Archive of Our Own ^beta

The thing was… Bucky didn’t know when it happened . 

There was no moment of realization or clarity. There was no slow burn he could realize was coming until it was too damn late to save himself. One moment it was just Sam (sure he was hot, but Bucky knew a lot of hot people—it was sort of part of being an assassin turned superhero, honestly), and the next it was Sam. Sam, his partner. Sam, Captain fucking America. Sam, Sam, Sam… too hard to define, too hard to do anything but admire.

A good man. A man he loved. Shit. 

Bucky was oblivious to it at first, a fault of his. He liked flirting and banter. He liked caring for people. It made him happy, so he didn’t overthink it when he did it with Sam. Then one day he turned around and realized he’d at some point fallen in love with the asshole. Just his luck. 

Loving things, Bucky had found, made everything complicated. He was a lover at his core despite all the years that forced him to become a jagged weapon. He liked loving. It was the reciprocation part he’d never been that good at—too willing to give love for free or participate without strings because then it was only his feelings he had to worry about. Easier that way. Compartmentalized, even. 

“You’re in it so bad,” Sarah said with a laugh, siding up to him in the kitchen. He was washing dishes as he periodically paused and watched Sam playing with his nephews in the backyard. 

It was strange having something you thought would be gone from you forever. In this case, family. When Steve left it had felt hopeless, like he was swimming in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight and no clue which way to swim, but here he was. Two feet firmly planted. It was so miraculous, he felt so grateful, and yet he didn’t deserve any of it. 

“With the dishes?” Bucky asked. “What does that even mean?” 

“Sure, play dumb, Barnes.” She hit his hip with her own, knocking him slightly to the side as she reached out for a towel to start drying the dishes he was rinsing. He handed her a dripping plate, and she took it as she eyed the lawn. “You don’t have to leave tomorrow if you don’t want to, y’know?” 

Bucky couldn’t help thinking how good Sarah was at making uncomfortable people feel comfortable; she kept her tone light, kept her eyes looking somewhere else, like it was no big deal to offer him this. He’d already stayed two days since the cookout, and it wasn’t as if he had much to go home to in New York. A shitty apartment. An empty notebook he’d bought himself to replace Steve’s, for new ideas on where to go from here. Eventually, hopefully, some missions with Sam, but everything was up in the air and fragile. 

“Thank you, you don’t…” Bucky took a deep breath, grounded himself. “Thank you.” 

But some habits die hard, and healing? God, healing was a rollercoaster of a process. Two steps forward, one step back. When Bucky woke from a nightmare on the couch, the soft light of the moon illuminating a home that he had no right to, he couldn’t stop thinking about those words. You’re in it so bad. He may be kind of an idiot, but he knew what Sarah meant. 

He was in it so bad. He had no clue when he’d gotten into it so bad, but now he was and there was no avoiding it. Bucky collected his things and packed them quietly. Old him would have left without a trace, but he was at least a little better than that. 

He left a note, a simple thank you with his name signed, and then he crept from the house before anyone else was awake. 

Being a superhero (Bucky would like to put it on the record first that he hated that word) was a hard job for a lot of reasons, but Bucky’s least favorite was the stop and go. Missions came, you sat in them for an indeterminable amount of time with all of your energy focused on one thing, and then they were done. All that attention extinguished and nowhere to go with it. You didn’t know when you’d be needed next. It always left Bucky feeling listless. 

Bucky wasn’t Sam; they didn’t need him, and he’d been mostly out of field work since his pardon, but after Karli and the Flag Smashers there was a subtle shift. Suddenly, they were asking him for help on missions again. Albeit slowly, but requested all the same. 

At first, Bucky didn’t want anything to do with it. His relationship with his ability, the things he had done, was already too complicated, but you could only do nothing for so long before you needed purpose. The first job he took was alone—a simple grab and go for reconnaissance. A test to dip his toes back into the water so to speak. 

It was fine, as easy as he expected for the most part, but it took him 24 hours before he realized why he kept looking over his shoulder. Not out of fear of what was behind him but longing for what wasn’t. Bucky missed looking over to Sam, already half-expecting exactly what he’d see, and getting it confirmed. 

So the mission was fine, routine, but the slowness of his life that hit him as he arrived back at his apartment was harder somehow. He told his contacts he wasn’t interested in solo missions, and they’d told him that could be arranged. That was that.

Now Bucky, with all those pension checks he’d finally been given and a mind racing, bought a house. It was a rundown thing far north of the city. A fixer upper, something he could put his hands into. An escape from the chaos of a city he was getting tired of. A place he could run outside in the woods or sit with his cup of coffee on the porch and just… breathe. 

After he unpacked the last of his belongings, most of them pushed into a corner in the garage because the house wasn’t in the condition to house them yet, he stood in his front yard and looked at his purchase. The house was really more of a cottage, but it might have been too big to be classified as such. Two stories, vines growing up its sides, three bedrooms and a den. There was a sun room that had made him nearly weep when he thought about plants hanging around and him sitting in the middle of them. Potential. 

Before he could second guess himself, Bucky snapped a picture with his phone and sent it to Sam. 

I bought a house. 

Sam responded only two minutes later. Dude, you dropped that news way too casually. 

Another minute. 

Looks nice. 

Bucky held his breath, watching the bubbles appear and disappear. 

You need some help? 

Bucky was surprised how easy it was to text back: Yeah, wouldn’t mind some. He almost thought his therapist would be proud. 

Bucky was throwing odds and ends—a busted table that was left in the kitchen, wood from the archways and windows that would need to be replaced, miscellaneous trash—into the dumpster he’d rented for this explicit purpose when he turned over his shoulder and Sam was there. 

“Hi,” he breathed out, his voice nearly not loud enough to be heard over the yards between them. 

Sam stood surveying the house from the front lawn, hands in his pockets. He looked just as good as the last time Bucky had seen him. Face less clean shaven, energized like he’d caught up on sleep, wearing only an army green tee that revealed his arms in a way that left Bucky swallowing thickly.

“It’s a hell of a place,” Sam said, finally looking away and meeting Bucky’s gaze. As soon as he was looking at him again, his lip twitched slightly. Something close to a smile. “Hey, man.” 

Bucky tossed the last of the pile of trash into the dumpster and clapped his hands together to get rid of the grime as he walked over. Then he clapped Sam’s shoulder, and Sam pulled him into a quick hug. Fuck, Bucky hadn’t realized how much he’d missed him until he was there. “How about a tour?” Bucky asked, giving him a smile he hadn’t smiled on his own in days. 

They made it through the frontway, the plant room, the living room, and were just looking over the desolate kitchen when Sam received a call. His eyebrows knit together, and Bucky leaned himself against the counter as he listened to only half a conversation. When Sam hung up, Bucky watched and waited. 

“Do they have some sixth sense for when we’re together?” Sam asked with a shake of his head. “Sorry to interrupt the tour, but are you up for some work? They need us on something.” 

They need us. Bucky had thought his days of being part of an us, a team, had blown up in smoke when Steve was gone. It left his chest twisting to look at Sam and realize… he really was his partner. The one person he picked to be by his side when he had the choice. Fuck. Bucky didn’t have the emotional stability to deal with that feeling blooming in his chest. 

“Don’t want to take you from all this,” Sam said when Bucky still hadn’t responded, waving a hand around at the empty and half-demolished house that was his . 

That was the great thing about having a home, though. You could always come back to it. 

Sam was giving him an out, Bucky thought. He didn’t want Bucky to feel obligated, but Bucky cared. When he cared he sometimes cared so much it was hard to handle, even when he didn’t show it, even when he was blank-faced and staring. It was much easier to maintain the steely resolve and let the turmoil rattle within. Of course he would come.

“What would you do without me?” Bucky replied seriously, no tone of joke though it was intended to be one. He sort of liked keeping Sam guessing on what was sarcasm and what wasn’t. 

He rolled his eyes. “Sure, that’s it. Get suited up, man.” 

They were in Ireland before they knew it, tracking what might just be the trace of a powerful weapon or a powerful something (supernatural? from another world?), but Bucky preferred to think it was the prior. He knew magic and beyond existed strictly speaking, but he much rather worked with what he understood. 

One day turned to four before they’d tracked the origins, sneaking in to dismantle what turned out to be a weapon (thank god, Bucky thought before feeling guilty about it) with a plan that quickly turned to shit. Then they were on a jet back home a little worse for wear but mostly feeling some pride at a job, if not well-done, at least completed. 

“I was thinking about that kitchen,” Sam said sprawled in the jet across from him, looking weary and seconds from sleep. “We should make that corner with the window into a little nook. It’s the perfect spot for it.” 

“Nook?” Bucky asked. 

Sam opened a single eye, somehow managing to narrow it still. “Yeah, y’know with, like, cushioned benches and a table? It’s cozy. A nook.” 

Bucky hummed and clicked his tongue. “It would have to be big enough.” 

“For who?” Sam stretched his legs out, and it brought his sweats riding up his calves. If Bucky stretched, he might just be able to reach the revealed skin and hold Sam’s ankle between his fingers. He shook the desire away. 

“You, Sarah, the boys,” Bucky said like it was obvious. He heard a shift, and when he looked up Sam was staring right at him. It wasn’t until the words were out in the air that Bucky had contemplated how revealing they may be. He shrugged. “Or you know, other guests. If anyone ever wanted to come. Clint or Wanda or…” He cut his own words off before he could trail off into something worse. 

Sam was still staring when Bucky looked back down to his notebook, jotting notes on what he’d need to pick up from or place orders for at the hardware store. There were other lists, too. His therapist had suggested one for things he liked doing, one for things that made him happy, amongst other things. It’s important to know who you are and not who the world tells you you are, she’d said.

“I think there’d be enough space. We could make it fit six easy,” Sam answered. “With the counter and some bar stools you could fit even more.” 

Bucky ducked his head into his notebook further, mocking up the wood he’d need to build it. Certainly not hiding a smile. Certainly not rolling We could make it over and over in his head until it was a smooth stone. The We as sweet and light as candy floss. 

When they returned, Sam took the other upstairs bedroom. Luckily there was an extra mattress on the floor, but the room was otherwise empty. Bucky hadn’t planned for guests, and he hadn’t anticipated Sam would actually want to stay for very long. Sam didn’t seem to mind the set-up. 

“I don’t need a box spring, but there better be a coffee maker.” 

Bucky curved over the counter, one elbow in place while the other other hand was scribbling notes. He held up his mug in answer, and Sam hummed contentedly as he moved around the kitchen to find something to pour coffee into. 

Bucky knew the exact moment he’d found the mug. The thing was—Bucky barely had dishes, and the majority of them were in a box that he’d stupidly placed in the back of his pile of things that were safely sitting in his garage. When he was sure Sam would be coming to stop by, he’d gone to the local Target and tried to find a mug that felt appropriate. He’d laughed when he saw the new Captain America merchandise; he couldn’t resist. 

The real Sam, not the one flying freely on the mug in his hands, rolled his eyes before filling the cup near the brim. “I hope you’re real proud of yourself.” 

He took a sip of his own coffee as he shrugged, something like a smug smile finding his lips. It was the little things. 

“So where do we start?” Sam asked. He was so casual where he leaned against the counter, sipping coffee and staring over the empty space. His sweatpants were low hung on his hips, and his cotton shirt was well-worn, and the whole image was overwhelmingly domestic. So peaceful Bucky barely wanted to interrupt it. 

When Sam had offered to come, Bucky hadn’t thought about the actuality of it. Of him standing across from him and extending his help in whatever way he needed. That was friendship, that was family, and Bucky still wasn’t sure he deserved it, but he wanted to try to believe he could. 

“I have to get some supplies from the store, make an order…” Bucky trailed off, staring at Sam with slightly narrowed eyes. 

Sam caught the look. “What? You’re doing that staring thing again. Every time I think I’ve gotten used to it it’s like bam, let me stare straight into the depths of your soul. Kinda creepy, honestly. Like one of those possessed, haunted dolls.” 

“I… don’t even know what that means.” Bucky knew he looked grumpy by the way Sam was smiling at him now like he’d regained some purchase. “Are you sure you want to fix a house? Might take a while.” 

“It’s not a house, it’s your house. And where else would I be?” As simple as that. 

Bucky shrugged. “I don’t know? With Sarah, the boys, living in DC or—”

“Nah, got rid of my apartment a while ago, and Sarah has her own life. If you don’t want me here man, just tell me.” 

“That’s not–” Bucky sighed. He would never be able to explain to Sam that he didn’t want to be a burden on his life, so he didn’t bother. He just nodded minutely, took a deep breath, recaptured Sam’s gaze and tried to convey certainty. “That’s not it. I want you here.” 

Sam wrapped his knuckles against the counter. “Good. Then give me twenty minutes to change and chug this coffee, and I’ll be ready to go into town with you. I need to pick up a few things.” 

The nearest town to Bucky’s house was small. The Target he’d gone to when getting Sam's mug and a few other necessities for the house had required a 40-minute drive. Bucky liked the feeling of a smaller world, but he’d forgotten how nosy it made everyone. 

“Ah, so you’re the one living in the cottage,” said the woman behind the counter at the hardware store.

Bucky passed over his list. She picked it up, humming as she inputted the numbers into a computer nearby. There was a woodsy and metallic smell to the store he found bizarrely comforting. 

“My daughter thinks fairies live there in the stone shed. Says it looks whimsical. ” 

He huffed out a laugh. “That’s cute.” 

The woman looked up with a wide smile. “I think so, too. I’m Amelia.” She held out a hand, and Bucky gave it a solid shake. 

“So, you know the property?” 

She nodded and went back to her computation. “The Jenkins owned it, and then the old man passed away, and it was just Adelaide out there all on her own, and, well, you’ve seen the place. It needed a lot of help, and she refused to move out, so we were constantly putting bandaids on the cottage until she died. It will be nice to see someone get it back in the condition it deserves.” 

“Sorry for your loss,” he said, scratching at his jaw. 

Amelia shrugged. “They lived long, happy lives. I miss them, but what can you do? People have to leave sometimes. Just glad they’re back together wherever they are.” 

People have to leave sometimes. Unsurprisingly, Bucky’s thoughts went first to Steve. If anyone deserved a happy life it was him, but it didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt. The fact that he’d been able to leave him after all they’d done to fight for one another, and the fact he hadn’t been able to properly talk to him about it. But what had Bucky expected? As much as he loved Steve, as much as he thought he knew the core of him better than anyone, he also had to acknowledge that the Steve he’d come back to was a person he didn’t fully know. Bucky was someone Steve couldn’t, either. 

Bucky wished that wasn’t the case, of course he did. But sometimes people have to leave. All Bucky could do was pick up the pieces and keep chugging along day by day. He hoped to find something stable, something close to comfort. Close to happiness, perhaps foolishly, or any of those other foreign concepts that seemed more like fantasy than a real possibility when he let himself think about them for too long. 

Though Bucky knew exactly where Steve went when he left him, he still found himself sending a wish into the universe like Amelia. I hope you’re back together with whatever made you happier than this. So it was at least a little bitter. Sue him. 

“It seems like you have big plans for the property. I can get you most of this that needs ordering within two weeks, but if there are any delays I can call you. Fill your number out on the order form.” She slid the paper across the counter to him. “And if you need any help, you call me, okay? I’ll do anything to let that little girl hang out in the fairy shed for a few hours.” 

Bucky laughed, this time a real one. For a moment it made him feel too bare, but then Amelia was smiling back at him. He wasn’t always sure why being happy or showing genuine emotion made him so uncomfortable, but then he remembered how he’d been programmed to feel nothing at all for decades. 

“She can come hang in the fairy shed whenever she wants.” 

Amelia’s smile widened further. “I was hoping I was going to like you.” 

The bell hanging over the door rang, and Bucky looked in time to see Sam walking in with a bag of groceries under one arm and a paper bag in his other hand. “What is taking you so long, man?” he asked before eyeing the two of them. Sam’s eyes were inquisitive, and when he looked back to Bucky, Bucky shrugged in answer. 

“Probably my fault. I’m regaling him with stories of my daughter instead of getting his order placed. Amelia,” she introduced with an offer of hand. 

“Sam,” he answered. “The dude loves kids. Such a grump, but then you have a kid around, and he suddenly brings out manners you’ve never seen before. He’ll actually be civil, I mean—” 

“Okay, you’re making me sound weird, Sam.” 

Sam’s face went too innocent. “I didn’t say it. If the arm fits—”

“Well, on that note.” Bucky clapped his hand to the counter. “Anything else you need from me? You’ll call when the order is ready?” 

Amelia was still looking between the two of them like she’d won the lottery, and Bucky wanted nothing to do with that. “Sure. Of course. You’ve got it.” 

“Thanks, Amelia.” 

Bucky practically shoved Sam out of the door, and when they were walking down Main Street back to his car, Sam was chuckling underneath his breath. “I forgot how fun it is to rile you up around other people. It’s its own unique pleasure.” 

“I hate you.” 

Sam scoffed. “You wish. ”

Yeah, and wasn’t that the whole problem? 

Sam made quick work of finishing cleaning out the upstairs while Bucky sanded the floors on the main level. He was lucky there was no carpet that needed pulling out, but the floors had seen better days and needed to be refinished. It wasn’t particularly hard work, but it was noisy, and he was glad for the quiet followed by him turning the sander off. 

That was until Sam instantly made it his business to fill the silence. 

“Yo! Buck! Bring me food!”

Sam reached for his water bottle and took a drink, not purposefully taking his time before responding but also not not purposefully taking his damn time. “You’ve got legs, don’t you Wilson?” 

“I’ve been up and down these stairs all day. Can’t you help a man out?” 

Which to be honest was a fair point, but Bucky was tired too. Not quite tired enough to just give in, but enough that he had no intentions of making his way up those stairs right this second. He turned to the boombox on the counter where he had a few cassette tapes in a small box sitting beside it (the jokes Sam had spouted when Bucky pulled it out had made Bucky nearly insane, which was maybe why he was still feeling a little sore and not in the most helpful mood) and popped one in. Turned it on. Turned the volume up. 

It wasn’t a minute later before Bucky’s phone was buzzing. 

That’s just cold. And here I am helping you out with your house. 

Bucky puffed out a laugh, shaking his head. He felt like he could imagine the exact look that was on Sam’s face right now. There was the sound of a few floorboards creaking above.

Finish up getting the counter removed from that upstairs bathroom first, and I’ll treat you to lunch :)

Bucky didn’t bother closing his phone, setting it on the counter instead and leaning over it as he waited for Sam to respond. 

Ice cold. Never seen someone use a smiley face that felt so COLD

A few minutes later Bucky saw something flying outside the front windows and noticed it was the same counter he’d just been texting Sam about. The laugh that popped from his mouth was so free, so wild, head thrown back that it took even Bucky by surprise. He turned to the stairs just in time to see Sam bounding down them, smiling in his own surprise at the laughter he found. 

Sam began mimicking talking, a finger pointed at his ear, knowing the music wasn’t actually loud enough to stop him from being heard at this distance. Maybe the laughter was that infectious because that brought more laughter to Bucky, bringing his hand to his chest as he caught his breath. 

The next time he caught Sam’s gaze again he was… just standing there. Smiling at him. Looking fond in a way Bucky understood because it was essentially the way he was always looking at Sam, though often mixed up with a feeling of frustration and amusement that combined to confuse Bucky and all his waking thoughts. 

Bucky broke eye contact and went to pause the cassette, and the room fell to silence. 

“Come on. Lunch,” Sam said with a shake of his head. “Seriously, if I’d known you’d be working me to the bone like that I would have stayed with Sarah. At least she cooks, too.” 

“Didn’t I just offer you lunch? Ungrateful.” Bucky tutted. The smile was still fighting on his face. 

Sam rolled his eyes, patting him on the shoulder as he went to grab his jacket from where it was sitting near the door. 

They went to the diner in town that so far Bucky had only ever ordered take away from, and he was reminded why when the heads turned as they walked in. Not because it was Captain America and the Winter Soldier (though, maybe a little), but because people here were used to seeing the same people. Bucky used to be good at going to new places, making conversation with anyone, but the years of… well everything… had made all of that harder for him. 

The feeling wore off quickly when the guy behind the counter welcomed them with a smile and told them to sit anywhere. Now they were in a booth with burgers and a heap of fries in front of them, a milkshake too because Bucky had thought it would be sort of funny to see Sam’s face when he ordered one. He hadn’t been wrong, either, the amused shake of his head and the gap-toothed smile that followed before Sam ordered a chocolate one for himself had been worth it. 

Plus they were really fucking good. Bucky still had a hard time reminding himself he deserved simple pleasures like that—milkshakes, afternoon walks in sunshiney weather, doing things just for the hell of it. Wakanda had reacquainted him with the feeling, so had being around Sam and his family, but progress was a journey that took a while. Things didn’t get fixed overnight. 

“Thinking maybe we should wait to refinish the floors entirely until we’ve done the basic reconstruction—floorboards, that arch on the main level. The kitchen will probably be the biggest job, thought maybe we could open up that counter so it’s less closed off from the nook and everything.” Bucky realized that this may have been the most words he’d run together in a while if the look Sam was giving him was anything to go by. “What do you think?” 

Sam paused, took a slurp of his milkshake, and looked at him again. “Doesn’t matter what I think. It’s your house.” 

But it did. It really did. Not only because Bucky unfortunately cared what Sam thought now, but because Bucky wanted Sam to like this house. He felt the urge to correct him, tell him it could be his, too. That if Sam wanted to stay, be a part of it, live with him, then he could. He just had to say the words because Bucky wouldn’t dare ask that of him. He wanted Sam to like the house. He wanted Sam to want to come back to it. Back to him. 

In typical Bucky fashion, all of those words stayed locked inside his head. 

“What, you never plan on visiting me?” Bucky asked instead. “I can’t have you complaining about the layout every time you come.” 

A laugh startled out of Sam’s throat. “Man, I can promise the counter being three feet to the right isn’t going to stop me from coming.” He paused, shooting one of those looks at Bucky that Bucky still didn’t know what the hell to do with or what it meant. Sort of like he was trying to read something from Bucky that Bucky knew wasn’t there and easy for the taking. “Let’s start with the kitchen. As good as this food is, I’m getting sort of sick of eating take out or things that can be microwaved.” 

Bucky nodded. “Let’s start with the kitchen.” 

They’d managed to take out all the old cabinets in the kitchen and demolished the counter too by the time the next call came. A mission, in Texas of all places, stopping rogue AI created as some Stark rip-off. When Sam had hung up the phone and explained it to Bucky, he’d said it plainly and Bucky groaned. 

“I hate robots.” 

“Funny since you basically are one, and I’m not even talking about the arm.” 

Bucky had given him the middle finger before going to change. 

So now they were in Texas where the heat was nearly as oppressive as the sun, and Bucky was trying to beat down an actual goddamn robot taller than both him and Sam combined. 

“I hate robots,” he repeated for what felt like the millionth time. It probably was if the eye roll Bucky could hear in Sam’s voice was anything to go by. 

“I’ve got a plan. Can you get him near that telephone wire?” 

“A plan, ” Bucky groaned, but he did as Sam told him because he trusted him. Even when he never felt it important enough to tell him what the plan was. 

By the time Bucky had kicked and distracted enough to get the robot by the fallen telephone wire which had been knocked down fifteen minutes ago when the robot ripped it in a fit of rage , Bucky could see exactly what Sam was planning. Bucky kept him moving in the right direction, keeping his eyesight off of Sam as he pulled the wire taut and low, until the robot fell over it. Sam was on him instantly, ripping the control center out from the base of its throat, and the thing thrashed in one final fit of electrical chaos before it collapsed in a heap. 

Bucky was so happy to take a breath he didn’t realize at first that Sam wasn’t moving, and then as soon as he had noticed he was running as quickly as his super soldier legs allowed. As soon as Bucky saw that Sam was breathing, he was able to take another breath. He climbed up onto the robot’s head where Sam was splayed, arms out wide by his sides. 

“Are you good?” Bucky asked, afraid to touch him, but the worry was clearly noticeable by the way Sam popped his head up to look at him and nod. 

“I hate robots,” Sam said with a groan, falling back down. 

Bucky laughed slightly, just happy that Sam was okay. “Sammy, that’s what I’ve been saying all along.” 

Sam hummed. Bucky patted his leg. 

Later, when they’d arrived back home, Bucky noticed the cut on Sam’s forehead that he’d clearly been trying to hide. Bucky tutted, frustrated that he’d hide a wound even as small as this from him, and went into the bathroom to get the first aid kit he always had handy because Steve Rogers had been his best friend his whole life. He knew the importance of fixing up an injury. 

“Sit,” Bucky said. His eyes narrowed, making it clear it wasn’t a choice, and Sam thankfully listened. 

“You’re such a mother hen,” Sam said. “Never thought a dude who ripped my steering wheel from my car would be so soft. ”

Bucky didn’t want to respond to that, so he just rolled his eyes and took out the antiseptic. It was quick work to clean it up. Sam stayed quiet the whole time, which Bucky was thankful for. He was exhausted from the day’s work, and the fact that this house was still in shambles so he couldn’t offer Sam more comfort after said day’s work, but he could do this. He placed the bandaid on softly, nodding at his own handy work and stepping back. 

Sam was just… watching him. Eyes a little wide, mouth uncharacteristically closed. 

Even though he knew he shouldn’t, Bucky reached out once more to run his fingers over the bandaid, pausing for a second longer than was necessary because he was grateful for Sam Wilson alright in front of him. Just grateful for Sam Wilson in front of him period. He dropped his hand before he could do something stupid like cup his cheek or tell his best friend he was in love with him and had no plans of ever stopping. 

“You can take first shower. Since we haven’t fixed the one in your room yet.” 

Sam smiled. “Thanks, Buck.” 

The sound went straight to Bucky’s heart, and he ducked his head to avoid revealing more than he could take. 

Fixing the kitchen was slow work. They had to tile the floor, craft the new cabinets, build the counter back up. The days were filled mostly with music from the boombox and scattered speaking. Sam found a record shop that sold cassettes, and every time he came back from an errand in town he had at least one new one to pop in for the next day’s work. 

It became their routine to talk about what their first meal would be upon finishing the kitchen when the work became boring or frustrating. 

“I’m thinking clam bake,” Sam said. 

Bucky paused. “You’re thinking clam bake? Clam bake?” 

“Fuck you.” 

“Maybe later.” Bucky shook his head. “I was thinking Italian. Pasta made from scratch. Fresh mozzarella.” 

“Of course you’re thinking Italian.” 

“What does that even mean ?”

“Tell me. Are you going to make that pasta from scratch?”

“I can learn. That’s what everyone uses the internet for these days, isn’t it?” 

“You are the oldest man I have ever met.”

“That’s just factually true.” 

Then a few days later. 

“Can you even cook? Like everything you guys made in the 40’s was just boiled.” 

“I’ve cooked food more recently than the 40’s.” 

“I haven’t seen it.” 

The kitchen came together piece by piece, and as they made progress it started to look like the one shining beacon against the emptiness of the rest of the house. Bucky would pause after the day was done to look it over, feeling something it took days to figure out. It finally hit him—pride. 

“I swear to god if I catch you staring at the kitchen like you want to fuck it one more time I won’t be making my mother’s lasagna when we finish.” 

“Don’t get jealous.” Bucky paused. “Since when are you making her lasagna?” 

“Since I decided I don’t trust you to do anything more than butter bread. Maybe dress the salad if you’re lucky.” 

“Oh, if I’m lucky?” 

“Yeah,” Sam shot him a big smile, a little nod. “If you’re lucky.” 

Even doing the work didn’t stop the nightmares. In some ways, healing was almost worse. At least when they were consistent, Bucky knew what to expect. Now he’d go weeks sleeping alright just to be plagued by surprise bursts of fitful nights, sudden stretches of days where he couldn’t escape the horrors of his past. 

It was as if the unconscious portion of himself didn’t deem him worthy of healing, needing to remind him exactly who he’d been. As if reminding him you could still be that. Bucky didn’t know how to cope. And since he didn’t know how to stop them, he usually ended up trying to not let them happen in the first place. He was a super soldier. He didn’t need sleep. 

Which was a lie of course, but some lies were hard to give up like cigarettes or just one more bite. 

Bucky thought he was doing a pretty good job of hiding it. He stayed up late, telling Sam he was going up right after him only to spend hours sitting on the back steps and watching the stars or cutting firewood or anything that didn’t allow sleep to settle in. When he did fall asleep, he set early alarms so he only got a few hours—enough to sustain him, not enough that he ever fell asleep deeply. 

He joined Sam’s morning runs. They were usually to be avoided because morning Sam was a different breed of Sam, one Bucky couldn’t handle most days when he was still half-groggy from sleep, but he couldn't sleep much. Or didn’t let himself. And he was grateful to get his body exhausted so he didn’t have to think. 

They were a day or so out from finishing up the kitchen, which was exciting but really only one small check on the ever growing to-do list, and Bucky was exhausted. The bone deep sort, where not only his body but his mind didn’t want to do it, either. 

Sam leaned against the counter—the new one three feet over. “Let’s go to a movie.” 

“What?” Bucky could only stare. He hadn’t seen a movie in… decades. He couldn’t remember the last movie he’d seen. 

“What? You call it the cinema? The talkies or something?” 

Bucky shook his head, not even bothering that one with a response. “What about…” He paused, motioning around him. “All of this?” 

Sam shrugged. “It can wait. I’ve been craving popcorn with that butter drizzle? I like them to do it halfway through the bucket, too.” 

He almost found himself saying something about their microwave and how they could make popcorn here, but he stopped himself before it even bubbled in his mouth. There was no point. He knew what Sam was doing, and though every part of him wanted to stop it before it started, he knew Sam. He knew he wouldn’t stop, and Bucky didn’t think he wanted to win that fight. 

So he went to the movies. Sam drove, Bucky watching the landscape pass by them, and they saw whatever the next showing was. It was some comedy movie that neither of them had heard anything about, though to be fair neither kept that up to date on movies generally on the account of having a lot going on, and Bucky fell asleep only a few minutes after the opening credits had passed. 

By the time he woke up, advertisements for the theater were playing and new people were walking in to claim their seats. Bucky’s head was tilted onto Sam’s shoulder, and just as he was about to pop up and crack a joke before suggesting they go, Sam’s hand shot up and touched his head. Keeping it in place. 

“Nah man, you missed the best parts. Let’s just watch it again.” 

His hand was still in place hovering over his ear, and the heel of his hand was making contact with Bucky’s cheek. Bucky didn’t want him to move it. Bucky never wanted to leave this theater if it meant he could sit in his dazed state, Sam Wilson keeping him grounded to the floor as some movie he didn’t give a shit about was about to play again. 

“Since you want to s’bad,” Bucky said, nuzzling further down. 

Sam removed his hand, patting Bucky’s thigh and letting his hand rest for a moment. He huffed out a laugh somewhere between amused and content. “Thanks, Buck.” 

They agreed, finally, on Sam making mac and cheese and Bucky making green bean casserole. 

“We probably can’t mess those up,” Sam said when he decided, and Bucky had agreed so the decision had been made.  

They went to the grocery store together which took only about twice as long as it really should have. Bucky liked to really peruse the produce, okay? It was important to find the best quality, and it didn’t help that Sam had a comment for everything, probably just to see the grimace grow more pronounced on Bucky’s face. Then they ran into Amelia, which was a whole other ordeal.

“We should have the bathroom parts for you at the end of the week.” Her eyes darted between the two of them, raising and lowering her brows a few times. “Looks like one hell of a bathroom.” 

Sam started laughing, which meant Bucky had to pull him away before the two of them did something horrible like team up. “Thanks, Amelia,” he called over his shoulder, voice only revealing a little frustration. “We’ll have to have you over for dinner sometime.” 

Surprisingly, he found he actually meant it despite his annoyance. It wasn’t an unwelcome feeling. 

Sam played a cassette of 90’s R&B as they worked on their separate dishes, and they talked casually about furnishings and Amelia and all sorts of other little things. Bucky laughed, and they cooked, and then when both things were in the oven they popped beers to drink while they sat out on the back porch. 

“This place is going to be great,” Sam said, and Bucky hummed in agreement. 

The mac and cheese turned out perfectly, and Bucky’s green bean casserole turned out okay , and they sat in the nook while they ate. Bucky had been avoiding sitting in it until that moment, his own first house christening with likely more to come, and the second he sat he felt happy. 

Across from him, Sam sat and ate, his legs propped up on the bench next to Bucky. Before he could think better of it, Bucky reached a hand and squeezed Sam’s ankle and held on for a beat. 

Sam raised an eyebrow. 

“The nook was a good call,” Bucky said. 

“Honestly, at first I only suggested it to hear you say nook. It really hasn’t gotten old, yet.” He paused. “It was a good call. Very cozy.” 

Bucky was in too good of a mood to do anything but smile back and dive in for more food, reluctantly letting his hold up on Sam’s ankle. A minute later, Sam’s socked foot came in contact with Bucky’s thigh, and he didn’t bother acknowledging it. Just let it sit there, bleeding warmth and occasionally wiggling around. 

The bathroom waited because they had to go to Budapest to scout out a group of people trying to replace the Flag Smashers, though the group didn’t have the resources or the super soldier serum to help them this time. They reached out to Sharon for a little help on intel, which made everything a lot easier, but the whole thing was honestly sort of depressing. 

“I hate this.” Sam fell into his bed, shoes still on and in civilian clothes, after a day of reconnaissance that was reminding them both too much of the first time they’d done this. 

All of it was made harder by the fact that they were in Budapest, which brought too many memories of Natasha for either of their liking. Every time they said the damn word Budapest it left them both with a million memories of her and Clint passing back and forth an inside joke that none of them really had the chance to actually learn. Not that either Clint or Nat would likely share it, but it reminded them both they never would learn that story. They couldn’t. Clint was in retirement, and they didn’t talk shop with him when they checked in. Just little texts asking about the family or quick calls of glad to hear you’re doing well that were sometimes hollow and others not. 

All Bucky could manage was a low energy, “Yeah.” He was sitting on the bed opposite, but his eyes were watching Sam’s tired body. There was something wrecking about how good he could look even exhausted like this—dark jeans, maroon henley, and those black boots that seemed more like something Bucky would wear than Sam. His forearm was flung over his eyes, and Bucky watched the rise and fall of his chest. He knew he was doing the staring thing, but he couldn’t stop. 

He rose slowly and went toward Sam’s bed, not pausing to give himself the chance to second guess, and then he was unlacing Sam’s boots. Slowly. Cautiously. He kept his eyes on the task at hand. Sam was always helping Bucky, and it wasn’t the first time it had crossed his mind how little he could offer Sam in return. Bucky used to be good at caring for people, but it was a coat of his past that felt too big; he didn’t know how to wear it right most days. He tried it on for Sam, though. 

Sam carried so much on his back, and Bucky wanted to be of service to him. He wanted to be able to help lighten the burden in any way he could, the same way Sam had when he placed his hand on Bucky’s face to keep him napping on his shoulder at the movies. The way he worked companionably by his side as they built cabinets and deconstructed the counter and brought him home cassette tapes for them to listen to together. 

Bucky tugged the boots off and set them carefully on the floor in front of the bed. Finally, he looked up to see Sam looking at him blankly. Usually Sam was fairly easy to read. He didn’t have all those Winter Soldier years that had deconstructed Bucky down to nothing just to build him back together as a ruthless assassin meant to feel nothing at all, the ability to slip into that mask still innate in his DNA. It left Bucky shuffling from one foot to the other. 

“You should get some rest,” Bucky said finally. “At least for a few hours before we go back out.” 

Sam propped himself up on his elbows and tilted his head. “You, too.” 

Bucky’s jaw clenched, and he shook his head. Last night he’d had a nightmare about Tony’s parents, but the person in the passenger seat kept shifting—Tony’s mom, then Steve, then Sam, then Sarah, and then and then. Bucky wasn’t looking forward to the possibility of falling into it again, especially not when Sam needed sleep. 

“Come on, man,” Sam said with a shake of his head, patting the space beside him on the bed before he flipped onto his stomach and planted his face into the pillow. “I won’t sleep until you do.” 

The breath caught in Bucky’s throat. He couldn’t believe Sam was offering him the other side of his bed. He was frozen, but Sam huffed in a way that said come on , so Bucky toed out of his own boots and cautiously laid down beside him. 

You aren’t going to hurt him. You aren’t going to scare him. He repeated it in his head like a mantra. 

Sam’s head flipped directions so he was looking at Bucky, and he clucked his tongue before reaching out a hand and running his fingers over his eyebrows down to his eyelids to force him to close his eyes. 

They were both asleep within minutes. 

“I don’t remember it being so domestic on the comms last time,” Sharon grumbled. “You two moving in together is, frankly, annoying.” 

Bucky couldn’t fault her that, exactly. They’d been deep in a conversation about whether it would be worth it to change out the window in the living room for a bigger one so more light got in or if it would ruin the aesthetic of the house between fighting and now tracking down the last of the Flag Smasher knock-offs in a chase. 

“Every time you bring this up I’m just going to remind you of the time Bucky and I had to watch you make out with Steve while we sat five feet away in a compact vehicle.” 

Bucky chuckled between breaths, catching sight of the rogue man down an alley he quickly shot down to follow. 

“He’s heading toward city center,” Bucky told them. 

“Like I haven’t caught you two staring at each other wistfully while I’m five feet away,” Sharon replied. “Bucky, you’re gonna have to gun it. Sam, there are civilians in his path.” 

“On it,” Sam replied. “Sharon, be careful with those words. Bucky won’t invite you over for dinner.” 

“What a loss,” she deadpanned. “A night of me hearing you two bicker and say the word nook for the millionth time.” 

“I think I actually liked you more when you were seconds from fucking Captain America in front of us.” Bucky caught the guy on the back of his jacket, slamming him to the ground. 

“That’s your job now, Barnes.” Sam huffed a laugh over the line at Sharon. Bucky hated them both. “Actually, it’s really your loss. I make a damn good baked ziti.” 

Bucky was throwing the last of the house's trash into the dumpster, or at least what he hoped was the last because he’d scheduled them to finally take the dumpster away, when Amelia showed up in a truck with a girl around six. The girl in question was wearing a shirt that went down to her knees and had her dark hair in two buns with flowers stuck into them at wayward angles. It was pretty adorable.

“Hey!” Bucky called, jogging over to them. He bent down a little, trying to get closer to the girl who for all her credit wasn’t shying away in the least. “I’m Bucky.” 

She pointed to herself. “Georgia.” 

“Funny, and here I was thinking we were in New York.” She giggled, which brought a smile to Bucky’s face despite Amelia’s eye roll. He bent closer, whispering. “So, I have this fairy shed. I don’t know if you’re into that sort of thing, but—” 

“Yes! Yes!”

Amelia did laugh this time, patting her shoulder. “Go on, girlie. I’ll come get you when it’s time to go.” 

Georgie was running before Amelia had finished speaking, and Bucky brought himself back up to full height. 

“Sam wasn’t joking about you liking kids.” 

Bucky shrugged. 

“Some of your shipments came in so I thought I’d bring them to you directly. Lend a girl a hand?” It was quick work with his strength to get the supplies unloaded into the garage where they’d wait until it was time to use them. 

“I did come to offer my help if you need it. Where’s your better half?” she asked. 

Bucky paused, tilting his head. “You know, we’re not actually…” Sam was in a manner of speaking his other half, but not in the way Amelia or Sharon or any number of people thought. Though of course Bucky wished he was. There wasn’t a day that passed that he didn’t think about Sarah’s words. You’re in it so bad.

“Tale as old as time.” She shook her head. “He looks at you the way you look at him. It’ll happen.” She patted his shoulder. “Now show me the progress.” 

So Bucky did, and they found Sam taking a break in the kitchen, and all three of them walked around the house—discussing the future projects, how far the place had come, how long it might take. At some point they began talking about nothing at all, a comfortable companionship. This was nice, Bucky thought. It made him feel like a human; he was still human. 

When they left another hour or so later, with an actual promise for them to come back sometime when the place was more put together, Sam patted Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky felt briefly overcome with emotion, but he cleared his throat and shook it away. 

Over the following weeks, the house came together. After the major renovation projects of the kitchen and bathrooms, the rest felt practically easy in comparison. They changed out the boarding. They stained the floors. They put in new light fixtures. Bucky had finally given into Sam’s request, and they’d gotten wifi hooked up. 

It was starting to look like a home. Bucky’s home. 

“This would have gone way faster if we just hired someone,” Sam said from his place by the counter. He was drinking a glass of water while Bucky mopped the living room floor to get rid of any remaining dust. 

“Yeah,” Bucky said, but he paused and looked at this place. He hadn’t wanted someone else’s hands to build this place. He’d wanted his, and he was lucky enough to have Sam’s too, and it was theirs. Everything he loved about this place was because they’d decided to do it that way. “But it wouldn’t have been ours,” Bucky said in a brave moment of vulnerability. 

A small smile came to Sam’s lips. “We did do this, didn’t we? Together?” 

“I’d say probably more successful than the boat. Your sister didn’t have to step in,” he replied. 

Sam laughed. “Trust me, if she was here she would have had a lot to say about the way we were doing the electrical when we were changing the fixtures.” 

Bucky laughed hard remembering the both of them nearly electrocuting themselves. He finished mopping and brought the bucket to the sink where he dumped it. Then he got himself his own glass of water, leaning back against the counter and watching Sam as he took a drink. 

Sam looked contemplative, which usually meant Bucky was about to either deal with sage wisdom or a thought Bucky wanted nothing to do with because it was probably hitting too close to a truth. He tilted his head, watching Bucky, and Bucky did what Bucky was good at—he stared back. 

“Are you ever going to ask me?” Sam spoke finally. 

Bucky took a breath then narrowed his eyes. “Ask what?” There were far too many things he could be referring to, and Bucky certainly wasn’t going to reveal more of himself than strictly necessary if he ended up asking something inappropriate like Hey, want to stay by my side forever? Not that he ever would. That stayed buried in his own head. Safe there. 

“Come on, Bucky. It’s ours ,” Sam continued, repeating Bucky’s own word choice pointedly. His gaze didn’t relent, and Bucky knew he couldn’t look away. “Just ask.” 

His mouth felt dry, and Bucky finished his water before setting the glass down and stepping toward the counter where Sam sat. Bucky tapped his fingers against the granite, counting the taps to his breath to keep him steady. It shouldn’t be this hard to ask for what you wanted, but Bucky had little practice of it over the last 70 years. 

“The bedroom was always going to be yours,” he said. Sam’s face remained steady, watching him still. “You can stay if you want.” Sam’s eyes narrowed, and Bucky cleared his throat. “I mean, I want you to stay. If you want. It’s as much your house as mine, and… Do you want to stay?”

“See, was that that hard?” Sam asked. 

Bucky nodded. “Painful, even,” he deadpanned.

Sam threw his head back with laughter, such a shock to the system Bucky gasped before he was laughing, too. 

“I was always going to stay. Unless you decided you didn’t want me to, of course.” Sam smiled. “But a guy needs to feel wanted, you know? Communication is important.” 

“What? Should we do the soul-gazing exercise again? Is that what you’re asking for?” Bucky smirked. “I think you really resonated with that, if I recall.”

“ Hell no. I like your new therapist much better,” Sam replied. “I’m just grateful you finally asked before we went picking paint colors because I have opinions. Without me, you’d be trying to paint this whole place black, and we can’t have that.” 

Bucky narrowed his gaze. “You don’t know anything about my preferred aesthetic choices.” 

“Is that what you’re calling an apartment with only an arm chair and a television? An aesthetic choice? Boy, we gotta get you like an actual bed frame. Maybe a nightstand. That’s what adults do.” 

“I think I have more life experience than you.” 

“Sure, whatever, man. You should be grateful for the aesthetic choices Sam Wilson will help cultivate.” 

“I already regret asking.” 

Sam smiled that smug smile. “You absolutely do not.” 

He absolutely did not. 

Bucky held out the paint chip, actively pushing it into Sam’s eyeline when he continued to ignore him in favor of analyzing the different paint finishes. 

Sam sighed but finally turned, taking the paint color into hand. “Pineapple Delight? You just handed me a paint color called Pineapple Delight .” 

“For the plant room.” Bucky rolled his eyes before stealing the paint chip back, staring down at it himself. He’d thought it would look nice with all the plants and the sun that would soar through the windows. Like a golden prism, a place he could sit and close his eyes and push his face toward warmth. A reminder that he was never going to be frozen again. 

“I didn’t say it was bad,” Sam corrected, softer maybe. 

It made Bucky almost embarrassed, like a child Sam felt the need to placate, but then when he looked up and caught Sam’s eyes any of the embarrassment washed away. Sam was too genuine for Bucky to hold onto that feeling about this. 

“Pineapple Delight.” Sam whistled through his teeth. “Here I was thinking you’d want dark colors, and you’re pushing for all the pastels.”

“Well, Georgia told me those are the colors fairies like, so.” Bucky shrugged, biting back his smile before it became too hard with the shake of Sam’s head. 

“Those damn fairies.” Sam clapped his back. “Fine, Pineapple Delight. I get to pick the living room, though. I’m thinking green.” 

Bucky shrugged. “I could do a green.” 

Everything was fine until absolutely everything wasn’t. The comms shut down, and Bucky was thrusted into silence, and he couldn’t hear anyone. It was just his own breathing as he fought this fucker, then that fucker, and he was so goddamn tired. Not physically, though that was growing on him, but he was tired of being afraid of acknowledging he didn’t want to be alone. What a dumb realization to have as he was beating the villain of the week to a pulp and half out of his mind about whether Sam and Torres, who had joined them with his own set of wings, were alive and still fighting. 

“They are fine.” The voice floated down from above, and Bucky spared a moment’s glance up to see Wanda of all people. Her fighting outfit of choice was different than the last time he’d seen her—more practical, honestly—but it didn’t seem the only change. There was something in her physique, her gaze, her presence. “I can finish this.”

“Be my guest,” Bucky said, stepping back, and then Wanda was everywhere all at once. Her red streaked the air around them—the monsters stopped, were taken away, the world paused. Then all was as it should be, and Wanda was beside him. “Where the hell have you been? Sam’s been worried.” 

“A lot… has happened. First we have to get Sam.” Torres flew by at that minute, stopping in front of them. “Joaquín,” Wanda said with a nod. 

“Uh—” Torres looked to Bucky for guidance, and Bucky just shrugged. “Hi? It’s nice to meet you, but we’ve gotta get Sam. He should be good, but the floor collapsed, and he’s—” 

“ Where? ” Bucky gritted out, eyes flitting between the two. “I don’t care if it’s by magic or your hand-me-down Falcon wings, but someone better get me to Sam now. ” 

In the end, Torres gripped Bucky’s arms while Wanda flew by their side until they were at the small building where the collapse had happened. Bucky’s anger clearly threw Torres off, who had begun rambling about what happened—trying to assure Bucky that Sam was right as rain until Bucky grumbled enough Torres could tell it wasn’t helping. 

The building hadn’t fallen on Sam, the first floor had just fallen in and trapped Sam in the basement while he was recovering the hostage. Bucky was ready to punch his way through the rubble before Wanda lightly touched his shoulder, and he backed off. She lifted the rubble easily, placing it delicately to the side. Then he was able to rush down the half-fallen stairs to get to the basement. 

Sam was leaning over the two hostages, talking in low tones. When he heard the three of them enter he turned, and Bucky’s chest collapsed. He was happy Sam was fine, walking, but there was a nasty bruise on the left side of his face, and he was clearly favoring his right arm. Torres stepped forward to guide the hostages out, and Bucky stepped toward Sam. 

“Are you good?” he asked.

“Been better,” Sam admitted with a smile that turned into a wince when he tried to settle his arm. His face shifted into a brilliant smile when he looked over Bucky’s shoulder. “No wonder this was resolved so quickly. Where have you been?” 

Wanda gave a close-lipped smile, the apples of her cheeks blooming, and there was a lightness in her eyes. “Around,” she answered. “In a manner of speaking. I heard you might need help, so…” She stepped forward and gave Sam a tentative hug. As she was close to him, Wanda whispered something that Bucky couldn’t hear. Sam whispered back.

When they pulled apart, Sam gave her a nod. “I know you probably have a million other things going on, but you want to come home with us? Dinner? A good night’s rest? Catch us up? We’ve missed you.” 

There was a curiosity as Wanda looked between them. So much had happened since the three of them were last in the same place, some of their last memories together tinted with black clothing, mourning, and everything changing all at once. Too much going on to properly keep tabs on everyone, on anyone but themselves really. 

“One night couldn’t hurt,” she said with a decisive nod.

“Stop pushing yourself. You’re hurt,” Bucky said after the clean up was done; though it certainly wasn’t the first time he’d said it over the last few hours. They were walking toward the jet that would fly them straight home—Wanda already packed inside, changing into sweats she’d found somewhere . 

Sam shook his head. “I’ll have time to rest once we’re back.” 

“Sam—”

“Bucky,” Sam snapped, eyes speaking to something… something Bucky wasn’t sure he’d seen from Sam. “Just…” 

“The comms went dead. I don’t know if you knew that, but they went dead.” Bucky looked away, not wanting to watch Sam’s expression. He was angry, too. That Sam could elicit this reaction in him, that he felt weak, that he wanted to be able to feel weak after decades of not having the option. “I couldn’t hear you.” 

“Buck,” Sam started again. “Whoa, hey, look at me.” 

Bucky did, and goddamnit. Fucking Sam Wilson. Beautiful as always—inside and out. Everything about him so goddamn beautiful , and what did Bucky have to offer him but further complications? 

“I’m frustrated right now because the mission worked out, but I felt hopeless for a minute there. Like I was going to let everyone down, let you and Torres down, and that shit takes a little while to shake off. So right now doing everything I can is the only way I know how to combat that, and I promise to rest once we’re back. I’m sorry for scaring you. You know I never want to do that.” 

Bucky reached out, not even sure where his hand was going to end up until it was on Sam’s cheek because he couldn’t pat his arm when it was injured, and he paused. He breathed for a minute, and then he let his hand drop. 

“I knew this was all an elaborate scheme to get out of painting,” Bucky replied. 

Sam’s smile took over his face, and the laugh he released was somewhere between joyous and exhausted and it almost sounded like a hiccup that could turn into a cry. Bucky reached back up and cupped the back of Sam’s head, pulling him closer until Sam had sunk his forehead against Bucky’s shoulder. 

“You carry so much,” Bucky said plainly, softly. Sam breathed into Bucky’s shoulder. “All you ever have to do is ask if you need help. Maybe that’s not fair, still putting work on you, but I’ll try. I can try however you need.” 

Sam nodded against Bucky’s shoulder again, and Bucky ran a thumb down the muscle of Sam’s neck, and for a moment they stood there. They breathed, comforted by the other, before Sam patted Bucky’s waist with his good arm’s hand, and the two made their way to the jet. 

Wanda drank tea while Bucky drank a beer, both of them sitting on the back porch as Sam placed an order for take out in the kitchen. Bucky had fought to do it, but Sam claimed Bucky would forget something (which was one time he forgot the side order of fries, okay? Bucky didn’t think he should be condemned for life because of that), so Sam was doing it. 

“It really is a lovely spot,” Wanda said after a moment. “I always hoped for something like this. I wanted a family, a home, some place to call mine when the war was done.” 

“I never even hoped for it.” Bucky took a deep breath. He’d started working on his breathing techniques again with his new therapist after she’d discovered how much meditation had helped him in the past. When heavy conversations came, Bucky reminded himself to feel the earth beneath his feet and breath. “All I ever saw was the fight, and I figured anything afterward was good enough. This is… this is a new dream, I guess.” 

“A new dream,” Wanda said aloud, as if tasting the words. 

Bucky breathed deeply again, watching as the wind brought the trees to a sway. “We’re never going to be Vision or your boys, and I know there’s a hell of a lot more story there that you don’t have to share unless you want to, but just know we care about you. If you need family, you’ve got us. I had… I thought I was back to no one, and then I had Sam, and I know how important having people can be. You have us, and if you ever hear any way to bring back what was lost, Sam and I will be there. Just let us know, and we will be there.” 

The whole stretch of words had pulled something out of his chest, and Bucky counted his breaths with the breeze. He liked using nature to ground him. Wanda’s hand came out to pat Bucky’s knee, and he spared a glance in her direction. 

A smirk tugged at the left side of her mouth. “I have never heard you speak so much at once.” Her smirk shifted to a smile at his breathless chuckle. “Thank you. Thank you, really.” 

He cleared his throat, nodded, took a drag from his beer. 

“Food should be ready in a half hour. Wanda, I went ahead and got you a milkshake even though you didn’t ask. You can thank me later.” 

Bucky turned to find Sam leaning in the doorway, and he couldn’t hear Wanda’s response because he was too lost in the look Sam was giving him. It was… proud, maybe? Bucky thought it might be pride, but it held a shade of adoration, too. There was no doubt Sam had heard at least some of Bucky’s words, and while Bucky wanted to crawl away from that knowledge, he also wanted to bask in that look. He could be brave and open like Sam, too. Not always, of course, but sometimes. When he needed to.  

The next few days were wordless, as if all of Bucky’s ability to speak openly had been used up in 24 hours, but Sam didn’t seem to mind. 

Once Wanda was gone, they were in a standstill. Sam wasn’t good at resting, which his arm left him needing to do, and their set-up left something to be desired for someone with little to do. They’d set up the television in the living room for nights when they had a few hours to spare before sleeping, but they still didn’t have a couch. Bucky carried in his single arm chair from the garage for Sam, but Sam couldn’t sit for long before he was pacing. 

“I have a good arm, you know.” Sam was walking the length of the room, turning more dramatically with each lap. “This would go a lot quicker.” 

Bucky kept painting the sun room in long streaks of gold. The boombox played one of their cassettes, and Bucky painted. Truthfully, he liked the work. Slightly boring, maybe, but there was something calming in the mundane. To every streak there was a rhythm, and he appreciated the details of evening out the paint, catching every white spot. 

“You’re not painting,” Bucky gritted out. They were the first words he’d spoken in a few hours, the last time being when Sam had picked up a paint brush and Bucky scolded him. 

But just because Bucky wasn’t speaking didn’t mean Sam wasn’t, and the last few hours had been filled with rambling and rants. With slight jabs that Bucky responded to with a breathless chuckle or groan. Don’t worry buddy, you don’t have to say anything. I can imagine exactly what you would be saying right now, anyways, Sam had said after an infuriating commentary on Bucky’s painting skills. Bucky had replied with his middle finger. Exactly, Sam said. 

“I need to get out of here. Do you need anything in town?” Finally. Bucky had been close to suggesting it this morning, but he’d figured suggesting it might make Sam less likely to do it. Not that he minded having Sam around, but he knew Sam would feel better with something occupying his mind. 

Bucky shook his head no, shot Sam a small smile, and then he got back to work. Sam called a goodbye after he’d grabbed his car keys and coat before the front door closed, and Bucky was alone. The sun room was finished quickly after, though he’d have to go in to do some detail work at the space where it hit the ceiling. 

Continuing on, Bucky used the opportunity of Sam’s absence to push everything in the living room to the center of the room, cover it in plastic tarp, and pull out the green they’d decided on. It laid on thick, and Bucky loved it. It wasn’t a color he’d likely pick on his own—worried about the darkness pulling his mood down—but on the walls it didn’t look dark but rich. It looked comforting. He could already imagine him and Sam on a couch, a bowl of popcorn between them, watching some dumb movie while the sun set outside. Home. 

By the time Sam returned, Bucky was nearly done with the living room and sorely in need of a break. Sam rushed into his bedroom, closing the door behind him, yelling something about a project, and Bucky didn’t interrupt. He was happy he’d found himself something to do. The day was nice, and Bucky decided to take a walk around the yard to stretch his legs. 

It wasn’t until later, when Bucky had made his way back into the sun room to finish up covering all the spots he’d missed the first time around that Sam found him. “Want to see something?” Bucky nodded and followed. 

In Sam’s bedroom, there were picture frames littered across the floor. It took a minute for Bucky to realize the mismatched pattern was intentional, but when he stepped closer he noticed the tape measure laid out above them in a rough approximation of the living room wall. Then his eyes actually caught on the pictures. They were of them. 

There was a shot of Sam and Bucky at the cookout with Sarah and the boys; a picture of Natasha, Sam, Steve, and Wanda that must have been taken on the run; one of Sam and Riley; another of Steve and Bucky that left Bucky’s throat clenching. It was a gallery wall of all of them—their friends and family. There was even a picture of Sam’s family boat in a bigger frame toward the center of the layout. It was… it was their life, their connections, all in front of them. 

“Sam,” Bucky said, but there were no words to follow. He couldn’t think of what ones could possibly weigh up to what he was feeling in his chest. His arm went out toward Sam, not sure what he was even asking, but Sam stepped into it and Bucky secured it around Sam’s waist. Sam clapped his own arm around Bucky’s shoulders, and Bucky turned his head toward Sam’s shoulder and set his forehead there. Just for a minute. Just to enjoy the sensation of this moment before it was passing him by. “How…” are you real was one way he wanted to finish that thought. Am I so lucky to have you, was another.

Sam squeezed Bucky’s shoulder. “We’d never be able to decide on art for the living room. So I thought this might be a better idea.” 

Bucky rose his head back up to full height, but then he was still so close as he looked at Sam. Sam was looking right back, and usually Bucky was good at pushing the sensations aside—the desire to kiss him, to confess things that would complicate everything—but for a fleeting flash of a moment he thought he just might dip forward and change everything. Then he took a step back and a deep breath. 

“Once the paint is dry we can hang them. We’re going to need to finally go furniture shopping, though.” 

“I’m thinking a chaise for the living room.” Sam’s smile was teasing. 

“I have no idea what those words mean,” Bucky replied. “Come sit with me while I finish up the painting in the living room?” 

“Riveting,” Sam replied, his voice laced with sarcasm, but he followed anyway. 

“Bucky,” the voice was far away, underwater, and Bucky was in darkness. 

There was only cold. There was only black. There wasn’t anything to reach out for, to grasp onto, and Bucky was freezing. He was so cold. 

“Bucky!” 

With a gasp, Bucky was awake. He could feel the sweat dripping down his back, and he could feel Sam’s hands on his face. His eyes were darting, still playing images of things that were not here, were not real, and then finally they caught on Sam. 

Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, one leg brought up so he could hover over Bucky. His face was filled with concern, and the whole image of him in a worn t-shirt and boxers, looking at Bucky like he was the world, cracked Bucky’s chest further. He didn’t understand why Sam kept willingly throwing his life into Bucky’s destruction when he could be free, be happy, be unhinged from the chaos. He knew he liked Bucky, cared for him even, but it couldn’t possibly be worth it. What could be worth having to deal with him like this? 

“I’m here. You’re here, Buck.” Sam held his face with more pressure as if to assure him it was true. 

Bucky sat up and brought a hand to Sam’s chest, pushing him away slightly. “You should go. You should go sleep, you don’t need to—” The words were unfinished. Sam had relented the space, moving his chest and hands away, but he made no move to leave. 

“Why are you always afraid I’m going to run?” Sam asked. There was the edge of hurt furrowing at his brow, and this was what Bucky wanted to avoid. He didn’t want to hurt Sam. 

Maybe it was the darkness, or his exhaustion from a nightmare, but Bucky felt for an odd, terrifying moment as if all of his walls were down. “I’m not afraid you’re going to run. I’m afraid you’re going to stay until I break you the way I’ve broken almost everything.” 

“I don’t know. I’m pretty strong,” Sam said as simple as that. “Move over. I need to get under the covers before my feet freeze.” 

Bucky was too shell-shocked to do anything but exactly as Sam ordered. He moved over, and then he leaned back against the wall. Sam shifted to look at him again. 

“I’m staying,” Sam said. “There’s nothing you can do that’s going to break me. You’ve already kicked me in the chest and tore out my steering wheel, and I’m still here. Hell, you never remember the good things you do. You patch me up. You have my back. I’d still do this without you, but I like it a hell of a lot more with you by my side.” 

“See, here it is.” Bucky motioned his hand between them. “You should be sleeping right now, and I’m taking this energy you could use for better things. You’re always here for me, and I don’t— I don’t know how to be enough back. I don’t get it.” 

Sam took a deep breath, nodding to himself for a minute as he collected his thoughts. “Listen. You’re enough just being you, and it’s enough just letting me be here. But you should know you’ve been there for me plenty. When you offer your help or tell me to sit down and rest, when you pull my shoes off and force me to sleep. You told me I could ask when I needed help with the weight, and do you trust me to tell you when I need something? When I need you? I promise I will.” Sam paused, tilting his head to the side. “At least most of the time. I can’t always make it easy for you.” 

A small hiccup of a laugh escaped Bucky’s lips. He could feel dampness at the corner of his eyes he had no intention of letting drop. 

“Partners,” Bucky said. “It goes both ways. It’s reciprocal.” 

Sam squeezed his hand. “Partners.” The word seemed to hold more than just partners, and maybe Bucky was reading into it, but he was grateful nonetheless. For Sam, for this opportunity for a second life he never rightfully should have had, for this slice of happiness. It was all borrowed time and borrowed circumstance, but Bucky wanted it to be his. 

“Now sleep,” Sam said, already flopping down onto his stomach and burrowing under the blankets. “Or we’ll both be cranky in the morning, and I can only imagine that hell.” 

Bucky laid back down, watching the ceiling for a moment, before he turned and kissed Sam’s shoulder. Fleeting, barely there, but Sam hummed in response. Bucky fucking loved Sam Wilson. Maybe someday he’d actually tell him, and that was the first time he’d ever thought that. Maybe he deserved the joy of saying it, maybe it would be reciprocated, maybe he could have them. 

Sam’s belongings came from storage a few days later. Half of the boxes held junk Sam had completely forgotten about, which meant they were forced to start a donation pile. He was happy to have his bedroom furniture again, though, and his desk. They’d decided the third bedroom would become a shared office. 

“Don’t know what you need office space for,” Sam had said, and Bucky narrowed his eyes. He might not have had a desk, but he could get one. 

Bucky knew, logically, that Sam cared about music. He’d heard him talk about it enough, and he had a sort of fervor about him when he brought fresh cassettes home, but it wasn’t until they were unloading his boxes that Bucky realized how much he cared. There were speakers and stacks of CD’s (which, okay Sam Wilson, Bucky didn’t know why his boombox was such a joke when he owned CD’s like it was still the early aughts). But things really became interesting when they pulled out his record player. 

“Yes! Here she is. Nice to see you, baby, it’s been so long.” 

Sam ran his fingers along her, bending closer to blow any dust remnants away. 

“Light her up,” Bucky said, nodding toward the player. “I have a feeling it might sound a little better than the boombox.” 

Sam snorted. “Maybe only a little.” 

Bucky went to the kitchen to wash his hands while Sam leant over his box of records, sorting through them. A minute later a jazz album was playing, filling the living room and kitchen with sound. When Bucky re-entered the room, he found Sam dancing. His hips were moving side to side, moving with the music. 

“Come on, old man, you don’t want to dance?” Sam called. His movements grew a little crazier, probably mostly in a show, and Bucky shook his head with amusement. 

“I don’t dance.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. 

“Not what it sounded like to me from Steve. You never used to dance in the 40’s?” 

Bucky scoffed. “Not like that. ” 

Sam paused his movements, bringing his hands to his hips as he sized Bucky up. The look made Bucky on high alert, standing a little taller. “Then how? Show me.” 

“You might regret that.” Bucky stepped forward apprehensively, pausing a foot in front of Sam. He wasn’t entirely sure he was actually going to do it yet. But then Sam raised a challenging brow in his direction, and if there was something that got Bucky to do what he swore he wouldn't, it was a challenge. “We mostly danced swing.” 

There was a bubble of laughter from Sam as Bucky took his hands and shot him into movement. Sam didn’t slip into it immediately, never having danced it and not taking well to Bucky’s direction, and Bucky laughed as Sam tripped over his foot. “Let me lead,” he said. Sam rolled his eyes, but he gave in. 

Then they were swing dancing, maybe not exactly the same way Bucky used to do it with the girls in the 40’s, but he was swing dancing with Sam Wilson. And Sam Wilson had style. They were laughing into it, flying back and then tugging forward. Bucky twisted Sam into a spin away from him that left both of them cackling before he swung back close, Bucky holding him maybe a little closer than strictly necessary because he wanted to. 

“Not bad,” Bucky said. “Should we take it on the road?” 

“Now that would be a sight. Captain America and the Winter Soldier take on swing… might work.” 

“Wanna see a trick?” Bucky asked. 

Sam shook his head. “Absolutely not.” 

“Too bad.” 

“Knew you were gonna—” The words cut off as Bucky brought them to movement again, just enough to gain momentum before flipping Sam over his arm in a quick twist. 

“Damn, warn a dude first,” Sam said breathlessly, words only dusted with frustration. Bucky tugged Sam back close, and then for a few moments they just swayed with the music. No words. Just the record player, and the two moving with jazz in their living room, boxes stacked around them, a polaroid of a life they were living. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with my couch,” Sam said. 

“I hate it. It barely fits us side by side,” Bucky replied. “Weren’t you the one claiming we need a chaise?” 

Sam’s face brightened. “Did you google that because I wouldn’t tell you what it was? I love to imagine you angrily googling things.” 

Bucky didn’t bother to reply to that with more than an eye roll before sinking down into a navy corduroy couch that was fairly atrocious looking. Sue him for wanting a couch he could lay his legs out on. Him and Sam were bulky dudes, and they needed time to recover from missions. Fighting bad guys took a toll on the body, and Sam's couch did not cut it.  

“This won’t match the walls at all. We need a cream, maybe.” Sam ran a hand over the fabric, making a strange face before pulling his hand back. The store smelled of fresh fabric, reminding Bucky almost of a new car.

“Black,” Bucky said. “Black matches everything. Plus it won’t show fur.” 

Sam whipped his gaze toward Bucky. “Fur? Fur. I hope you’ve suddenly started shedding, and that’s what that means. We need to finish that house before we even talk about getting a dog.” 

“I was thinking of a cat, actually.” 

“A cat? The Black Panther rubbing off on you. A cat , I can’t believe this.” 

Bucky couldn’t hide his smile, letting it break across his face, and Sam leaned his shoulder into Bucky’s despite the trail of words he kept speaking. “Absolutely ridiculous,” he said with an aggravated puff of breath. 

“Oh my god, you guys are so cute!” The sales attendant who’d been casually trailing them through the store stood in front of them—around 25, hair in a high ponytail, and overly helpful in her store-mandated polo. “I’m not supposed to say that, though, oops. Do you need help with the couches? I can show you some of our best options.” 

“My partner here thinks we should go with a cream couch, but I think black might be more appropriate. The living room is green,” Bucky said with a shit-eating smile. 

“Hm, yeah,” the girl said, looking down at her clipboard before popping her head back up. “How about splitting the difference? Have you considered gray? Or brown leather seems exactly like you and your boyfriend’s speed.” 

“Brown leather, you hear that, Buck?” Sam asked, meeting his gaze. 

What were they doing? What was Bucky doing? Boyfriend, and neither of them were correcting her. Neither of them had helped but add to her thought that that’s exactly what they were, and the more Bucky thought about it… Well, where was the lie? Together the two of them had built a house, argued about getting pets, swing danced in the living room. They comforted one another, offering shoulders to lean on, and they were the other’s person. The one they went to for anything. 

They were more than boyfriends. They were partners. They were Sam and Bucky, Captain American and the Winter Soldier. Practically undefinable. But perfect . Bucky was so inconsequentially happy at that moment he didn’t know what to do with it, didn’t understand how people could live with that much sunshine wanting to burst through their chests. 

“Brown leather sounds nice. Can you show us?” Bucky asked, the whole time his eyes on Sam. Sam who seemed to see the shift in Bucky, eyes trailing over his face, trying to pick up the edges of thread to pull the thoughts loose. 

“Sure! Follow me.” 

But for a moment neither of them moved, and Bucky brought a hand up to Sam’s cheek, thumb running over the edge of Sam’s mouth while Sam sighed, and Bucky dipped forward to kiss him. A quick, sound kiss that said you are everything I have ever wanted. A cherishing kiss. Bucky pulled back, and Sam had a toothy smile on his face. 

“Motherfucker,” Sam whispered. His gaze flickered to the right, and then he was jumping up. “Damn, that woman moves fast. Come on.” He held out his hand to Bucky on the couch, and Bucky gripped it tightly as he was pulled up. 

He gripped it tightly as they followed the attendant, too, and as they tested the couches, and as they checked out to order the brown leather couch with a chaise that would be delivered in roughly a week. He held on tight, and he didn’t let go. 

They were quiet all the way back to the house, listening to the radio as they held hands across the arm rest. Bucky wasn’t afraid, exactly, but there was some sense that speaking what had just happened into existence might pop the bubble. As if this was all some elaborate dream that would crash around them, Bucky waking up in a sweaty daze. 

It only took two steps past the threshold before Sam had his hands on Bucky’s cheeks, kissing into him with intent. There’d been so much sitting beneath the surface for both of them that it came in a rush. Bucky didn’t know what to do with his hands, they wanted to be everywhere. His neck, his waist, running down his back. He felt like a teenager again, unable to hold back all his want. The fact that Sam wasn’t doing much better was so flattering, so hot honestly, that Bucky was sure this very well may be the best moment of his life.

“Be my boyfriend,” Sam said between kisses. 

Bucky pulled back with a slight laugh, resting his forehead against Sam’s neck for a breath before meeting his eyes. “We basically are already, but I wouldn’t mind the title. It’s just…” 

“Say it,” Sam encouraged. He sucked his bottom lip between his teeth, and Bucky was briefly distracted. 

“The thing is, Sammy… you’re kinda it for me, so if that’s too much then maybe we shouldn’t. Just tell me, and I’ll back off.” 

“Don’t,” Sam said. He bent forward and kissed him again, pulling back just to dip forward and peck his lips again before continuing his words. “The future where I’m with anyone else but you passed a long time ago. So I want us, whatever that means for us. We do it on our own terms, the way we always have. Partners. Boyfriends. Whatever follows.” 

“Whatever follows.” Bucky nodded. “Which, right now, I gotta be honest I’m really hoping you’ll follow me to my bedroom.” 

“Smooth.” Sam rolled his eyes. “You know we’re going to mine. You still don’t have a bed frame, and that’s just not sexy, James. I’m an old man. I can’t be fucking on the floor.” 

Bucky smirked. “Oh, we’ll see about that, but I’ll follow you anywhere.” 

“Such a fucking sap ,” he said, but Bucky didn’t take offense because Sam sealed the words with a kiss, pushing him against the wall and pressing his body against his. Bucky was on fire, the warmest he had been in years, maybe decades, and he had the sappiest thought of all. Which was to say, if everything he’d been through was to get him here, with Sam in their cottage in upstate New York—talking about the future, the inevitability of each other—then maybe it was fucking worth it. 

They went to the bedroom, though neither was quite following the other, because their steps were interlaced with touches and kisses and backs against walls. Bucky had no words to add because he was speechless, and that was fine. He wouldn’t have had anything worthwhile to add, anyways. There wasn’t much to say about a perfect moment besides for note its perfection.

It was dark when Bucky woke, Sam’s arms wrapped around him. There were no nightmares, which Bucky wasn’t naive enough to think was forever but he thanked his shitty subconscious for allowing him this night. He turned in Sam’s hold so he could stare at his face blissful in sleep. 

The lines of Sam’s face were smooth. His skin transcendent in the sliver of moonlight the windows allowed. He leaned forward and kissed Sam’s nose, burrowing further into the pillow and this warmth. 

“I love you,” he whispered, and he knew it wouldn’t be long before he could admit that to Sam awake. 

He fell back asleep—no nightmares, no dreams at all—with Sam’s arm around his waist, and the knowledge that he would be there when he woke. That he would be there for as many mornings as Bucky woke in this house, in this bed, with him. 

The housewarming party was less of a party and more of a nice dinner, but it reminded Bucky in a lot of ways of the cookout the Wilson’s had thrown what felt like a million years ago now. There was a lot of energy and exuberance to the day, a lot of hope. Amelia and Georgia had come, along with Sarah and the boys who were sleeping in Sam’s old bedroom turned guest room as they were visiting for the long weekend. 

“Who is this from?” Sam asked, pausing at the counter to look over the gift basket that had just been delivered. 

“Barton,” Bucky said. He was in the kitchen helping Sarah with dinner, which mostly meant he was a semi-useless pair of hands. Sarah didn’t seem to mind, just happy for the companionship. “He sent his regards, said he’d have to come visit another time but they had something going on.”

“Barton,” Sam said with a laugh, sorting through the basket to pull out bottles of wine. “Now this is a man who listens. This is some good wine.” 

“I forgot you were a wine snob,” Sarah said with a shake of her head. “Don’t know where that came from.” 

“Hey, I’m a classy man.” 

Sarah rolled her eyes as she pushed Bucky toward the salad that needed tossing. Sam made his way around the counter to wrap his arms around Bucky’s waist, kissing his shoulder, and Bucky was just a man. He couldn’t help himself that he turned, placing a searing kiss on Sam’s lips despite Sarah being only a few feet away from him. Bucky knew how easily time could pass you by; he had no intention of wasting any of it. 

“Stop distracting me. I’m being a very good sous chef,” Bucky said. 

Sam rolled his eyes, dipping forward to kiss at the corner of his mouth before walking away. “Well, if that’s how it is then I’ll remove myself.” He laughed when Bucky reached out, grabbing at the space he’d left. “Can’t have that salad not properly tossed.”

Bucky watched him walk away, a smile shot over his shoulder, and back into the yard with the kids. Amelia was chasing them like a monster, and every few seconds the kids would burst into squeals of infectious laughter. 

“You really don’t have to stay if you’d rather go make out with my brother,” Sarah said. 

Bucky choked out a laugh. “And miss out on all this? I’m learning so much.” He paused, leaning against the counter and watching her a moment. When she caught his gaze, she rolled her eyes again. “Can you please send me the family mashed potatoes recipe? Sam won’t stop talking about it.” 

Sarah tutted. “From what I hear about your food staples, I doubt you’ll be able to manage it.” She tilted her head to the side. “I’ll show you tomorrow night, okay? It requires a whole demonstration.” 

“You are a dream, Sarah Wilson.” Bucky bent forward to pat her arm, and then through the window he caught another look at all of them. This whole family in front of them. In this position, it didn’t feel all that different from when he’d been standing side to side with Sarah while they washed dishes, except for the fact that so many things had changed. 

“Sure.” She laughed as she washed her hands. “You’re still in it so bad, Barnes.” 

Bucky shrugged. “Best thing I’ve ever been so deep in, ma’am. Wouldn’t dream of getting out.” 

She hummed, the moment crystalizing for one sun-streaked beat before the world kept turning, and she asked for help cutting vegetables. 

The thing was, Bucky still didn’t know when it happened. There was no moment of realization, of clarity. There were a million moments that built until there was no turning back, and Bucky wouldn't have wanted it any other way. Sam, his partner. Sam, his boyfriend. Sam… his. 

A new dream. His dream. He had no idea how he’d gotten so lucky, but he’d stopped questioning joy when he could. This was the life he’d built, and he planned on living every second of it.