better than this.’
“Leave it, Sam.”
To many, a threat. To Sam, a warning.
“You did something stupid again, didn’t you?”
He’s… not going to dispute that. But it was the only way he could make things right. Solace doesn’t always come from the truth.
Sam’s hand lands on his jacket then, above his wrist. Bucky tries not to flinch at the sudden contact, simply not expecting it. His palm is warm and firm, even through the leather, and Bucky finds himself surprised by how much he enjoys the contact. If ‘enjoy’ is the right word.
“Buck…”
Sam gingerly begins rolling up the sleeve, deft fingers playing at the cuff. There’s a peak of a bruise, lit by the slight peak of moonlight shining through the kitchen window.
Sam’s presence is grounding; his touch, even more so. Someone is there , someone cares . It’s a link to a reality Bucky wants desperately, but doesn’t deserve to be a part of. Sam’s hands are clean, strong. Stained, slightly, with necessary blood- just enough to be off color- but clean in the simplest sense. Bucky’s hands, in comparison, are drenched in red. Suffused beyond saving.
Just as a finger sneaks it’s way beyond the fabric, where skin meets skin, Bucky pulls away. Jerks back his arm. Too violent, too aggressive. It’s Sam’s turn to suppress a flinch.
“It’s late.” He gives as a horrible excuse, not even trying to disguise the sentiment. “I should probably…”
“Right, right.” To Sam’s credit, he recovers quickly. Hides the flash of hurt across his face behind a careful mask. “I forgot you’re such an old man.”
He’s joking, but his tone falls flat. Behind the fragile facade there’s a shine of worry in Sam’s eyes, unrestrained. He doesn’t push it. (He never does. Not when the subject is so… unstable. So insane. So beyond the hope of normalcy.)
“Night.” Bucky responds, turning to leave quickly. Hiding his face from Sam, hiding his body.
Sam’s gaze is still on him as he walks towards the front door. “Night, man.”
There’s a cold spot on his wrist, despite the jacket. Cold is really just a lack of heat, afterall. It feels longing, wanting, hoping. An icy imprint of a hand long gone.
Bucky swings open the front door, abandoning the pretense of going to bed. Sam still stands in the kitchen, a shadow, backlit by the moonlight that just barely buzzes around the edges of his figure.
As the door shuts behind him, Bucky’s engulfed by the cool air. The warmth of the house is blocked off, stifled by a self-imposed barrier. Perhaps he should go make more amends. Might as well. The only thing worth dreading is the inevitability of reaching Sam’s name on the list. That is something he doesn’t know how to fix.