*
Sam knows he's gonna regret doing this.
He swoops low, his Falcon wings nearly skimming the underside of both Flag Smasher's roaring, high-speed trucks. Even if they're made of carbon fiber, even if Sam is quick… there's no being indestructible like these Super Soldiers.
Bucky struggles to hold any metal truck-siding, his face grimacing. His vibranium-fingers making bright, hot sparks on the road.
Sam's pulse leaps in his throat. He grabs onto Bucky, pulling them out of the fight, zooming towards a field and rolling them. For the next thirty seconds, the world fiercely drags Sam along with it, until he's nauseous. The Munich air smells heavily like diesel.
They come to a halt, with Bucky half-sprawled on Sam.
A wheeze leaves Sam's lips. It hurts.
"You good, Sam?" Bucky mutters, glancing over him and patting Sam's sides.
"Peachy." Sam closes his eyes, fighting off the dizziness. "I mighta bruised all of me savin' your ass… but think I'm still here."
A huffing laugh. "You're not having fun?"
Sam cracks open an eye open through his red compact goggles.
"You tellin' me… dangling to your death was FUN to you?" he asks, wheezing again. Sam momentarily regrets saying this when Bucky's eyes narrow. The ghost of something too painful and ugly creeps in, but Bucky hasn't relented on his shit-eating grin.
"Takes more than that to kill me someone like me."
"A freakzoid, yeah." Sam nods, freeing one of his arms from under Bucky's weight and shoving. "Geddoff."
Bucky doesn't argue, rolling onto his back. Seems like there's nobody out for miles. No oncoming traffic. John Walker and his buddy, along with the Flag Smashers, long gone by now. Sam unbuckles himself, breathing hard and pushing up his goggles.
When he stares at Bucky, San notices him staring, too.
It's difficult to explain.
Bucky's got a look about him right now. Like he's dreamy and faraway, and that makes no sense for the Bucky he knows. Sam can admit he doesn't know Bucky that well, but… he kinda wants to. A thrum of heat echoes in the bottom of Sam's gut.
Shit. No. No, he's not turned on right now.
"What's that?"
"Hm?"
"Why do you look like that?" Sam blurts out, never breaking the intense eye-contact. Damn him for making Sam get used to it.
Bucky faintly arches an eyebrow.
"Am I supposed to look a certain way?" he grumbles.
"You're a shithead."
Despite the insult, Bucky's grin widens. He yanks out a handful of grass and chucks it at Sam.
Oh, so retaliation it is.
Sam wrestles him, smiling toothily and flattening him the yellow wildflowers, listening to Bucky cursing. His super-strength forces Sam away. They're rolling again together, and it's not terrifying to Sam this time. His heart, however, still pounds fast.
He's still waiting for the inevitability.
Bucky ends up over him, their legs slotting. Chests heaving.
Sam's voice fades in.
"Buck…"
A twitch of annoyance seizes Bucky's expression.
It's not his nickname to use, Sam supposes.
It belongs to Steve.
The shield was Steve's shield and the name Captain America went to another white boy. But how much of Bucky belonged to Steve… did he kiss him like he wanted to, powerful and unyielding, swallowing up every sensation like it belonged to him, and feeling every nerve-end alight…?
Did it feel right… did it feel as inevitable as anything else…?
Bucky's flesh-fingers dig into Sam's nape, pulling their faces closer. Their mouths smushed up.
Sam can feel the ache in his teeth, Bucky's own teeth clanking his when the rough, impromptu kiss opens. His tongue impatiently presses past Sam's lips. It's bizarre to Sam how they went from shooting each other to copping a feel in a meadow.
Time makes no sense.
Sam regains control, rolling Bucky this time and finding the other man more at ease. Bucky, flushed and loose-limbed, gazes over Sam's mouth wordlessly while lying back in the high grass. Sam's throat clenches. God, shit—he's definitely hard now.
"We should go…"
"You sure?" Bucky whispers, and he's definitely giving Sam his own purposeful version of bedroom eyes. Bucky's lips licking.
Except they're in a goddamn field, and Sam feels itchy, and his cock feels trapped and throbbing. He imagines them, for only a moment, zipping from their uniforms and laughing out—Bucky's naked thighs spread—drops of precome slicking up his—
Oh, god—
"Unfortunately," Sam mumbles, trying to calm his racing mind. It sounds as disappointed as Bucky's sigh.
He kneels up into a stand, grasping onto Bucky's vibranium-hand and heaving him upright.
Maybe next time.
*