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When Sam and Bucky marry, it’s beneath the silver maple trees in Louisiana, with branches that stick all the way up. The sky is pink, clouds bumpy like hives had broken out in the middle of the sky.
“Why do they grow like that?” Bucky asks. He tilts his head back towards the maple trees. “All vertical.”
Sam raises an eyebrow at him. He looks at the way the little branches stick up from the arms, thin and perfectly straight. The awe on Bucky’s face makes him think of holding back in the shadows of that night, when Sam gripped a truck with hands and wings and nothing else.
“They’re called suckers,” Sam explains. “The tall ones are water sprouts.”
The wind blows between them, a sticky sap smell coming in with the breeze. From somewhere down the path there’s the joyous sound of birds chirping, flapping their heartbeat rhythm wings.
Bucky stays rooted in his spot beneath the tree. “Shouldn’t gravity curve the branches? Weigh them down?”
The corner of Sam’s lips curve up. “You’re really stuck on this, huh?”
Bucky laughs it off. “Not many trees like this in the city, Sam.” He crosses his arms. “Well? What stops the gravity?”
“The sun,” Sam says. “The pull of the light’s greater than the gravity that holds them down.” It’s true, had always been true, and the sentence cracks a little part of Sam. Makes him think of flying. Pushing past the world’s weight. Soaking in light.
Beside him, Bucky’s still. Suddenly quiet. “You’re my sun,” he says.
The words twist fires through Sam. His throat constricts as he struggles to find words. “Yeah?” he asks finally. “And what does that make you?”
Bucky grins, his eyes glittering like sunset water on Lake Borgne. “A sucker. Obviously.”
It rains at the reception. Dark clouds send the sun ducking for cover past a turbulent sky.
“We need to move the food inside,” Sarah says, bending over the trays they left beneath the rented events tent. “The forecast said sunny. We were prepared for sunny.” But they all know how the weather gets during hurricane season.
Sam covers the trays with plastic wrap. Bucky reaches out a hand to touch the small of his back and begins to gather up the portable burners.
The wind blows.
“Grab the napkins!” Sarah shouts, and Sam hurriedly leaves the plastic wrap to collect the damp cloths from the muddied grass. He stands beneath the rain as it sticks like fuzz to the jacket of his suit.
“Sam?” Bucky asks him, “You okay?”
The sound of his voice laces warmth through Sam. “I’m good. Happy.”
“Good.” Bucky kisses him like a drop of gold, molten and precious, fingers branding ship-shaped pendants into his hips.
When they get inside, everyone is laughing. Everyone besides Mr. Dinh, who stands silent beside the table of bubble-thin wine glasses.
“Storms like these only get worse,” he says, shaking his head.
But Sam doesn’t believe in that bad omen bullshit.
“Open your mouth.”
“You open your mouth. You’re just gonna put my face in it.”
They continue to argue, standing in Sarah’s kitchen, strawberry cake frosted vanilla smeared on the knife in Sam’s hand. Their family and friends are watching with eyes crinkled like the cellophane gift wrap.
“We’ll do it at the same time,” Bucky says, and Sam feels his heart push against the top of his rib cage.
“Two spoons?” Sam asks.
“Two spoons."
An impatient yell comes from somewhere in the crowd. “We waited two years for you to marry so the bickering would stop!”
“The bickering will never stop,” Sam murmurs.
“To bickering forever,” Bucky says, lifting his spoon and cake plate. Sam lifts his too.
“3… 2…1...”
Sam smears the cake in Bucky’s face. Bucky smashes cake into Sam’s nose. Strawberry bursts onto his lips.
Sam pauses and sees the slopes of time spin backwards and stop.
He’s on the couch with Bucky sharing a blanket on a late autumn evening. It’s the hour when the sky bleeds orange and teachers return home from work and an owl will soar as quiet as a batted eyelash. In this hour he and Bucky share a carton of strawberry ice cream together. They do not break out bowls but lay quiet with two spoons and chip it away until it is empty.
Then, Bucky kisses Sam, tasting like frozen cotton candy and metal and they only need one.
Bucky’s hair is bronze and orange in the tropical sun of their honeymoon.
When they make love, Sam feels his blood fill with stars. As if everything he’d been reaching for is right there inside him. As if each time their lips meet, he drinks his dreams.
I want to crawl into your veins, he thinks, watch the way your muscles contract like lines in the sky instead of stars.
But Sam doesn’t need to wish on those lines for anything.
“There’s a napkin right there.”
Bucky lifts his hands from where they rest on his pants and places them on the table. Sam’s seated across from him with his brow lifted.
Bucky does not answer. Today, he has abandoned speech.
“Did you water the plants while I was away?” Sam continues.
Bucky moves the rice around on his plate.
“Or collect the mail like I asked?”
Bucky stabs at his shrimp with a fork.
“You know I had to do this alone, Bucky.” Sam inhales.”I know you worry. I know you think I’ll push too hard.” Exhales. “But you didn't have to walk away in front of the team when I was talking. What goes on here-” He gestures between the two of them. “That stays out of the field.” He pushes his plate back with a screech. “The plants are dead-” and stands up to dump the half scraped plate into the sink with a clang.
Bucky grits his teeth. His gaze catches on Sam’s mouth. The way it presses together in a pink slash.
“Funny when we were writing vows you said you'd always be there, do you remember that?” Sam asks. “You said it doesn't matter when or where or how far. You'd repeat that over and over, but if we argue and I leave the house for one week-” Bucky’s eyes move to the calendar and count sixteen days.”I get nothing. No call. No indication we were still okay.”
Sam leans against the sink in silence. His mouth shifts, puckers, turns down.
Bucky rises slowly, lifting his half-eaten plate from the table, and dumps it in the trash.
“You're not gonna eat?” Sam asks as Bucky moves past him.
“I can’t lose you,” Bucky whispers later, when they’re in bed, and Sam’s head is snuggled into his chest. Sam’s breathing is slow and even enough that Bucky knows he’s asleep. “But sometimes you hold yourself so tight, I don’t know how to reach you.” His finger brushes against the curve of Sam’s cheek, the silver in his ring glinting in the moonlight. “Or how to let you know you never have to face it alone ever again.”
The wings feel heavy these days. Everything is heavy. Dirty. Houseful of unwashed dishes and crumpled blankets.
They should talk about it.
Bucky’s voice comes from somewhere to Sam’s left. The words aren’t clear. Sam makes his way thickly upstairs through the hall to the bathroom, bright and bare as a hospital waiting room.
Sam turns on the shower and the water falls like sudden rain, startling drops against his shoulder blades. Tiles blur in and away, red streaks and then swirls like crushed cranberries into the drain.
The warmth of the shower unbalances him. A thought rises to the surface, unbidden. Blood is only warm when they’re alive.
Sam shuts the water quickly.
He goes downstairs and sees Bucky slumped on the couch with the television on.
“Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” Bucky grunts, making room for Sam beside him. He smells clean, like the rosemary shampoo in the Tower’s twenty-fifth floor bathroom. Their thighs touch. The TV frosts their faces blue.
Sam’s face centers on the screen, and he stares back at himself, the news flashing with statistics.
13 INJURED, 4 DEAD.
Sam’s head thunks against Bucky’s shoulder. “Can you turn that off?”
Sam can feel his face crumpling, like the way Bucky’s shirts would bunch up, when he put his hands beneath them. When he used to put his hands beneath them.
“Today’s accident seemed like a job not even Captain America could handl-”
Bucky slams the remote back on the table. The TV releases the room from its blue chokehold.
Everything is black now.
The darkness opens and swallows Sam up. He remembers when Bucky used to hold him through this, curled around Sam like he was a shell, Sam the delicate flesh he needed to protect.
Come closer, Bucky’d say. Why are you all the way over there?
The hard part about a family like theirs, is that the children are adults.
They don’t tell Sam when they start to notice things. When they realize that Sam and Bucky don’t sleep at the same time at the Tower. When they understand that the quiet that settles between them isn't comfortable, but an icy silence that keeps the room flinching.
Sam catches Yelena and Joaquín whispering about it in the hallway, his name like a snake in their mouths, the sharp S, the warning hiss.
“In my family, we scream and shout until we’re red in the face.” He hears Yelena say. “They don’t talk.”
Joaquín shakes his head. “They talk. They bicker fine on missions.”
Yelena clicks her tongue. “You know what I mean.”
Joaquín rubs his jaw, tension clear in his brow, in the tight corded lines of his neck. “They’ll work it out. They have to.”
“You’re Captain America,” a news reporter tells Sam, her freshly-whitened smile gleaming at him, taunting him, in the brutal sunlight. “You can do anything. It’s in your bones.”
Sam smiles back. She reminds him of a National Geographic article he read once. Something about sea turtles. It’ll come to him.
“Sit down and have something to eat,” Bucky demands.
He’s pacing back and forth, still in uniform, his hair in matted clumps sticking up from his forehead, his brow creased in concern. “You can’t storm out there like that, Sam. You have to tell me the next time you do something that stupid, Christ, if I hadn’t been there-”
Sam puts his fork down. He remembers the days when Bucky’s protectiveness was endearing. Now, it suffocates him as soon as he gets through the door.
Bucky’s so fucking preoccupied all of the fucking time. Is Sam eating? Is he hurt? Is he keeping out of the press? Does he need help with that interview prep?
“I had it handled, Bucky. I can handle it.”
Bucky stops in front of him, eyes flashing in anger. “You don’t have to, is what I’m saying.” He waves his hand at him. “What the hell is going on, Sam? Why are you-” He breaks off and sinks down in the chair beside him, his eyes sad. Blue. “Why are you shutting me out? The more I press in, the more you want me to leave.” He swallows. “What’s the point of a marriage if you can’t even talk about how you feel?”
Sam draws in a breath and looks away.
It isn't that Sam can't find the words to explain his feelings or doesn't know how to say the words, because he does. When he's up in front of everyone and they're all looking for something inspirational and heartfelt and just the right touch vulnerable, he knows exactly what to say.
But between the two of them, Sam doesn't want to. Between the two of them, he just wants for once, someone to know how he feels without him having to break it all open, without him having to extract all the sharpness, make the emotions duller than what they are.
You’re supposed to know. Sam wants to say. You’re supposed to know how I feel.
Sam remembers now. About the article.
Even sea turtles can drown, if they stay down too long.
Bucky’s eyes flit back and forth over Sam’s face. He looks uncertain. Nervous. Jittery.
Things had changed since that mission, since Sam had found that glitch in the security, had rushed forth and struck the hostiles without a word to the rest of the team about it.
Bucky makes moves like that all the time and he does so efficiently. It’s not fair that Sam can’t do the same, that he needs a whole fucking team to know exactly what he is doing and when, when he knows what he’s capable of. Just because he’s not a supersoldier doesn’t mean Bucky has to hover-
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Sam snaps.
Bucky blinks at him. “Like what?”
“Like I’m crazy.”
“I-”
“We’re just a little worried about you, Sam,” Joaquin interrupts, from his place at the coffee machine. His mouth is pressed together, his brows pinched, and Sam knows that expression, the kind of worry he can see from the air, when he’s too slow at answering the comms.
Sam’s face burns, because he’s fine. Why does everyone think there’s something wrong here? He goes to therapy, eats his vegetables, and he trains for several hours every day. He’s a fully functioning, very productive superhero, damn it. He has his shit together.
“No worry necessary,” Sam reassures him, keeping his tone light, his smile that genuine smile that works with all of the elementary school kids. “Just a little tired.” He rubs the back of his neck and looks at Bucky a little sheepishly. “Sorry, man.” Then, he rises and leaves the room.
When Sam returns later to the kitchen, there’s a steaming mug of tea on the counter.
Like someone had been listening for his footsteps to keep it hot, but had retreated as soon as he entered.
As if they thought Sam would prefer to be alone.
Sam doesn’t.
Sam keeps strawberry ice cream in the Tower freezer, frost-bitten, until Yelena wrinkles her nose and asks if she can throw it out.
Sam wants to say no, that he was saving it, but for what? It’s been a couple years since he last shared an ice cream carton with Bucky. They still sleep in the same bed at least, but it’s too hot under the covers to cuddle, and the sex had dried up about the same time all the blood did, crusted under Sam’s fingernails, taking hours to get clean.
They still work together fine. They work together great. There’s no tension or fizzle. Bucky directs Sam and Sam directs Bucky, and they trust each other out there. It’s the only place where proof of their intimacy still exists.
They’re professionals, right?
Yeah, so Yelena can dump it. She does, the frozen carton hitting the bottom of the trash can with a loud thunk.
When Sam goes to bed that night, he pulls the blanket over his head. He read somewhere that they do that with horses, to keep them from panicking in a fire. Is there a fire here? He wonders. Or is it all just ash?
Sam breathes in the warmth of his own breath. Calms himself down in the dark. It works. He doesn’t panic.
Until he feels the bed shake around 1 AM, when Bucky settles beside him, his breathing loud, like a whistle.
It grates, it grates, it grates. Sam longs for the days he didn’t find Bucky’s snoring so annoying. He remembers when it was the sound of peace, no nightmares.
On August 10th, Sam buys a house. The family house for Sarah. His pen hovers over the dotted line. It’s his house, no mortgage. His and Sarah’s. But he and Bucky are married, they’re supposed to share assets.
“Do I put Bucky’s name on it?” Sam asks her. “Do you want me to put his name on it?”
Sarah reels back from him in shock. “Why wouldn’t you? You planning a divorce or something?”
The word prickles hot in Sam’s nose and makes him want to swallow acid. But- things had been awful lately. Sam got mad that Bucky was looking, and now Bucky didn’t look at all.
“Maybe,” Sam says finally, and watches Sarah’s expression shutter.
“Talk to him,” she urges. “I don’t think he knows -”
Sam thinks he does. Bucky’s just fucking tired of putting up with it, that’s all.
“I got you the real peaches,” Sam says, at the grocery store. He juts his chin at the cups of syrupy fruit in Bucky’s hands. “You can put that back.”
Bucky furrows his brow. “The cups are easier. The juice doesn’t stick in my fingers.”
But it’s not as healthy, Sam wants to say. He stops himself. He’s been doing that a lot lately. Stopping.
Bucky gestures to the cart. “I got us frozen shrimp for dinner.”
Shrimp? For dinner? Tonight? Sam was going to make a nice gumbo. Break out the candles. The fancy tablecloth. He told Bucky this. He even booked a hotel overnight. “Sarah sent us fresh ones yesterday. We don’t need that.”
Bucky sighs and lifts the packet to put it back. Sam bites his lip. He wants to say sorry, to say thank you for trying, but stiff politeness isn’t natural at this stage in a marriage. That kind of politeness is meant for strangers.
They aren’t strangers, are they? Had they really gotten to the point where-
Bucky lifts the strawberry ice cream carton from the corner of the cart. Sam winces. It’s supposed to be a surprise.
“I can’t eat this anymore, remember?” Bucky pats his stomach. “No dairy.”
Maybe they are.
Strangers.
“It’s for me,” Sam says, throat tight. Doesn’t Bucky remember? Doesn’t he understand why it’s so important?
Bucky puts the ice cream back in the cart with a nod.
Sam lets that carton sit in the freezer too.
“How was the anniversary?” Joaquín asks, smiling wide, his eyebrows wiggling suggestively.
“Anniversary?” Bucky repeats. He stares at Joaquín's face, the way it morphs into horror. “Oh fuck.” He stands up. Sam isn’t there. Bucky has nowhere to go. No way to apologize. The shrimp. The ice cream. The nice dinner. Why Sam had asked Bucky if he wanted to go out, and Bucky said no, he wanted to stay home, and fell asleep right there on the couch, only to wake when the front door slammed.
Where are you? Bucky had texted. Where are you going?
“Maybe you should try couples therapy,” Sarah tells Sam, as he drops his bag of clothes in the front entrance with a thunk.
Sam smiles tiredly. He tried that once.
It feels like a lifetime ago.
Bucky knows Sam well enough to know where he’d be. Down by the docks at home, staring out into the water as the sun sets. Bucky doesn’t creep up like he normally would, but lets his footsteps trudge loudly at his approach. He sits down, an arm’s length away.
“Joaquín tell you?” Sam asks.
Bucky grimaces. “Yeah. Fuck, I’m sorry, Sam. I shoulda been on top of it. It’s just with everything that’s been goin’ on I’ve been too-”
“Too worried about keeping me in one piece to notice how I’m really doing?” Sam asks. Bucky’s eyes widened. “Yeah. I’ve noticed that too.”
Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. “Sorry.”
Sam glances at him, his head tilting a little. “God knows I’m no perfect husband,” he sighs. “Sometimes I don’t give you the chance before I assume the worst outta you.” When Sam turns his face fully, Bucky sees his eyes are shining with tears. “I could’ve reminded you too. Made the night into something better than it was. Just wanted something to be mad about. Because fuck, sometimes everything hurts so bad I wanna be angry for something.” His shoulders are stiff, like he’s holding in a shudder. “Never-” He inhales. “Never meant for it to transfer to us.”
“It didn’t,” Bucky insists. “You didn’t.” He scoots closer to Sam and holds out a hand, tentatively. “Things haven’t been right with us, Sam. We’ve both fucked up. Got a shit-load of problems and not all of them are our fault.” He scoffs. “Seems like the only thing that ain’t been a problem is that we always come back from it. ”
Sam smiles sadly. “For better or for worse.”
Bucky shakes his head and barrels on. “For better. Long as we’re together, we’ll talk. We’ll make it up. We’ll keep on. ” He hesitates. “So long as you still want this.”
Sam bites the inside cheek and slides his hand into Bucky’s. “Since when did you become so optimistic, huh?”
Bucky squeezes his palm. “When I found my sun,” he winks. “Defying gravity and all that shit.” Sam laughs loud and untethered, and it sets something loose in Bucky’s chest. “So whaddya say? Let’s go home. Let me cook. I’ll make it up to you.”
Sam snorts. “Don’t think your cooking will be making it up to me.”
“Alright,” Bucky concedes. “We’ll order out. But I’m still makin’ it up to you.”
When they get home, Bucky kisses Sam like it’s the first time, his attention focused on Sam’s reactions, the way his eyes squeeze up when Bucky kisses his thigh, the way his toes curl when Bucky presses his fingers into Sam’s wrists, keeping him locked against the bed.
Sam’s unusually vocal this time around, as if he’d realized how much Bucky’d been starving for it, which only makes Bucky want to kiss him more, press his body against Sam everywhere, hear his voice reverberate through their skin.
“Yeah,” Sam murmurs in his ear. “Just like that. Keep holding on, Buck. Don’t you dare let go.”
Bucky doesn’t. Never wants to.
Bucky buys a calendar. Writes down all the dates, the anniversaries, the birthdays.
Sam reaches for him often now, stripping off his uniform and opening himself up for Bucky right against the wall, asks him to hold and to take and between breaths will tell him how hard it is, sometimes, to carry it all.
It’s working. It works. It worked.
But there’s always something new to fight about.
“Stop stressing yourself out, Sam. It’s just your sister. You don’t have to bring anything.”
Sam pauses halfway through chopping the broccoli to put his knife down. “I can’t just show up to my sister’s house for dinner empty handed.”
Sarah doesn’t do that. She always brings the strawberries or wine, and Sam’s mama always told him he had to bring something over. It was just plain manners.
Bucky frowns. “You just got off of work, you’re still bleeding, for Christ’s sake, I think she would under-”
Sam brings the knife down on the head of broccoli, continuing to chop at full force. “I don’t show up at someone’s home after they cook me a meal and bring nothing.” Bucky stares blankly at him. “I don’t know what your ma taught you in the 40s but-” he stops when Bucky’s eyes snap up to meet his.
“But what?” He challenges.
Sam shakes his head. Lets the chopping noise penetrate the air, break the silence into little bits.
“But what, Sam?”
“I’m not like that.” Sam finishes. He put the knife down again.
Bucky’s nostrils flares. “I was just trying to help, Jesus Christ.”
Sam glares back at him. “You wanna help? Pick up the goddamn knife and chop something.”
“Everything okay?”
Bucky looks up from the cup in his lap. “Huh? Oh. Yeah.”
It’s a sunny day back out by the docks, the wind calm, the water still. A perfect day for recording, Joaquín had said.
The frown lines on Joaquín's face deepen. “Look, it’s only five minutes. You don’t have to say much. Just happy birthday and I love you or something. Whatever you guys used to do.”
Used to do? Bucky used to prepare a whole script, write Sam a stupidly romantic card, buy him boxes of clothing he would try on, smiling, even if the clothes didn’t fit or they were the wrong color and Bucky had to return them all.
The red light blinks on the camera. Bucky clears his throat. “Happy, uh, birthday. I know things haven’t been great lately. I haven’t been great lately. I forgot our anniversary and left you to sleep alone in an expensive hotel, and I never want to leave the house and complain too much about the things that don’t matter, like how your favorite chair takes-”
Joaquín groans and drops the camera. “Bucky. It’s his birthday. Come on. I know things aren’t the best right now, but fuck, give me something I can use.”
Bucky exhales slowly. The red recording light blinks back on and Bucky plasters on a smile.
“Happy birthday, Sam.” He lifts the glass of amber liquid, squeezing it so tight it tingles in his grip. “I love you.”
The words fall flat and Bucky tries not to panic as he attempts to recall the last time he told Sam that. “Cheers.” He lifts the glass to his lips.
Joaquín grimaces. “Jesus. Okay. We can just cut out the bad parts. Splice something together.”
If only real life were that easy, Bucky thinks. He’d cut out this whole fucking year.
Later, Bucky settles into bed at 9:30, before Sam gets there. The bed feels empty like this. Is this how Sam falls asleep every night? Curled up on his side of the bed alone?
“I love you,” Bucky says out loud to the empty room, testing it on his tongue. “I love you.”
Sam walks into the room a few minutes later, lifting an eyebrow when he sees Bucky in his pajamas.
“You sick or something?” He asks. “You never get to bed this early.”
“I love you,” Bucky tells him.
Sam’s expression transforms into something fragile, like something Bucky can shatter if he isn’t careful, his smile butterfly-wing thin when he sits down on the bed beside him. He reaches for Bucky’s hand. It’s cold.
“Come here,” Bucky whispers. He opens his arms. It’d been so long since he’d held Sam like this.
Sam crawls into them, his body tense, pulled together like a paper package and string that Bucky wants to find the end of, so he can pull it apart and help Sam unravel.
But Sam’s a spool, a never ending spool of string and tugging one end does nothing. He knows that.
“I love you too,” Sam whispers back.
The next day, Bucky finds Joaquín hunched over the computer, staring at the screen, his bottom lip between his teeth.
“I want to redo it,” Bucky says.
Joaquín wrinkles his nose. “Redo what?”
“The video.”
Joaquín shakes his head. “It’s okay. We got what we needed.”
“No,” Bucky argues. “You didn’t.”
Joaquín inhales, a slow patient sigh, and rises from the chair. “Fine. Let's go.”
He breaks out the video camera and they return to the maple trees, where Bucky tells Sam again that he is his sun.
“We’re still growing,” he says. “I’m still reaching for you.”
Joaquín tears up, so Bucky figures he did the video justice, and satisfied, Bucky goes back into the kitchen. Takes out a salad to bring to Sarah’s. He’s trying. He’s going to try. He booked a better hotel for Sam’s birthday. He’s going to fix this.
There are plans for tonight. Something special. Bucky has been fidgeting all day long. He tells Sam to pack an overnight bag. Joaquin and Yelena are excited about the gift they have for him, but Sam doesn’t need gifts. His gift these days is just a day off.
And now Sam is in a rickety building helping children out the front entrance, but the bomb is ticking down and there’s not enough time.
“Get out of there,” comes Bucky’s voice, sharp and tinged with panic. He’s running, Sam realizes. Bucky’s coming after him, he’s going to try and stop him.
“I am,” Sam says, and he is, but he’s got a new plan, he’s latched himself to the bomb, latched it securely enough that he can fly out with it.
“Sam, I mean it.”
“I’m out, Buck. I’ll meet you back at the jet.”
Sam’s not lying, but he’s not exactly telling the truth, flying fast towards the water. The countdown clicks 10, 9, and can see the spray of the waves.
He’s not gonna make it.
“Sam, a girl just told me the bomb was removed?” Joaquín says, voice rising. “Where the fuck is the-” He breaks off as he looks up to the sky. “Sam, no. Bucky, stop him, someone-”
But it’s too late. It’s 3, 2, 1, and it’s not strawberry that bursts onto Sam’s lips. It’s a gasp. A panic. Dry, sticky saliva.
Sam unlatches the bomb and hurls it into the sea. It explodes mid-air and knocks him from his position in the sky.
He’s spiraling, spiraling, and all he sees are the sun and the trees, but it seems like gravity got him after all.
Sam’s hands are wet when he wakes, his ears deafened, his skin soaked red, and someone is mouthing something at him. Something like “stay with me” and “wake up.” Is this what it feels like? To be blown to pieces? Because it doesn’t hurt that much. Not really.
Sam went numb months ago.
Hands cradle the back of Sam’s neck and when he looks into the sky, he sees blue eyes, scruffy hair, and the most terrified, shipwrecked expression he's ever seen. He reads, “stupid” and “Jesus,” and “We were supposed to fix this. I was going to fix this.” And then nothing. The world goes black.
Sam thinks of wedding day storm clouds. Of rain drops. Of hiding beneath blankets.
Sam left Bucky the house. He put Bucky’s name on the house.
That’s gotta mean something, right?
When Sam comes to, he feels sticky. It’s antiseptic and bandages. His face is itchy where it's scabbed over. There are three figures by the door with matty hair and tired eyes. He opens his mouth to speak but the words dry up in his throat.
Bucky hands him a glass of water that he drinks greedily.
Joaquín shakes his head at him. “You saved all of them,” he says, in disbelief. “You saved all the kids. You shouldn’t even be here.”
Yelena stares at him, her face pale, her mouth pressed into a thin line. “You do that again, you die. I will kill you. There is no one more qualified to lead this team, Sam. Without you we've got nothing.” She pokes him in the chest. “So stay in one piece.” Her mouth turns in disgust as if it pains her to say it. “ Please.”
Bucky is silent until they leave.
“You idiot,” he says wetly and then bursts into tears.
Sam holds him, but he breaks too, salt stinging the wounds on his face, the pain emanating from his body nowhere near as sharp as the one in his heart.
“I gave you my blood,” Bucky whispers. Sam squeezes his hand.
Once Sam had wanted Bucky so much he wished to crawl into his veins. Now Bucky has crawled into his.
“Thank you,” Sam whispers back.
Going home is slow. Bucky brings him back to their bedroom, hobbling. He’s fraying apart, even though the two of them are closer than they've ever been. Closer than they’d been for months.
Isn't that funny? That Sam lets Bucky in because he has to, because he's got no other choice.
And now Sam’s seated between Bucky’s legs in the tub, Sam’s back pressed against Bucky’s front, his eyes closed as he leans back into Bucky’s body, sturdy against him.
The intimacy is something different, something new they hadn't shared before. It was always heat and softness, taking their respective showers and a quick fuck in the bedroom. Bickering. Laughing. None of this pain, none of this tense silence, holding the air hostage.
Bucky reaches for the shampoo and squeezes it onto his fingers. He touches Sam’s temple with sudsy fingers, and the scent of rosemary fills Sam’s nose.
“Wait,” Sam says, halting the movement. “You washed my hair yesterday.”
Bucky’s nose wrinkles in confusion. “Yeah, I did. I remember. Do you not… wash your hair every day?”
Sam’s first instinct is frustration. He wants to say, we've been married for three years and you still don't know this about me? But instead, he finds tenderness lacing through him, thinking that time has its way of revealing that there’s always more to learn. He takes Bucky’s hands from his temples and moves them to his shoulders, smoothes them over, so the suds smear across his skin.
“No,” he explains. “Shampooing every day dries it out.”
“I didn't…know that.” Bucky’s hands slide down Sam’s back, slowing around the parts that hurt.
Sam watches him with parted lips. He's never noticed before, how attuned Bucky is to his body, how he knows where Sam hurts without asking, how he knows exactly what he needs, so long as Sam is open to receiving it.
Sam had seen it as fussing. As Bucky knowing all the places he was weak. But it had been Bucky loving in the only way he knew how. Fixing the hurt.
Sam has been slowly letting him in again with soft touch, more words. But the scraped up, most fucked up parts of him, the vacancies, he hasn’t opened up in awhile.
Because opening means letting all the hurt in, opening means addressing that he can't shoulder it all, and that he needs help, needs someone to wash his body around the worst parts, wash around the scars and the cuts and the bruises.
“Bucky,” he says, hoarse, and Bucky turns to see Sam’s lips trembling. Bucky dips his hands in the water to wash off the suds. He cradles Sam’s face. Kisses him.
The kiss rushes cold into Sam’s chest like canteen water, all saturating, instant relief.
Satiating.
We’re still growing, Bucky on the video screen says. I’m still reaching for you.
It's not much of Sam’s birthday anymore, his body is still banged up and taped together, but he's a sniffling mess, tears running hot down his cheeks as the people on video tell him how much they love him.
Hell, this was before Sam almost died. This was before the fall fucked him up. He would've died without knowing how much people love him. How much they want to be let in.
Bucky wipes Sam’s tears with his sleeve, because fingers are not enough. He presses a kiss to his temple and turns off the video.
“You okay?” He asks softly.
“Yeah.” Sam clears his throat. “I love you.” Words may not be his love language, but life's too short not to tell Bucky that, every single day that it's true.
Bucky grins and launches himself at Sam in the best careful-super-soldier-and-injured-Cap way he can, peppering Sam’s face with kisses and smothering his love into his skin.
So. Love grows.