Chapter 2
One month. Four measly weeks is all they get of calm. Or, relative calm, for them.
It’s still hectic, because that is the permanent default of their lives, but Bucky and Sam are talking rather than fighting or ignoring each other and the fact of their soon to be parenthood imbues an underlying joy and hope into even the bad moments.
Bucky’s the one having the majority of the bad moments. All HYDRA gave him in their experimentation was a place for the baby to grow and a way for it to get out, and Bucky’s body isn’t designed to keep up with the demands it's being given. His doctors have him on a full, time-consuming regime of hormone supplements and injections, which is messing with Bucky on a whole lot of levels.
He’s got hot flashes, headaches that consign him to bed for an hour or so at a time, and mood swings that ricochet so quickly it makes Sam feel dizzy. Outside of all that, there’s been the weight gain.
“I should really not be getting this fat yet,” Bucky huffs on more than a few occasions, though there’s a laugh behind his words and the hint of a smirk when he does that leads Sam to believe he could really care less.
And, Bucky’s not fat, even if he’s put on a few pounds. Bucky was all muscle and grit before this, the type of body of someone who sustained himself enough to survive and no more. Now, he’s thickened a bit, to the point of looking healthy and fulfilled . His face has a lovely, softened roundess to it, his legs are comfortably sturdy, and his ass, oh God, Sam could write beautiful music about that ass.
He’s staring at it, as Bucky stretches up to grab a glass from the very top of their cabinets and gives him a perfect view of it, and is utterly unabashed in doing so.
“Damn, boy,” Sam thrums, his chin in his hand, “I don’t think you can bring that thing out in public.”
Bucky gets his glass down and turns his narrowed eyes onto Sam over his shoulder as he fills it.
“Are you really talking about my ass again?”
“Well, are you really gonna keep waving it around like that?” Sam shoots back. Bucky shakes his head and sips his water. His crossed arms tug up his too tight t-shirt and give away a sliver of his stomach. The curve is so small, just looks like some of the rest of Bucky’s new padding, but Sam’s held his hands against it enough to see it for what it is, their baby making itself at home. It drives Sam crazy with want and makes primal, base thoughts of ‘ mine mine mine ’ pump in his head. He didn’t know it would be like this. Sucking in his lips, Sam tries to contain himself.
“I got a name idea,” Sam diverts, and he actually does, has been waiting for Bucky to be in a good mood to say it, which was a long wait.
“Shoot,” Bucky tells him and rests his back against the counter.
“Alright, I know we’re not supposed to be pulling from our friends’ names, but this isn’t technically that,” Sam prefaces. Bucky serves Sam a stern quirked brow, “C’mon, let me get it out before you give me that attitude.”
“Fine.”
“Natalie,” Sam says and figures Bucky will know who the name is for. It was an odd mourning, the type he had for Natasha. He was undusted, sent through a portal, and killed about twenty aliens before anyone had the chance to tell him the woman he was on the run with for two years had died. Not only had she died, she had died so him and everyone else could come back. He’s yet to figure out where to place his feelings on it, a mass of confused anger, grief, and indebtment, but this feels like something that would have made Nat happy. Or, at the very least, made her laugh at the situation he and Bucky have gotten into.
Bucky nods, thinks, and then nods again slowly.
“Yeah. Okay. I’ll put it on the list,” he mumbles.
“Since when do you have a list?”
“Don’t even try, Wilson. Not letting you get a peek. You hear me? Not a peek,” Bucky replies with a wink. Sam releases an aggravated puff of air out of his nostrils and Bucky’s mouth flicks up at the side before both their phones ding with alarms. Bucky’s midday medications.
“Fuck, already?” Bucky whines up to the ceiling. Sam sighs and pushes him to take a seat while he gets everything from the bathroom. Bucky can do all this on his own. He does most days, because Sam is off doing Cap business more often than he’s not, but Sam likes to take part when he can. It makes him feel less like a bystander for the whole experience while Bucky is putting his body through the ringer to make this work. He comes back with the progestin injection as well as the estrogen and relaxin pills, ready to go.
“You good to go for this?” Sam checks as he swipes an alcohol wipe over Bucky’s exposed bicep and Bucky swallows down his pills. He mutters a ‘yep’ and Sam pushes the needle in. It lasts ten seconds and Bucky has next to no reaction; they’ve been doing these shots every other day for weeks. Sam places the needle back in the case and does a silent count of how many they have before they’ll be due to re-up.
“So, uh,” Bucky mumbles and Sam loses his count as he looks up, “sorry we haven’t had sex in a while.”
Sam doesn’t respond immediately and Bucky sits in flushed silence. It’s been two weeks and three days since they’ve had sex. Sam won’t try to fool himself that he hasn’t been keeping count, whether he means to or not. It’s felt like eons. Sam shakes his head and puts on a smile.
“Hey, I get it. No problem,” he says, even if the thought of getting to touch every part of Bucky’s changing body sends a weird thrill up through his spine. He does get it; Bucky gets overheated too easily now, his joints hurt if he moves them the wrong way, he barely knows his own self in its current state, definitely not enough to let someone else know it, but Sam still craves it, no matter how much he reasons it out with himself.
“Do . . . would you want to tonight?” Bucky asks, low and quiet. Sam’s arms goosebump. He can’t remember them ever scheduling sex, as it used to happen as simply as Sam stripping Bucky down right in the living room or Bucky hefting Sam up over his shoulders like he weighed nothing to him and launching both of them down on the bed. But, it’s been so long, too long, and if Bucky had asked for a down to the minute time slot and an itemized itinerary of the encounter, Sam would have given it to him.
“Yes. Yes, anytime. Just give me a signal,” Sam says, exuberant, and Bucky chuckles.
“I’ve missed it, too,” he murmurs.
They fuck with the window open and fans blasting for Bucky’s sake. Bucky’s body is burning warm, malleable, and sensitive in all new ways with all the hormonal supplements. Ways that make his knees shake at the first pass Sam’s tongue takes across his hole and whines that tremble in Sam’s ears come flooding out at the graze of a nipple. Sam’s trying to be gentle, best he can, but Bucky’s whole body is like one big nerve that he keeps fraying.
And, of course, Sam can’t stop touching him everywhere. His fingers are diving into Bucky’s mouth, racing up and down the stretch of Bucky’s torso to get a good hold of his bump, kneading into all the new fat that has hugged onto his hips and ass. Sam’s never been this hungry and vicious with claiming Bucky’s flesh for his own. He marks Bucky everywhere with deeply scarlet and purple ringed hickeys, from his neck to the inside of his thighs.
“You’re turned on you did this, huh?” Bucky demands as he bounces his full, thick ass down onto Sam’s cock. Sam's eyes flutter as another pulse of pleasure throbs in him. Bucky goes on, “you-you like that you knocked me up?”
Sam works to focus his vision on Bucky riding him and give the right answers. His hands are gripping onto the small deposits of bulk on either side of Bucky’s hips as Bucky squeezes around him, though, and he can’t get his words straight.
“Baby, I don’t . . . it’s not like . . . ” Sam attempts, wondering if he should feel guilty that he really, really does love that he did this, that he was able to make Bucky his so thoroughly. But, Bucky shakes his head and slams himself down onto Sam, grinding down, down, down, pelvis to pelvis.
“Nuh, it’s okay. You can like it, yeah,” Bucky says. His hand fumbles around for his own cock and trails up his length, devastatingly slow. He’s shivering the whole time and Sam can feel it in his core.
“Bucky, fucking Christ.”
“Tell me, Sam, tell me how it . . . how it turns you on. Tell me how much you loved putting a baby in me,” Bucky orders. Sam thrusts up into him and Bucky bends to it, tipping at the middle and landing his hands in the center of Sam’s chest.
“Oh, yeah, I filled you the fuck up. Gave you my fuckin’ seed and knocked you up, pretty boy,” Sam obliges. He thinks he sort of sounds ridiculous, rambling inane blabber that comes from his dick and not his head, but Bucky is goddamn mewling over it.
“God, fuck! Loved your cock so much I got knocked up, Sammy.I wanna your fuckin’ cock pumping me full forever. Please, fill me up, Sam, fill me with your seed, God, shit . . .” Bucky practically begs, and Sam can’t stand it. He strengthens his grip on Bucky’s little love handles and whips them around so Bucky lays below him, strong legs braced around his back.
“Gonna fill you up soon, baby, really soon,” Sam promises. He grunts deeper into him and Bucky’s eyes wet with tears as his lip quivers with Sam’s thrusts. He’s gonna come any second. Sam takes it as his cue to let himself go and pounds Bucky down onto mattress. They come together and Sam slowly deflates on top of Bucky after, careful of the baby.
This lasts for all of five seconds.
“Jesus, okay, too warm, Sam. Get off,” Bucky says with a shove. Sam rolls onto his back. Bucky takes the space to spread out his limbs and starfish across the sheets.
“We need more fans,” he announces. Sam laughs, the type of full body, rumbly laugh he has when he’s just come and is still sort of delirious.
“I’m gonna buy you all the fans you want, boy. Gonna keep my baby happy,” he thurms.
“My hero,” Bucky huffs, smirk growing under the arm he’s got draped over his eyes. Sam mutters something like ‘damn right’ before he flops back onto his stomach and creeps his hand up onto the small hilt of Bucky’s bump. Solid, broiling hot, little bump. Sam adores it.
They might invest too much too soon in that bump. Sam, when he does his research and downloads all the pregnancy tracking apps so he can tell Bucky what fruit their baby is the size of each week, reads that expectant couples shouldn’t buy anything baby-related during the first trimester because the risk of loss is higher then. But he goes out and buys a three-month-old sized onesie with the shield on it when Bucky’s barely reached eleven weeks anyways. Maybe they jinx it.
The monitoring makes it all seem so assured. Due to the whole first-of-its-kind factor of Bucky’s pregnancy, his doctors have him coming in weekly at first, which drops to every other week once he reaches twelve weeks along and they finally get the balance of hormone supplements right. Sam goes to these appointments when he can, not as much as he’d like but he does his best, and the doctors tell him that things are progressing as they should, despite the near extraordinary circumstances. Sam cries when they see the ultrasound at Bucky’s twelve week appointment, a head and feet he can make out clear as day, twitching legs that already seem so ready and resilient, real and solid as ever. The scan goes right from the machine to their fridge.
“It’s like something out of a sci-fi movie,” Bucky says, eyes focused and face struck. Him and Sam have attached the black and white print out to the freezer door with a tacky souvenir NOLA magnet. Sam guffaws and rams his shoulder against Bucky’s.
“Hey, that’s our kid. Don’t be mean.”
“Not in a bad way!” Bucky defends, tossing his hands up, “I meant more like it seems so advanced, for me at least, that we can actually see it. When I was growing up, we didn’t even have pregnancy tests. Women knew they were knocked up when the kicking started and then, a few months later, a doctor would knock ‘em out and there’d be a baby.”
“Sounds mildly terrifying,” Sam says.
“Yeah, well, a lotta girls died back then. So, I’d say so,” Bucky tells him, deadpan, and Sam’s smile shrinks away, “Seems a hell of a lot safer now. Though, I don’t know if I’m completely out of the woods.”
“Don’t,” Sam whispers sharply as he slips his arm across Bucky’s chest and pulls him snug to him. They both know this is dangerous, though they won’t think it actively. Sam hears his own heartbeat up in his ears for a second, worries he’s pushed to the back of his mind swarming in. Bucky squeezes Sam’s forearm comfortingly.
“Morbid humor, sorry. No, I’m fine, though. I’ve got superserum protection. I’m not going anywhere,” he reassures and Sam sighs out his worries. They leave, mostly. He kisses Bucky’s temple.
“You better not be. Who else is going to sulk around this place like you?”
“Fuck you,” Bucky grins.
They simmer back into quiet and stare at the ultrasound image more, like they're waiting to find some magical secret in it. Sam feels like they already have.
“Chicks in my apartment building, back in the 30’s before we had all this baby viewing tech, they’d do this thing where they’d swing their wedding rings over their stomachs to guess the gender. Swings in circles; it’s a girl. Swings side to side; it’s a boy,” Bucky says, a nostalgic fondness to his words.
“Too bad you don’t have a wedding ring. ‘Less you want one?” Sam asks with a smirk to hide his genuine curiosity. Bucky’s still old-fashioned in some ways, though most ways not. Sam’s not sure where he falls on the baby out of wedlock issue; they haven’t had much reason to discuss it until very recently. Sam will provide if that’s what Bucky needs to feel alright about them starting a family. He figures marriage is less of a big deal than the commitment they’ve already established with what lies in Bucky’s belly.
Bucky goes red on his cheeks and gulps before he tosses his gaze up with a chuckle.
“Slow your roll there, Samuel.”
“Okay. Wasn’t sure how you felt about bastard children, old man,” Sam replies and mentally shrugs off the semi-rejection as he mutters an apology to Bucky’s abdomen about the bastard comment. Bucky laughs at him, “Anyways, do you want to know the gender? I think they can tell us in a month or two.”
Bucky shrugs and becomes suddenly sucked into his own head, turning his face to the wall and away from Sam.
“I don’t know. What did Sarah do with the boys?”
Sam hasn’t told anyone about this, not his family or any friends. Bucky doesn’t have much of either to worry about informing, even if he tries to convince Sam that the vendors he haggles with at their local farmer’s market are his friends when Sam gives him shit about being an unabashed loner. The only people who know about this are Sam, Bucky, the various doctors handling everything surrounding ‘this’, and Dr. Raynor, because Bucky’s not getting through this without therapy. Sam’s been waiting for Bucky’s go ahead to say anything, because this is some next-level, highly shocking information that shouldn’t be shared without permission, as well as a thought-out plan of action for the reveal.
“I don’t remember. I’d say I could call and ask, but I think we should probably tell her you’re a medical marvel first,” Sam says.
“Ugh. Medical marvel. Please refrain from saying that ever again,” Bucky groans. He looks down at his feet and kicks them at nothing, “but, you’re right. We can tell her and the boys soon. Not today, though. Next week, or something.”
“Sounds like a plan, Buckaroo,” Sam says, pulling out the nickname that makes Bucky squirm angrily against him and knock his heel into Sam’s shin. Sam’s phone buzzes; a reminder for his dinner with the secretary of defense. It’s pointless politicking, but that is unfortunately in the job description. Bucky sees it and frowns.
“I have to shower and get-”
“Yeah, I know. Go get ready, Cap,” Bucky concedes. Sam removes his arm from around Bucky as he plants him with a small kiss. Bucky lingers in the kitchen even after Sam goes, hands holding firm onto the counter behind him as he stares ahead.
Sam pops back in after a minute when he can’t find his body wash, the one Bucky’s known to borrow from, when he gets completely caught watching him.
Bucky’s face almost knocks Sam out. His lips are tucked into his mouth, rubbing across each other in slow drags, and his brows and all their folding, worried lines have eased into a touched warmness. His eyes, those blue, crystalline eyes Sam can lose himself to, are bounding over with drips of tears that shimmer down his cheek and catch at his jaw as he examines the scan. He’s got his flesh hand on his bump and smoothes it over its stretch in steady strokes. He never uses his metal hand anywhere near his stomach anymore, a means of protection Sam wants to tell him he doesn’t need to take. It’s a part of his deeply embedded lack of trust for himself, something that Sam can dig and dig for but never remove, but it’s love, too. It’s love.
Sam breaks the moment without meaning to, drawing up a breath too fast and too loud. Bucky notes it as soon as Sam does it and whips his head around to him. They make eye contact for an instance before Bucky’s hand darts up to block his face.
“Fuck, Sam!” Bucky squawks, words cracking as they come out, “Why are you-shit, I didn’t want you to-ugh, Jesus, fuck, don’t look at me!”
“Sorry, I needed-”
“God, just go!” Bucky yelps. He’s faced his whole body to the wall so that Sam can only see the jerk pass through his shoulders as he resets himself.
Sam’s heart is beating fast enough to make him sick when he dashes back to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind him. It’s too much, everything they’re both feeling, enough to leave Bucky raw and vulnerable like that, but, sometimes it’s a good too much. A profound too much.
They end up not telling Sarah the next week, or the week after. Bucky delays, objecting to Sam’s proposed scripts for a video call, blaming migraines and nausea and fatigue for pushing it back another day, scheduling doctor’s appointments at times he knows Sam’s told Sarah he will talk to her. Sam will wonder, after it's over, if Bucky, somewhere in his subconscious, in the biome of his own being, knew something would go wrong.
The morning of the day it happens starts with a harbinger of the bad that’s to come. Sam is woken up two hours before he needs to be by the sound of glass shattering. It turns on his fight or flight response, falling heavy on the fight side, and he tears out of the sheets like he’s about to dive into an active warzone.
“FUCK!” Bucky’s in the middle of screeching as Sam punches into the bathroom. Glass shards cover the counter and floor, coming from the mirror on the medicine cabinet that Bucky has destroyed.
Sam, whose fear of Bucky has been erased since long before they were together, puts both his palms down on top of Bucky’s vibranium arm. It doesn’t lower right away. Sam thinks Bucky doesn’t even know that he’s there at first. His breath is thick with rage and stress and his eyes are glazed over, absent.
“Buck,” Sam intones. Bucky’s wound up brow and narrowed lids tells him he doesn’t hear, “Bucky, it’s Sam. Bucky, c’mon, hey, hey, listen to me.”
The arm lowers and Bucky collapses onto Sam with a whimper. He feels unlike himself in Sam’s arms, not the right heft.
“Your feet,” Bucky moans out, weak. Sam lifts one of his feet and, yeah, there’s a good amount of glass there. The adrenaline that had been coursing through him, that let him match the strength of a vibranium force ramming against his hands, diminishes and the pain comes flooding in.
“Ah, fucking hell,” Sam winces. It’s mostly in the right foot, luckily, so he hops on his left while he turns the shower on to rinse the wounds and push the glass out. He considers asking Bucky to start cleaning up the mess, but one look outside the curtain reveals him crumpled down to the floor, knees wide and pulled to his chest while his head hangs between them. Sam huffs. He’ll do it himself.
“What happened?” Sam asks. Bucky sniffles and doesn’t lift his head.
“You’re upset.”
“Yeah, no shit. Astute detection skills, cyborg man,” Sam grunts, working out a difficult piece of glass in his big toe. Bucky doesn’t say anything and Sam juts his head out the shower curtain. Bucky lifts his chin enough for San to see his eyes glossing over with tears. Sam exhales a long breath as a wave of regret crashes down and he pinches the bridge of his nose, “Sorry. Sorry, that was not . . . you didn’t deserve that. It’s really early. Can you please tell me what happened?”
“I-I just had to pee. I’d already gone like five times during the night, I don’t know why it . . . I-I saw myself in the mirror and I looked like the soldier. M-my eyes had these dark bags and my hair, it-it was hanging down like it did when I was him and I was all sweaty like when I’d be adjusting to being out of . . . out of cryosleep. I couldn’t-I can’t stand looking at myself,” Bucky works out. Sam shuts off the water and steps carefully on to the bathmat. He’s running his relief plan in his head like he used to in pararescue.
“Okay, go get me some shoes and the broom. We are gonna clean up and then we are gonna talk. Some serious talking,” Sam tells Bucky. Handle pressing and active dangers first, then deal with passive threats. Bucky does as he’s told and they go to work. It ends up taking almost fifteen minutes to clean up the entire mess before Bucky and Sam can sit on the edge of their bed and have that talk.
“First things first, you’re pregnant, so, you know, you’re gonna look like that, like you’re tired and sweaty and pregnant, sometimes,” Sam says and Bucky jumps on the words as soon as Sam says them.
“But, it’s like-”
“Lemme finish,” Sam insists and Bucky’s mouth reluctantly shuts, “Even when you look like the soldier, even when you feel like him, I know he’s gone. I have known you for long enough, as both the Winter Soldier and you, to be able to see that you are you through and through.”
Bucky looks over at the far wall, hand coming up to drag harshly over his eyes. Sam grabs his chin and brings him back, no hiding from each other.
“Buck, look at me. Hey. Rule number three. Let’s go, minus the amends,” Sam demands. Bucky grouses, wriggly under Sam’s hold as he avoids eye contact.
“C’mon. Don’t make me. It makes me sound like such a square,” he gripes. Sam shrugs.
“Too bad. I want to hear it.”
Bucky rolls his eyes. He huffs at Sam and frowns. But, he does it.
“I am no longer the Winter Soldier. I am James Bucky Barnes.”
“Damn right you are,” Sam says and kisses him after he does. Bucky pulls out of the kiss and leans his forehead to Sam’s.
“Sorry about this. I’m feeling really weird today,” he mumbles.
“Weird how?” Sam questions, a protective streak of nervousness speeding through him. Bucky tugs at the loose wife beater he wears.
“Sick, I guess. Out of it. My back hurts pretty bad. Just off,” Bucky rambles.
“We’re going to your doctors,” Sam fires. He’s supposed to do training on the wings with Torres in a couple of hours but he can cancel. Bucky shakes his head, sighing.
“Jesus, it’s not that serious. I’m always off. It’s probably an adjustment to the new dosages of the hormones. I’m fine. I shouldn’t have said anything. You need to go meet with Torres.”
“Torres can fall out of the sky for all I care. If something feels wrong, you need to go in,” Sam pushes. He does, in fact, care if Torres falls from great heights, but he’s come to the realization that Bucky needs to come above it all. It’s been a hard conclusion to reach, because Sam is a lot like Steve in one specific way; he’s got an unfailing savior complex sprinkled with a sizable amount of self-sacrificing. But, things are different now, his priorities have been reordered: Bucky, the baby, and then his duty. He’s still perfecting the exact balance of it.
“No, no, you’re not going to miss a whole, set up thing for this. Like I said, I’m always feeling weird or off or some shit. If it gets worse, I’ll call you,” Bucky argues back. Sam waffles between continuing to fight this and letting Bucky have his way. Training Torres does need to be done, he’s kept the man waiting for too long, and he knows, since he’s wearing his suit, he can fly back home in a matter of minutes if Bucky calls.
“Okay. I’ll go. But you gotta let me get my pictures first cause you are looking straight beautiful today,” he concedes as he drags a hand along Bucky’s spine. Bucky groans and tosses himself back against the bed.
“You don’t call men beautiful, Sam.”
“It’s 2024. We don’t care about those gender roles you got hanging around from the 40’s. Also, you’re literally pregnant with my baby, so it’d be fair to say the ship has sailed on you matching any of those roles too well. C’mon, get up,” Sam says and laughs at Bucky’s grumbles as he stands and tosses his arms out expectantly.
“I’m up. Take your creepy photos now. Bet you’re just using them to jack off, perv,” he snarks. Sam smiles warmly and grabs his phone.
“Why would I when I got all day access to the real deal?”
“Not all day,” Bucky responds.
Sam’s been taking these pictures since week ten, twice weekly, so they can keep track of how Bucky’s growing. Sam defends the venture on the basis that he’s sure Bucky will be grateful for the pictures when their kid is sixteen and a brat to them and they need the nostalgia to deal with it. Bucky gripes and grimaces before every photo, but he hasn’t said no to them yet.
Sam gets his three required shots for the session; front view, side view, and close up of the bump, for which Bucky holds the hem of his shirt up in his mouth and exposes the skin beneath.
“We’re all set with that for now?” Bucky asks as he lets the shirt drop. Sam nods. Bucky rolls his eyes and crawls back under the covers, “Good. I’m going back to sleep, then.”
Sam smiles at Bucky, all safe and sound and curled up, and goes to leave. He can get ready early; he doubts he’ll fall back asleep as easily as his boyfriend can. Bucky calls out for him to come back, faintly, before he gets to the door.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Read me somethin’ from one of those dumb cellphone baby tracking things, Samuel,” Bucky yawns. Sam’s excited to share; he’s curated his collection down to only the three best pregnancy apps, as he settles up near Bucky’s head and strokes his hair with the hand that isn’t holding his phone. He goes with The Bump for today.
“Week Thirteen. Baby is the size of a lemon. You’ve reached the end of your first trimester, meaning you’ve grown a fetus with vocal chords, teeth, and fingerprints, as well as a lot else. You should expect a decrease in nausea, an increase in energy, and-oh, Buck, this one’s fun-improved sex drive.”
“Hmm, baby feels like a lemon today,” Bucky hums into the pillow. Sam snorts.
“What the actual hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t question me about it,” Bucky says, half lidded eyes shooting up with a hint of mischief at Sam, “if I say the baby feels like a lemon, it feels like a motherfucking lemon. Get with the program. You’re about to lose out on that improved sex drive.”
“You’re right. It’s such a lemon today. Of course, how could I be so oblivious? I’m gonna get dressed. I love you, crazy pants, and the lemon, too,” Sam grins. Bucky tilts his head up to kiss him, a tiny hint of tongue dancing across his lips before he’s slithering back down into the sheets.
Sam gets dressed. Sam leaves.
He’ll ask himself a lot of questions after the fact. Why couldn’t he have just stayed? Why did he give up on going to the doctor’s office so easy? Why was Torres and his training so goddamn important that day? Why didn’t he get into his suit, scoop Bucky up, and fly him to someone with some medical knowledge and wherewithal the second Bucky told him something felt off?
Mostly, though, he simply asks why.
The apartment is quiet when Sam gets home around four. More than quiet, it’s tensely quiet, the air filled with a noticeable unease. It makes the hairs on the back of Sam’s neck stand to attention
“Buck?” he calls out with an already developing sense of dread. There is no response. He repeats, “Buck? I’m home, how are you feeling?”
The quiet is becoming choking. Sam steps further into the apartment, down the hall that leads to the bedroom and bathroom. Sam steps into the bedroom, which is empty. The sheets are rumpled from Bucky’s time there, but vacant from Bucky himself. Sam feels his pulse beat in every part of his body.
The bathroom’s light is on. It stretches out from under a closed door and splays across the wooden floor in front of it. Sam sprints to the door, ready to bust in, but hesitates outside once he places his hand on the knob. Foreboding crawls in under his skin and something in his gut tells him to expect the worst behind it. He swallows roughly and makes himself turn the knob.
With where the bathtub sits and how the shower curtain is positioned, he can only see Bucky’s metal arm at first. It hangs without its normal energy over the side of the porcelain. It’s fingers are smeared with something. Something is all Sam can call it for now. He can’t call it blood yet.
“Bucky?” he asks one more time, as if Bucky will jump up from that tub suddenly and reveal himself to be perfectly fine. That doesn’t happen, so Sam has to keep moving. He has to see Bucky in full, for good and bad.
“Oh God,” Sam whimpers, because he can’t contain it. He looks at the murky water of the bath and vomit lurches up his throat so quickly that he has to swallow it back down. The water has gone a fleshy pink and sits still, present and unchanging in its horror. It’s blood. Sam has no powers of denial left to say it could be anything else. The water is stained with Bucky’s blood.
Sam falls down to his knees one knee at a time, like in slow motion. He finally looks at Bucky himself.
He’s got his boxers on. He’s naked except for his boxers and Sam doesn’t know why that matters to him, but the sight of Bucky in a pool of stagnant water and his own blood that soaks his ruined underwear is breaking him. And, Bucky won’t look at him.
“Bu-bucky.” Bucky’s name falls apart in Sam’s mouth. Bucky has no reaction. His face is as blank as Sam’s seen it since . . . since Bucky wasn’t Bucky. He would look dead if it weren’t for the rise and fall of his chest. Sam wipes silent tears and gears up to get Bucky to hear him, “Bucky, please. I love you. I’m here, please. I’m sorry, Buck, I’m so sorry. I need you to hear me, though, okay? Can you . . . Bucky, can you just look at me so I know-”
“I lost them,” Bucky finally croaks. Sam shakes his head, grabs Bucky’s stained metal hand, grabs his flesh one out of the tainted water, holds tight.
“Maybe if we can get you to a hospital, they can help. We don’t know yet. We don’t-there could be time,” Sam fights. He pushes through every catch in his throat and sucks up tears. He stares a burrowing stare into the side of Bucky’s face. Bucky won’t look at him. If Bucky would only look at him, he could get him to stand up out of this awful tub and he’d fly them to a hospital in less than five minutes and it would be okay, Sam could save both of them and-
“No,” Bucky grits. He puts his gaze on Sam, and, God, no, Sam can’t handle it. Bucky has no tears, no angry brows or trembling lips. He is vacant, “The baby is gone.”
Sam’s knees that he’d been resting on give way and his tailbone hits the floor with a thud. His heart, which had been racing, freezes for a second. The tears don’t come in a flood yet. That will be for later, when he is left alone to process and soak in what has happened. Instead, single hot drips trek along his face.
He asks himself why.