summer's end

Sarah watches Sam finish up the stitching. Bucky had lost consciousness the moment Sam applied alcohol to disinfect the wound, and now he lies still as Sam works. She watches Sam’s fingers move gently over bloodied thread and angry, torn flesh. She watches his eyes, swelling with concern, brimming with care so tangible it radiates.

Carefully, he pulls back on the needle, and the final suture is shut tight, flesh pushed back against flesh, waiting now to heal. He snips away the excess with a pair of silver medical scissors, sighs heavily, and begins to clean up the space.

Beside him, leaning back against the old couch, Sarah scoffs. “Did you ever think this is what we’d end up doing?”

Sam laughs, drily and not entirely genuinely. “Not you,” he says. “Me, maybe.”

She rolls her eyes, but watches him again, closer now. As the fresh humor fades away, he looks even more exhausted: harsh, solid lines of worry and fatigue lie deep between his eyebrows. His eyes, usually awake with gentle vivacity, are low and weary.

“You should sleep,” she tells him, and he shrugs.

“I will soon,” he says. “Probably.”

Sarah hums. The lie was easy to detect but she doesn’t want to push him. Sam’s always been stubborn—even more so than her—and she doesn’t see that changing anytime soon.

Instead she looks at the man on the couch. He’s breathing softly now, his face damp and pallid, short strands of dark hair splayed across the top of his forehead. He looks terrible, but a little better than before, maybe.

“What happened to him?” she asks. Sam bristles at the question, clicking his tongue and leaning back on his heels.

“He’s an idiot,” he says, words harshened by a hard exhale. “That’s what happened.”

She raises an eyebrow; glances from Bucky back to Sam. “What’d he do?”

Another sigh, less tense and more resigned. Sam’s eyes go to the ceiling, as if looking for escape, or strength. “Saved me,” he says finally. His gaze finds Bucky again, as it has a habit of doing, and he studies the sleeping man with a softly pained expression. “Like an idiot.”

She follows his line of sight; scrutinizes the man on her couch. She knows who he used to be, the things he did, but she doesn’t know him, not yet. “Well,” she says, “I’ll be sure to tell him thanks.”

Sam shakes his head. She wants to tell him not to be ashamed, that she’s glad he’s alright, but Sam’s the farthest thing from selfish she knows. Even now he’s fully focused on Bucky, watching for life: soft, measured breaths, tiny movements in his face to prove he’s not gone.

“He’ll be okay,” Sarah tells him, though she doesn’t know.

He gives a single nod, then rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking her off. “Let’s talk about the boat, then,” he says.

She almost laughs. “Sam, you’re not getting out of it, but we don’t have to do that right now.”

He doesn’t move, just continues to look at her expectantly. “No, this is my part of the deal,” he says. “To talk about the boat.”

“Sam, you’re exhausted—”

“I don’t want you to sell it.” His voice is still soft, but it’s sharper at the edges now. Determined.

She sighs. “Sam, it’s not really up to you anymore.”

Hurt settles in the seams of his expression before it fades, leaving the same solid look behind. “It’s my family, too.”

“I know.”

“It was my parents, too,” Sam refutes, leaning forward, his elbows resting against his knees. His fingers ghost around each other anxiously. “The boat—the business—is ours.”

She shakes her head. “But you were gone.”

“So?” he asks. His voice is louder now, poorly-concealed desperation twinging between syllables. “I’m here now. I’m still here.”

“But... I did this all alone. You can’t understand—”

“Sarah, I didn’t choose to leave.”

“I know.” She brings a hand to her forehead; wipes away the tension, the mask of restraint. “I know that, Sam, but I worked myself half to death, alone, for five years. For the business, for the house, for the boys… and you have no idea how many times I almost went under. And I made it, and I’m fucking glad I did, but don’t act like you could’ve done it.”

Sam looks saddened and, abruptly, very young. “Sarah, I didn’t—”

“No, Sam, please. Don’t act like you can do it any better, because I did everything I could. And… and especially don’t act like this is anyone’s choice but mine.”

For a few quiet moments, they watch each other, words dissolving into the air and then reassembling, harsher or kinder in memory. She feels overexposed, like the façade has finally been stripped away. When Sam looks up and nods, finally, it is a kindness.

“I’m sorry,” he says. For what, he doesn’t elaborate.

“Me too.” She doesn’t know why she says it either, but it feels good like this, a clean slate: nothing left to apologize for, and nothing left to forgive.

Across from her, Sam bites his lip. “You know how I feel about all this,” he says slowly, “but it’s up to you.” He looks toward the window, where she knows he can see the front half of the boat, falling apart in the sunshine. He smiles, sort of sadly, then looks back to her. “I trust you,” he says.

She smiles back. “Thanks.”

Fifteen minutes later, Bucky still hasn’t stirred. They’ve been sitting in comfortable silence, mellowed by warm sunbeams and the sense of being home, and Sam is looking more exhausted by the minute.

“You can sleep now,” Sarah says. “The boys still won’t be home for a while.”

He looks unsure, his eyes flicking back to Bucky. “I wanna be here when he wakes up,” he says.

She shrugs. “You will be.”

“Yeah, well, I wanna be awake,” he says. Gently and absent-mindedly, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, he sets his fingers in Bucky’s palm and gingerly traces the lines there. “He’s gonna be scared when he wakes up.”

Sarah doesn’t ask why. Instead she shrugs again, nonchalantly, and settles back against the couch cushions. “I’ll be awake,” she says. “I’ll tell you when he starts waking up.”

“Thank you,” he says, practically melting with relief.

She watches him stand up awkwardly, shakily, and walk across the floor, where he grabs an old pink armchair and pulls it over to the couch. He angles it so he can see Bucky’s face, and then collapses heavily into the cushioned seat.

“Thank you,” he repeats, and she nods. Before he closes his eyes, he lays a hand across Bucky’s real wrist.

An anchor, she figures, for both of them.

She spends a lot of time staring out the window, imagining an empty port.

She hears something first, an incoherent murmuring that wavers on a whimper. She looks toward the couch, eyes stained with sunlight, and blinks away the image of the dock. She sees Sam still asleep in the chair, his hand now fallen from Bucky’s wrist, and Bucky where they’d left him on the couch.

Except now he’s moving. Sarah sees the tremble in his real hand, the way his body begins to writhe, the soft glimmer of sweat on his forehead.

Moving closer, she can see that his face has grown even paler, his lips chapped and white. And he looks afraid.

She doesn’t know whether to touch him. She knows who he is — what he’s capable of doing. She feels guilty at the thought of waking Sam, who looks the most at peace he’s been since he’s arrived, but she’d given her word.

“Sam,” she whispers, then reaches out and touches his arm. “Sam.”

Her brother blinks himself awake, then startles forward when he gets his bearings. Immediately he’s looking over her shoulder at Bucky, who’s still jerking in his sleep, delirious mutterings slipping from his pale lips.

“Buck,” he says, and places a hand on Bucky’s arm.

Immediately, Bucky jerks awake, a whirl of wide eyes and thrashing limbs, breathing harshly through a string of panicked, indecipherable words. He scrambles backward, pushing himself into the arm of the couch, his metal arm up in front of him like a shield. Pain flashes deep across his face and his other arm flies to his wound.

Sam lowers himself, crouching beside the couch with his hands raised. “Hey,” he says, voice soft and quick, “Buck, it’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just me, it’s Sam, okay, and this is my sister, Sarah, nobody’s gonna hurt you, alright? You’re safe.”

Bucky, still shaking in the corner of the couch, blinks and swallows painfully, then answers. It takes Sarah a few moments to realize he’s speaking a different language.

Sam shakes his head. “I don’t know what you’re saying, Buck,” he whispers apologetically.

Bucky just stares at him, chest heaving, eyes glossed with tears. He speaks again, but it’s still not English, it’s something strained and unfamiliar.

“Buck,” Sam tries again. “You’re with me, okay? You’re Bucky, and you’re safe. I promise.”

More staring, uncertain. Bucky’s looking at Sam like he’s going to disappear. Like he’s a mirage. Hesitantly, like Sam will dissolve if he touches him, Bucky reaches out for one of Sam’s raised hands. Sam meets it eagerly, and Bucky melts when they touch, his posture crumbling with relief.

“Sam,” he whispers, hoarsely. It’s the first thing he’s said that Sarah’s understood, and his voice is rough and pained and softer than she’d expected it. It’s still strange, tinted with sleep and whatever language he’d just pulled himself out of, but she can see a person underneath. He looks around for a moment, hazy eyes roving around unsteadily. “Where are we?” he asks.

“We’re at my sister’s house,” Sam tells him gently. “This is Sarah.”

Bleary eyes roll up to meet hers. Unsure, she forces a smile. “Hey,” she says.

He studies her with that half-feverish gaze, then nods once, slowly, his painfully-dry lips hovering around a word. “Sorry,” he finally says, in lieu of a greeting.

She shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it.”

The tremors have yet to subside, and Bucky seems like he’s going to shake out of his body and spill away. He’s moving like he’s in a dream, gazing around like he’s floating in the sea.

Slowly, and making sure Bucky is aware of every movement, Sam pulls him in. He wraps his arms around the trembling frame, pushes gentle hands into short hair, traces warm shapes into a feverish back. In response, Bucky buries his face into Sam’s neck, breaths hitching.

“You’re safe,” Sam tells him, a couple of times. Sarah feels like she’s interrupting, but can’t move away.

When Sam pulls away, he hesitates, pressing the back of his hand to Bucky’s damp forehead. He draws his eyebrows together, then takes Bucky’s face in his hands, looking him over.

“I think you’re sick, Buck,” he whispers.

Bucky doesn’t answer. He just blinks, cloudy eyes losing touch.

“Shit,” Sam hisses, but his grip isn’t any less gentle: his thumbs trace Bucky’s cheekbones, his lips press a soft kiss to his forehead.
Carefully, he adjusts Bucky so he’s leaning against his chest, his head resting against his shoulder. “Sarah,” he asks, hands cupping the back of Bucky’s neck, “can you…?”

She nods, then moves forward to lift Bucky’s dark T-shirt. Below the dark fabric, the white bandage is turning red, soaking through over feverish skin.

When she looks up, Sam looks terrified, his hands tighter around Bucky’s shivering frame.

“He’ll be okay,” Sarah says, though neither of them believe it. “He’ll be okay.”