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Sam figures that after all the shit he's been through - alien invasions and sorcerers and super soldiers and disappearing from life for five years - he should be thoroughly immune to surprises. To this standstill of a moment, completely and utterly blown away in a way he didn't even know he was capable of anymore.
He's Captain America, damn it. An Avenger. Hell, he's former pararescue, he's seen enough weird shit to last him a lifetime. But, this?
"Sam," Bucky had said, firm and even like he practiced it in the mirror, "I'd like your help with something."
This is, quite possibly, the last thing he ever expected.
"I think I just had an out-of-body moment," Sam says. Shakes his head like he needs to clear it, watches Bucky's expression flatten out into his usual you're making me regret knowing you expression. "Sorry, what did you just say?"
Bucky grits his teeth. "Don't be a dick."
"C'mon, man." He nudges Bucky with his elbow, sidles in close like they're buddies. They're buddies, aren't they? Saving the world together - more the once - tends to have that effect on people, he thinks. "Don't be like that. I think I'm allowed to be a little surprised by this."
"This is hard enough without you rubbing it in my face," Bucky sighs. It's a rare show of vulnerability, of Bucky telling the truth about his feelings. And, okay, maybe Sam is being a bit of a dick about this, it's just -
Help. Bucky is asking him for help. Sam's never seen Bucky ask anyone for help before, not even Steve. Not even when he's got one arm and fumbling things like he keeps forgetting that fact. Not even when he's been shot, damn it, and that probably would've been the right moment for it, but -
He's getting sidetracked. "Okay," he says.
Bucky blinks. "Okay?"
"Yeah, okay. What's up?"
"I just -" Bucky huffs out a breath, runs a hand through his cropped hair. "That's it? You don't even know what I'm about to ask for."
"You wouldn't ask if it wasn't important." Sam shrugs. "Besides, ain't that what Captain America's all about? Helping people?" He grins, nudges Bucky again. Probably pushing it, but Bucky doesn't even seem to mind.
"Okay." Bucky takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes like he's steeling himself. "I want to - I want your opinion. On tattoos."
"Tattoos," Sam says. In a tone that hopefully conveys how fascinating, tell me more, instead of I can't believe we're talking about this over international airspace while waiting for a fight.
"It's - there are. Scars." Bucky motions toward his shoulder, the black matte of his arm standing out in stark contrast to the pale blue t-shirt he's wearing. It's an abbreviated motion, like he doesn't even want to consider the scar for that long. "Shuri did her best, the doctors did their best, but the original arm, it - it left scars. I don't like seeing them," he admits in the smallest voice Sam's ever heard from the man.
"Cover-up tattoos," Sam says, comprehension dawning. He's seen other vets get them, covering up war wounds with new memories and images to take away the sting of PTSD. Hell, it's not even the first time he's helped a vet pick out tattoos. But this - this is something. This is Bucky willingly letting Sam into a very vulnerable place in his head. "Yeah, I can give some opinions. Do you have any thoughts?"
Bucky exhales loudly. Lets his shoulders drop. "I - I have no idea where to start. I don't - choices are. Hard."
"Doesn't hurt to get an idea of what other people have done," Sam suggests. Because he gets it, he really does. He might not have been a formerly brainwashed assassin, but he's seen enough survivor's guilt to know the way it eats a person up inside, makes everything seem trivial. Hell, he's seen the way Natasha used to curl in on herself - not physically, no, but he could always see it in her eyes, her stance - when she had to make a personal decision.
"How?" Bucky asks.
"You gotta check out Pinterest, man, see what kind of shit people have come up with."
"The fuck is Pinterest?" Bucky scowls like he always does when Sam brings up some bit of modernity that he's not familiar with.
"It's an app, old man, chill." Laughs, but in a gentle way. Not teasing, no, something - softer. Yeah. "Just a bunch of people posting pictures of creative stuff they've done. Tattoos, art, all kinds of things. Sarah uses it whenever she wants to redecorate the house."
"Pinterest," Bucky says like he's kind of thinking it over. "Alright, maybe."
Sam opens his mouth to ask another question - but then there's Torres over the comms and their target is in the air, and it's time to do the superhero shit again. But he resolves to bring it up again another time.
They don't get another chance to talk about it until three days later. Sam's down in D.C., a new apartment in his old city, just finishing his morning jog. Throws himself down on the couch - he's disgusting, dripping with sweat after ten miles around the Mall but he just doesn't have the energy to go shower yet - when he remembers that he's supposed to give Bucky his opinions.
So, he ends up thumbing through Pinterest and Google search results before winnowing down to three options to send to Bucky. He's not sure what Bucky wants, so it's a bit of a mixed bag. One full coverage - an interlocking mandala design that seems too complicated for Sam's eyes to follow, but covers all the scars nicely. One sweet one, a long surgical scar with flowers winding around it. And then a clever one, a long, jagged scar with a zipper at the end.
He sends all three, and then puts his phone down and gets in the shower. Things are better between him and Bucky, these days, but the guy isn't much of a texter, even on his best days. Hell, he kind of figures it'll be a few days before he hears from him again.
Still, he's pleasantly surprised when he picks up his phone after his shower to find Bucky's already responded.
I think full coverage is better, he says. But I don't like the mandala. Too impersonal.
Well. That's easy to fix. Sam reopens Pinterest and settles down for some more scrolling.
It's - kind of nice, Sam finds himself thinking.
They haven't actually seen each other in three weeks, not since that time in the plane where Bucky actually asked for help. Sam's got shit going on with the U.N. and the GRC and the various world councils, and Bucky's taken an interest in training Torres, so in the end they've basically switched places. Sam's been in NYC for far too long, and Bucky's been crashing on the base in D.C. for the ease of it.
But, they've been texting for almost all of that. By the end of the day, when Sam's crashing in front of a half-busted television in his hotel room, he's inevitably got a couple of texts from Bucky, a couple more images to give his opinion on. And then they end up talking about other things, once they've gotten started. It's all work related, at first; they talk about how Torres' training is coming, how much Sam can't stand the GRC, and about whatever press Sam is getting as Captain America that day.
There's only so much they can talk about work, though, before the topic shifts. Music, and games, and books, and the differences between modern life and the 1930s - their talks run the gambit, until Bucky's tattoo ideas are buried under a mass of texts that Sam has to scroll back through just to find what they're supposed to be talking about.
It settles into a routine so easily that Sam doesn't even realize it until he's on his way back down to D.C. and he catches himself checking his phone, waiting for a text.
Hey, he texts, before he can think twice about it, no pics today? You figure it out?
Nah. Bucky texts back almost immediately, and Sam doesn't feel any type of way about that at all. Out in the field all day, showing Baby Falcon how to throw knives. And then, a few seconds later, Baby Falcon says hi.
Tell Torres hi, and stop calling him Baby Falcon.
If the shoe fits.
Sam snorts. Can practically hear the dry sarcasm in Bucky's text. Okay, Terminator, he replies, because Bucky's not the only one who can come up with obnoxious nicknames. And with the pause before the next text it's like Sam can feel Bucky rolling his eyes from across the state lines.
His phone rings. It's Bucky, of course, and he thumbs open the call with one eyebrow raised. This isn't what they do. Except, texting isn't what they do, either, until suddenly it is.
"What time's your train in?" Bucky asks without even bothering to say hello.
"Hello to you, too, Buck," Sam drawls.
"Oh, excuse me for thinking that texting you was an adequate greeting," Bucky snaps, but there's no heat behind it. "C'mon, answer the question, pal."
"Eight," Sam says. "Why?"
"Figured I could bring you food," Bucky says easily, like this is yet another thing they do. "You must be hungry, it's a long train ride."
Sam's stomach actually growls at the thought of that. "Sounds good, man," he says.
He spends exactly three minutes thinking about it on the train before he decides not to freak himself out by contemplating it any more than he needs to. Shuts it out of his brain, because he's definitely not pleased that Bucky wants to hang out or whatever. Stares at his phone instead, tries to distract himself with mindless games.
Except. Except he ends up scrolling through Pinterest again, looking at scars and tattoos and trying to decide if poppies are too cliché of a suggestion.
And then Bucky's waiting for him on the platform when he gets there. He's leaning on a lamppost, and the light reflects in the evening mist in a way that makes a halo around his body. And it's - Christ, it's so stupid and cliché but Sam can't stop staring, can't stop his heart from beating just a little bit faster at the sight of him. Bucky is - beautiful, he thinks, even as his mind tries to shy away from that thought. Won't do him a damn bit of good, realizing that Bucky Barnes is an objectively attractive human being.
"Hey," Bucky says. His voice is so soft, almost intimate. And he smiles, too, almost shy in the way he's looking at Sam, with this little tilting of his lips and the sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek and the bluest of blue eyes Sam's ever seen. All at once he's struck with the most intense longing, with the urge to reach out and brush his fingertips along Bucky's jaw.
"Hey," he says back. Feels stupid with how tied his tongue suddenly is.
"Whatcha hungry for?" Bucky asks. He stands up straight, smiles a little more at Sam, and it's - fuck, he's so beautiful, and Sam -
Sam maybe has a problem.
Sam is absolutely determined to pretend that it's a perfectly normal evening. They get Thai, and Sam helps Bucky carry a ridiculous amount of take-out boxes up the stairs to his apartment. They crash on opposite ends of the couch, a gulf of space between them that Sam definitely does not feel, and watch bad television and gripe at each other until well after midnight. It's - well - it's disturbingly domestic, and Sam can't help but think it's the best night he's had in a long time. Usually he comes home and crashes, gets shitty delivery and watches shittier television until he passes out on the couch. And it's - he's coping these days, really, he swears, but he's still a guy with PTSD and a boatload of issues, and sometimes nights alone are hard.
"Why the fuck do watch this shit," Bucky had mumbled, mouth full of friend rice, when they were halfway through their second episode of Keeping Up With the Kardashians.
"Because it's hysterical!" Sam had exclaimed. "It's like a totally different world, man, and I have no idea how they come up with half this shit."
Bucky had snorted. But he'd turned his attention back to the TV, and hadn't complained as they made it through another episode, and then another, until suddenly it's after midnight and they're both yawning.
"Fuck," Sam mumbles around another yawn. "I didn't mean to stay up this late."
"Sorry," Bucky says, not looking the least bit sorry. "Alright, yeah, I'll head out. Let you get some sleep."
Sam makes a face. Guest housing on the base is always a little... lacking, to say the least. Stark white walls and minimalist furniture, the bare necessities, plain and boring and all kinds of nightmare-inducing in its emptiness. "Nah, man, stay here. I got a guest room, you can crash there."
Bucky hesitates. Opens his mouth, closes it. And then, "Are you... sure?"
"Yeah, why not?" Even though Sam goddamn knows why not, because he's got a problem, and letting Bucky spend the night isn't going to help one damn bit. But he can't - it's the best night he's had in a long time, and sometimes loneliness is a rock that sits heavy in his chest, and he just - he doesn't want to be alone. Doesn't even matter if Bucky's in a separate bedroom. It's enough just to know that he's close by, that he actually cared enough to show up for Sam's train and buy him takeout and watch bad reality TV with him.
"Alright," Bucky agrees, easy like Sam knows it isn't, and that's decided. Sam shows him the guest room, grabs him an extra blanket. And he's not - it's not a date, he doesn't need to walk Bucky to the door and kiss him good night, but he can't stop thinking about it.
Bucky's oblivious to Sam's thoughts, thankfully. He just smiles at Sam in a way that's painfully sweet, a way that makes Sam suddenly understand why Steve Rogers would've burned down the whole world to find Bucky and bring him home again.
"Thanks," Bucky says. "I, uh. I appreciate the offer of a room."
"Yeah," Sam says, "no problem."
And then Bucky just has to go and clap a friendly hand on Sam's shoulder. It's warm, Sam can feel the heat of it all the way through his shirt, and he just bites his lip and nods goodnight before he can say anything stupid.
He lies in bed and stares at the ceiling for a while. It's - Christ, maybe he's just lonely, and Bucky's the first person to make an effort at friendship in a while. Except, his smile, and his eyes, and the way he's so patient with Torres in training, and the way he dotes on Cass and AJ every time they're down in Delacroix, and -
Yeah. Sam's got it bad, that's for damn sure.
Once again, it settles into a routine so easily that Sam doesn't even realize it until they're three weeks in and he's crashing on Bucky's couch for the second time that week. It's - it just makes sense, that's all. Sam has to be in the city for a two day session with the GRC, it makes sense for him to crash there instead of paying for a hotel.
Everything is fine and normal, obviously. They're fighting partners, and maybe friends, and clearly they're just being friendly.
Except.
Except he learns what Bucky looks like first thing in the morning, in soft sweatpants and a worn-thin t-shirt, hair sticking up in a million different directions. He learns how Bucky likes his coffee - almost nauseatingly sweet, more sugar and creamer than any one person should put in coffee - and that he orders too much damn takeout. He learns that Bucky falls asleep on the couch more often than his own bed, and Sam's so abruptly reminded of his ways of coping when he came home from his first deployment that he aches with it.
It's almost too much, except that Sam can't bring himself to pull away. Not when he's happier than he's been in years. He wasn't - he's got Sarah, and the boys, and everyone he knows and loves down in Delacroix. But he hadn't realized just how much he missed being known by someone, being understood by someone with shared experiences. How much he missed having someone to tease and bicker with, until they're both breathless with laughter. He had it with Riley, and then with Steve and Nat on the run, and now - now he's building it with Bucky, of all people.
Sam doesn't want to pull away. Keeps getting drawn deeper and deeper into Bucky's orbit. And he can recognize the signs, remembers how he felt with Riley. It's terrifying. But it's also - well. He maybe doesn't mind as much as he thought he would. Because Bucky is beautiful, and sweet, and kind, and all these gentle thing that Sam's only just beginning to uncover, and he doesn't want to walk away from this.
How's this? Sam texts. Sends a picture of the most ridiculous Captain America tattoo he could find, cartoonish and garishly huge.
It takes an entire two minutes to respond. Looks perfect for you. I think you should get it done right above your ass.
Sam debates, for exactly three seconds, whether or not to explain tramp stamps to Bucky. But, Christ, he doesn't need to give Bucky any more ammunition than he's already got.
It's after midnight again, and Sam's maybe a little buzzed, and he's absolutely going to pretend like those are good reasons for why he's sitting a little too close to Bucky on the couch. Their thighs are touch, and it's fucking distracting, and he's trying to be serious, damn it. They're scrolling through Pinterest again, except Bucky's scowling at his phone like it's personally offended him.
"How'd you get the idea, anyways?" Sam asks. Immediately curses his lack of filter. "Fuck, you don't -"
"It's okay," Bucky says, voice soft. He doesn't look angry, just - thoughtful, maybe? "Actually, my therapist suggested it."
"Dr. Raynor?" God, that session had been a shit show, Sam still remembers the shame he felt, burning hot in his stomach, when he left that room.
Bucky makes a face like he's thinking about the same thing. "Christ, no. I got a new one."
Sam holds out his beer, and Bucky clinks his against it. "Good for you, man," he says earnestly.
"Thanks." Bucky chuckles. "I mentioned how much it bothered me. She said if I was interested in it, it'd be a good exercise in bodily autonomy and decision-making. Thought about it for weeks before I finally decided to go for it."
"She sounds like she knows what she's talking about."
"Yeah, she does." Bucky settles back against the couch, yawns. "You got any tattoos?"
"Yeah," Sam says without thinking.
"Oh, yeah?" Bucky sits up, suddenly interested. "Can I see? What'd you get, a butterfly on your hip?" he teases.
It's - shit. Sam is not nearly drunk enough for this. Makes a face - and then Bucky's frowning, and -
"Sam? Sorry, I didn't mean -" he takes a breath. "Sorry. I didn't know it was a thing."
A thing. And that could be his out, if he wanted it to be. Sam knows Bucky wouldn't push, wouldn't pry into the vulnerable spots he's been keeping hidden. And maybe that's why he says it. Maybe it's because there's no expectations that he can actually get the words out.
"It's - I have a small one," he says. "It's on my hip, I never wanted anyone but me to see it. It's, uh." He takes a deep breath. Takes another sip of his beer. "It's wings. A set of wings, with the number eight in the middle."
He waits for Bucky to ask what it means. He's - feels like he's teetering on the edge of something. Can't tell which way he'll come down. But Bucky's silent, attention focused on Sam, and it's - Sam finds himself speaking again, without meaning to.
"It's for Riley," he admits in a whisper. "My - my wingman. Back in pararescue."
"He died," Bucky says.
"Yeah," Sam answers, even though it's not really a question. It's how all these stories end, isn't it? "Yeah, he fell. The - the wings are obvious, but the eight. That was his flight suit number. Only put a dozen of us through the first round of the program, and he was lucky number eight." Sam had hated it, after - the way they'd joked about such an unlucky number, the way Riley had sworn he'd prove it wrong, the way they'd been so cavalier with their lives and their time.
"I'm sorry." Bucky touches his shoulder, briefly, but Sam leans into the touch. Can't help it. He's buzzed, and he's lonely, and Bucky's there. But he pulls back. This isn't a thing they do, after all, and he's honestly not even sure if Bucky swings that way.
"Way in the past," Sam mumbles. He doesn't say it's okay, because it maybe never will be. He'll always carry scars from Riley, no matter how much time passes.
When he dreams that night, it's of falling. Riley, Rhodes, Bucky, Natasha. They all fall, and Sam's never fast enough to save them, no matter how hard he tries.
He wakes drenched in sweat, the blankets tangled around his legs, heart pounding so hard he's sure Bucky can hear it down the hall. Doesn't know if he wants Bucky to come out to the living room. Sam's dealt with it alone long enough that he knows what to do, how to calm himself down. But it's - Christ, he can't remember the last time he wanted to be held this badly, wanted to feel someone's arms around him.
He doesn't sleep the rest of the night. And then he pretends not to notice Bucky's concerned glances the next morning, the way he gently prods around the edges of Sam's sleepless night without outright asking.
Sam's pretty sure this is the first time he's seen Bucky shirtless.
He's immediately distracted by cataloguing the ways that this Bucky is different from the Winter Soldier. The Bucky of today is leaner - still packed with muscle, still impressively ripped, but not so bulky-looking. And he's - softer is not a word that Sam ever thought he'd apply to Bucky Barnes. But he does, he looks softer, with the way he's standing with his hands in his pocket, determinedly not looking at Sam.
Right. He's supposed to be helping.
"Those are the scars?" Sam asks like it's not a redundant question.
Gets a nod as an answer. So he takes a step closer - and stops, freezing in place, when Bucky tenses. Waits, breath held, for Bucky's shoulders to relax minutely, before continuing.
It's - Christ, he can't imagine all the shit Bucky's been through. All the ways his bodily autonomy has been violated, over and over again.
"I won't touch if you don't want me to," he says, all too aware of how the Winter Soldier never got a choice.
"It's - it's fine," Bucky says, harshly. Keeps his head turned to the side.
"Nah, man. You're clearly uncomfortable." Sam puts his hands down, lets them hang loose at his sides. "I don't wanna push it."
"I -" Bucky exhales loudly. Drops his shoulders from their defensive position. "I - okay. Yeah. Thanks. You can - you can look, though, if you want. I don't mind that."
"Alright," Sam says easily. Takes another step forward. Watches the way Bucky very deliberately does not flinch. Another step, and another, and then he's right up in Bucky's personal space, staring right at the scars.
They're not bad. Not the worst battle wounds he's seen, which is incredible, given the circumstances. There's a raised red line that runs all along the edge of the metal, but it looks like it's faded a bit with time and whatever healing shit the Wakandan doctors did. Lines of scarring come out of the main line, perpendicular to it. Almost looks like they peeled his flesh back in sections, and that's - Sam squashes that thought before he can get too angry on Bucky's behalf.
"How much do you remember?" Sam asks, voice soft.
"Bits." Bucky shrugs his other shoulder. "Not the original surgery. I woke up like this." He gestures at the metal arm. "Hurt like hell. It's -" he swallows, "embedded down my spine. For stability. Durability. But that scar healed up, I guess."
"Jesus," Sam breathes. He had no idea. Can't imagine the amount of pain he must've endured, even with the serum.
"Yeah." He barks a laugh, low and bitter and full of painful memories. "Took a while to get used to it." Bucky lifts his hand, clenches it into a fist and lets it relax. "Still feels - I dunno. Itchy in the neural connection sometimes. Phantom limb pain, y'know."
"Does anything help?"
"I take it off, sometimes. Just to walk around without it on. Helps me remember it's not my real arm," Bucky says humorlessly.
And there's nothing that Sam can really say to that. He can't really imagine what it's like, having a prosthetic. Can't imagine what it must feel like, knowing that you should have an arm there, feeling that it should be there, even when it's not.
"It's better these days," Bucky continues. "It's - Shuri did a lot of integration shit, when she made the new arm. Feels more normal. Almost like a real arm, sometimes." And then - "You got any scars?"
It's the kind of question that Sam feels like he shouldn't get wrong. Bucky sounds all casual about it, but there's something about the set of his shoulders, the line of his jaw, that makes Sam feel like it's something he's actually looking for a real answer to. Like he wants to know he's not alone.
"'Course I do," Sam replies. Rolls up his sleeve, lets Bucky see the scar on his left shoulder. "Bullet nicked me in the desert."
"Can I -" Bucky's already reaching towards it. There's something in his face - yearning, maybe, or curiosity, and Sam nods. Doesn't trust himself to speak. Lets Bucky touch it with his callused fingers. Shivers at the press of Bucky's skin against his, even just that little touch. He wants to - God, he doesn't even know. Wants to kiss him, wants to brush his thumb against his days-old stubble. Wants to push him up against a wall, feel the hard muscles of his abs under his fingertips. Wants to find out what he sounds like when Sam kisses him.
It's like they're falling towards something, maybe. Like maybe he's not the only one feeling some of this, with the way Bucky's biting the corner of his lip, the way he still hasn't pulled away.
"You - you can touch," Bucky says, haltingly, not looking at Sam. "It's - only fair."
"Only if you're sure," Sam replies.
"I - yeah. Yeah, I'm sure."
In for a penny, Sam thinks, because this is absolutely a terrible idea. But he doesn't think he can stop himself as he presses the tips of his fingers to the red lines of scarring. Drags one fingertip across the line that separates metal from flesh. Doesn't miss the way Bucky shivers, the way he leans into the touch.
"Good?" Sam asks, breathless.
"Y-Yeah." Bucky closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. "No one's ever -"
"No?"
"No one but doctors," he amends. "No one important."
No one important. Sam's heart does a funny little twist when he says that. He can't - fuck, he really has a problem, doesn't he.
Their eyes meet. There's a heat in Bucky's gaze that Sam is sure is reflected in his own. They're both still touching each other's scars, and it's one of the single most intimate moments of Sam's life. And for a moment he thinks this is it, Bucky's going to kiss him, or he's going to kiss Bucky, but -
But. Life isn't a goddamn romcom, is it? Bucky pulls away, suddenly not looking at Sam, and Sam feels so much colder for the distance between them. But he doesn't say anything, just lets him pull away, because he'll be damned before he gets in the way of Bucky exercising his own autonomy.
It's - Sam wants, okay, he knows himself well enough to know what he's feeling, what he wants from Bucky. Felt the same way about Riley, way back when. Remembers the signs, the falling, the longing. And it's - fine. It's fine. He thinks Bucky wants him, too, but it's so hard to tell, and he doesn't - Bucky's going through shit, he knows, and he doesn't want to get in the way of that recovery.
So he lets Bucky pull away and doesn't say anything.
Even after all that - months of texting about it, sharing things that make them feel vulnerable, the softening of their friendship, the late-night sleepovers and the takeout sharing - Sam's still surprised when Bucky calls him one day and says I made an appointment. Come with me?
How could he say no to a request like that?
There are actual butterflies in his stomach as he meets up with Bucky in Central Park. As they walk the few blocks to the tattoo parlor. It's a nice little shop, clean and professional looking, with an American flag hanging above the door.
"Bucky?" A burly guy in flannel greets them at the door. Looks Bucky over appraisingly. "Nice to meet you in person. I'm Andrew, the artist you've been emailing."
"Nice to meet you, too," Bucky says. Holds out his hand in greeting. "I like the design you sent me. I think it's perfect."
Andrew smiles. "I'm glad. You ready to get started?"
"As I'll ever be," Bucky admits. "I'm, uh. A little nervous about the pain."
Sam's - taken aback. It's a rare show of vulnerability to someone he's just met. And it - he's actually a little proud, as ridiculous as that sounds. Bucky's been the hell and back, and watching his recovery progress has been - well. Sam's maybe a little too personally invested in it, isn't he?
He misses Andrew's response, but Bucky's shoulders relax a little. So, they follow Andrew across the shop, to a chair in the back that’s surrounded by a curtain. Sam doesn’t know if they talked about it beforehand, or if Andrew just guessed right, but Bucky seems relieved that he won’t be in full view of everyone.
“I do all the tattoos for scars back here,” Andrew says like he’s reading Sam’s mind. He motions for Bucky to take a seat. “No reason for anyone else to stare at your scars.”
“I – thanks,” Bucky says. Swallows. Andrew just nods like it’s not a big deal, and walks away to get his supplies.
“You ready for this?” Sam asks. He feels – superfluous, almost. Like he doesn’t really need to be here. Bucky’s facing his shit, and he’s doing so good. Sam feels like he’s just there to watch.
“I think so.” Bucky sits down in the chair, gingerly, eyes darting each way. “I -”
"Buck?"
"I thought it would - would look like." Bucky shakes his head. "Like the - the chair."
The chair. Fuck, Sam forgot about that damn chair. About how many of those damn chairs they saw when he followed Steve all around the world, trying to track down Bucky. Every damn Hydra base even remotely connected to the Winter Soldier program had one, it seemed.
"No," Sam says, voice low and urgent and insistent. "No, never again."
Bucky takes a shaky breath, nods once. "I know. But it's -" he taps the side of his head. "Stuck in there."
Sam doesn't even think. He reaches out with both hands, takes Bucky's flesh-and-blood hand in his and squeezes. "I know. It's a shitty think to have stuck in there. But it's not - you're never going back there. Never going back to that place. Mentally or physically."
He gets a smile back in return. It's a weak one, but a smile nonetheless. It's all they have time for, really, before Andrew's back with supplies. He goes over the process in a very matter-of-fact tone, and Sam immediately likes the way he's not talking down to Bucky. The way he's explaining without being overbearing, the way he waits for Bucky's permission before trying to touch him.
"You've tattooed vets before," Sam guesses.
Andrew flashes him a smile. "Yeah. My favorite customers, usually. I like doing scar cover-ups. Makes me feel like I'm contributing my bit."
And then it's time. Sam goes to pull his hand back, to give Bucky space - because it's not like he has any damn right to this, to ask for this, especially right now. But Bucky squeezes his hand, looks a little panicked when Sam tries to move, and Sam's stuck pretending like his heart isn't beating wildly at the thought of Bucky wanting to hold his hand while he gets tattooed.
It takes over three hours, by the time it's all done. Sam didn't see the design beforehand, and he's been sitting on the opposite side, scrolling through his phone and making idle chitchat with Bucky while Andrew works. So, he's not sure what he's expecting to see by the end of it. But it's - Christ, it's beautiful. The skin is red and raw, but that doesn't take away from the beauty of the gentle lines, the pattern of crystalline snowflakes that cover the scars along his shoulder. Simple lines, nothing too complicated, but it's - fuck, Sam didn't think it'd look so delicate on the guy with the metal arm.
"Buck," he breathes.
"That bad, huh?" Bucky's lips twist up in something resembling a grin, but it's too sharp, too on edge for it to be genuine. He doesn't say anything when Andrew holds up a mirror to show him the results. Just nods, shakes Andrew's hand, and lets go of Sam's hand.
Bucky pays in silence, and then they walk back to his apartment in silence. Sam isn't sure what's going on in his head. But he doesn't seem inclined to talk yet, and Sam is comfortable enough with the silence to let it stretch between them. Wants to take Bucky's hand again, squeeze it. Wants to - fuck, he wants to hug Bucky, wants to ask him if he's okay.
"So," Bucky says, once they're inside his apartment, "what do you think?"
Sam looks at Bucky's face. Takes in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way he's staring back at Sam with one of the most intense gazes he's ever seen. And he thinks that honesty is the best way to go, here. He thinks Bucky might want this as much as he does. He thinks it's time to jump, to let go and see what happens. It's the kind of honesty that he's never going to be able to walk back. In for a penny, he thinks like he did all those days ago.
"It's beautiful," he breathes. "You're beautiful."
That's all it takes, apparently. Bucky pushes him back against the wall, crowds in close like he can't get enough of Sam, and kisses him like a man drowning and desperate for air. And maybe it's Sam who's drowning, because he can't stop kissing him back. Bucky's lips are chapped but so soft, molded against Sam's like they're never going to be separated again.
"Oh, fuck," Sam gasps when they pull back for air. "Fuck." Tips his head back against the wall and tries to breathe through the furious pounding of his heart. He's almost dizzy with it, the giddiness of being kissed, of his feelings being reciprocated.
"Yeah, sweetheart," Bucky murmurs. Leans in close until their lips are just a breath apart. "Been wantin' to do that for weeks now."
"What stopped you?" Sam asks. Can't help the way his voice shakes when he speaks. Damn it, he thought he could play it cool.
"Needed to get my head on straight," Bucky replies. Then he closes the distance between them, seals them together in another dizzying kiss. Sam gasps when Bucky's tongue presses against his, clings to Bucky like he might disappear at any second.
"Had to take care of a few things before I could do this," Bucky continues. He sounds too damn composed for the kind of kissing they're doing, and Sam is almost offended on principle.
"Yeah," Sam agrees, because words are rapidly becoming beyond his capabilities. And because he gets it, of course he gets it. Had to get his own head back on straight after Riley, after Rhodes, after the Raft.
Bucky smirks like he knows exactly what he's doing to Sam, and it's ridiculously attractive, Jesus Christ, this is simultaneously the worst and best thing that's ever happened to Sam. And then Bucky leans in again, and Sam mentally revises that to absolutely the best, yes, very much so pretty much immediately. He slides his hands up Bucky's chest, marveling at the way he gets to touch now, and -
Bucky hisses, just a little, and then he laughs. "Shit, right, I just got tattooed." Grins, sheepish. "We might have to save the more strenuous stuff for tomorrow."
Sam laughs, too. Pulls his hands back. "Gotta be careful, old man," he teases. "Can't forget you're delicate."
"Delicate?" Bucky asks, face a picture of wounded pride. "Darlin', I'm anything but delicate."
As if to prove his point, he throws his arms around Sam, scoops him up in a way that's far too effortless for him. Sam yelps at the sudden motion, steadies himself on the metal of Bucky's arm instead of the shoulder.
"Buck!" On another day, his pride might be wounded at being carried so easily. But right now, with Bucky laughing - bright and happy and carefree in a way that Sam's never seen before - he can't feel anything but happiness and giddiness and affection.
They end up lying side-by-side in Bucky's bed, curled together under the blankets. They're both stripped down to their boxers, both enjoying the skin-on-skin contact. Enjoying being able to touch and be close to another person. Bucky's got his head on Sam's chest and his hair is getting long again, unruly at the top. Sam runs his fingertips through it, combing out the knots until it's all smoothed out. Bucky feels like he's melting under the touch, all pliant and soft under Sam's hands.
"Sam," Bucky mumbles. His voice is muzzy, half-asleep.
"Yeah, baby?" Presses a soft kiss to the top of Bucky's head, smiles at the way he hums softly.
"Tell me this is a thing," Bucky says. And it's - Sam can hear it in his voice, the need for reassurance. He gets it. He remembers feeling like that with Riley, all those years ago. How insecure he'd been about it at first.
He laughs, just a light gust of breath. "Yeah, sweetheart, this is a thing." He can't imagine any other answer anymore.
"Okay." Bucky yawns, nestles down into Sam's embrace. "Good."
"Good," Sam agrees. Can't help smiling at that, at how easy it was, when he knows that it's not. That they've both been to hell and back, and having something like this isn't easy for either of them. But it - right now, with Bucky in his arms, Sam feels like everything's going to be okay. Not forever, because he knows that's not how life works, but maybe just for right now.
And maybe that's enough.
He moves his hand, just a little. Runs the tips of his fingers along the already-healing tattoos on Bucky's shoulder, against the little raised scars along the metal. Bucky shivers, but he doesn't pull away. Presses into the touch, makes a soft, contented noise in the back of his throat.
"It's perfect," Sam whispers. Because it is. He can't believe he didn't think of it himself. Snowflakes for the Winter Soldier. An act of reclamation, of taking the past and making it his own, making it something that he deals with instead of running from it.
"Sam," Bucky breathes. And then he's out, gone slack against Sam's side, breathing steady. It's a gift, seeing him this relaxed, this at peace in someone else's presence. One that Sam's never going to take for granted, not when he knows the cost of that peace.
It is enough, he decides. It's enough just to be okay for these little moments together, for the time they spend in each other's company. The world will go on being vicious and cruel, and they'll go on trying to protect people. It'll be hard, and terrifying, and their traumas will sometimes win. But this - being curled in bed with a person he loves in his arms, fast asleep and safe from the world - is enough for him. Sam's always been a simple guy, after all. Love and affection and someone to come home to at the end of a shitty day - that's enough for him. It's all he's ever wanted, really.
He settles back against the pillow, closes his eyes. Bucky curls closer in his sleep, breathing soft. Sam puts an arm around him and just - just takes a moment to think about all the things that brought them to this moment. All the texting and late night conversations and the subtle ways they grew closer and closer. And he thinks, as sleep crests over him in a gentle wave:
It's enough as long as we're together.