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Sam loved days like this in Delacroix. When the long hot days finally started to shorten once again, and the chilling sea breeze offered the barest hint that summer was finally coming to a close. The last few days of summer had always been Sam’s favorites. When the whole community's mood seemed as vibrant and bittersweet as the pink and orange sunset skies over the water. When the parents and grandparents of the neighborhood seemed hellbent on enjoying the last few days before their kids had to go back to school. And the tourists and relatives alike finally started to leave town to go back to their homes up north, while the fishermen changed out their nets and swapped their bait to start preparing for the new fishing season. In Sam's mind, it was the closest thing to paradise on earth.
Right now, the only things he had to worry about were what he wanted to eat, having a good time with his neighbors, and making sure Bucky didn’t flirt too much with Sarah. The latter of which already seemed to lessen with each visit the pair made to Louisiana. Maybe because Sam had long since stopped giving Bucky the reaction he sought. Or possibly it was due to the local kids, and what seemed to be their personal mission to make Bucky their new uncle. Nowadays, it seemed that within minutes of getting the former soldier to the docks, some kid was grabbing his metal arm and leading him off to the playground. Bucky, to his credit, never protested. He always allowed himself to be dragged along with nothing more than a confused look shot in Sam’s direction, as if he had expected any other outcome.
If it had been anyone else Sam might have pushed back against his former title of favorite uncle being usurped. But based on the way Bucky seemed to brighten up every time someone called him “uncle Bucky,” the title meant a lot more to him than it ever had to Sam. Before Delacroix, Bucky had probably assumed that being someone's uncle was another thing on the long list of things that Hydra had taken from him. Now he seemed to have more token nieces and nephews than he knew what to do with.
Sam watched as Bucky pushed the older kids on the merry-go-round. One of the little girls was sitting on top of his shoulders, as another group of kids fought for his attention to have him watch them jump off from the swings. It would have been a lot for anyone. Hell, Sam was getting a headache from just watching it. But Bucky seemed to have eternal patience when it came to kids. No amount of screams, sticky fingers, or repetitive questions ever seemed to faze him. Sam supposed that made sense, given he was the oldest of four kids and had survived a childhood as Steve Rogers’ best friend. Sam was sure that these kids were nothing compared to whatever trouble Steve used to get up to in his youth. Not that Bucky himself seemed much better at staying out of trouble.
“Why don’t you go over and help him?” Sarah asked, causing Sam to nearly jerk out of his seat. It seemed like no amount of special training would ever allow him to detect his sister when she wanted to be sneaky. She cocked an eyebrow at his response before perching on the arm of his lawn chair, taking a sip out of her beer bottle.
“Because it’s more fun to watch,” Sam said, reaching over to snatch the bottle from her hands, taking his own sip. It was nice and cold compared to the midafternoon heat of Louisiana. Sarah must have just grabbed it out of the cooler. The two siblings sat like there for a bit, trading the bottle back and forth till it was empty as they watched Bucky be chased around the playground by the kids.
“Right. Well, it's about time for the kids to head back to eat. So you should go over there and help your boyfriend round them up." Sarah said, giving Sam a pat on the shoulder as she started to get up.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” Sam protested immediately, looking over Sarah's shoulder to make sure no one had overheard her. Her needling him about his relationship, or lack thereof, with Bucky was bad enough in the privacy of their own home without any Aunties or Nanas around to overhear.
“Mhm,” Sarah said, giving him that ‘I know you’re full of bullshit’ look she seemed to reserve only for her brother and kids.
“He’s not!” Not yet, at least.
But regardless, Sam didn’t need to have a conversation with Sarah again about why he couldn’t ask Bucky out right now. Bucky was finally starting to heal from everything, and Sam wasn’t about to fuck that or their budding friendship up by sharing feelings that are more than likely not going to be reciprocated. Sam didn't care how much Sarah denied that last fact. At the end of the day, Sam didn't know how Bucky felt about him, let alone how he felt about any type of same sex relationship. He was from the 1940s, for crying out loud. It was a weak excuse, even in Sam own mind. Bucky was old-fashioned for sure, but he had made his views about the politics of his time clear to Sam on many occasions. Fuck Nazis. If someone is racist, they’re a Nazi. If someone is sexist, they are also a Nazi. If someone were a self-aggrandizing prick, Nazi. To Bucky, it seemed bigotry in any form was synonymous with being a Nazi. And there was nothing he hated more than Nazis. It would be borderline impossible or extremely hypocritical if Bucky did, in fact, turn out to be homophobic.
Sam was jerked out of his thoughts by something cold and wet pressed against the back of his neck. "Hey!" He protested, swatting Sarah's beer bottle away.
“Go on, go get your smoking hot platonic life partner." Sarah said, lifting the back of the lawn chair to try to get him out of it.
"Alright, I'm going. I'm going." He said, holding his hands up in mock surrender as he started towards the playground.
"Oh, and you might want to make sure to keep him away from some of the single ladies. Don’t want someone else to make a move while you’re too chicken to do so.” Sarah called after him.
Sam, very maturely, resisted the urge to flick her off as he walked down the rest of the dock and into the sandy shoreline. The kids seemed to have changed their game yet again, where they elected to ignore the perfectly fine metal jungle gym that was 10 feet away in favor of trying to climb onto Bucky.
Bucky looked up as Sam approached and flashed him one of those rare grins that he seemed to reserve for use only in Delacroix.
“Hi Uncle Sam!” AJ said, hanging upside down from Bucky’s arm.
Sam tilted his own head before saying, “Hi, AJ." Earning a giggle from the boy.
"Are you here to play with us, Uncle Sam?" Cass asked.
"Maybe later. Y'all's moms sent me over there to tell y'all it's time to eat." Earning him a chorus of awes and disappointed mutterings. “You know, you didn't hear this from me, but I heard a rumor that Mr. Jackson is going to bring the ice cream truck around after all of the kids eat their food.” That got the kids' attention, most of them dropping off from Bucky, looking back over to the docks. “Go on, y’all want to hurry up and eat before he comes by.”
“Last one there is a rotten egg!” Cass announced, running back over to the picnic tables with a horde of screaming kids following him. Only one remained, the little girl who had spent the afternoon on top of Bucky's shoulder.
He easily swung her down with a flourish, causing her to giggle. “Let’s get your shoes back on, sweetheart,” Bucky said, pulling out a pair of pink plastic shoes from his pocket that were completely dwarfed by his hands. Sam thought, not for the first time, that Bucky would make an excellent father.
“Mr. Sam, did you know that Mr. Bucky has a metal arm?” Nyla asked, as Bucky got to work putting her shoes back on.
“I did know that,” Sam said, smiling down at her.
“Mr. Sam, my mommy said you live with Mr. Bucky. Is that true?”
“Yes, it's true,” Sam said. Cringing internally at what type of conversation they might have been having in which that little tidbit would have been brought up.
“Like mommy and Miss Marie?” Nyla asked as Bucky helped her to her feet, holding her hand as they started to walk towards the docks. Sam cheeks were burning now. It was bad enough that Sarah seemed to think he and Bucky were in a relationship, but for the children to start thinking it… Maybe it was time for him to do a few visits by himself just to prove that they were not as attached at the hip as everyone seemed to think. But even as he thought it, Sam felt guilty. Delacroix had slowly become as much of a home to Bucky as it was to Sam; he would never do anything that would get in the way of that. But goddamn why couldn't people mind their own business. Thankfully, Sam was saved from answering the question by Naomi, who had come to look for her daughter.
“Mommy!” Nyla shouted, letting go of Bucky’s hand, running over to her. “Mr. Bucky pushed me on the swing, and I went so high! I was flying!”
“That’s amazing, baby.” She said with a soft smile, mouthing ‘Thank you’ to Bucky. Bucky offered her a polite nod as she ushered her daughter back to the cookout.
“Who’s Miss Marie?” Bucky whispered to Sam when he was sure the mom and daughter were out of earshot. It wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to ask about someone's name. Despite visiting as often as Sam, there always seemed to be someone or other he hadn’t yet been introduced to.
“She’s the one with the pink box braids.” And before Bucky could ask any follow-up questions about Marie and her relationship with Naomi, Sam shoved him slightly, repeating Cass’ words from earlier. “Last one there is a rotten egg.”
He wasn’t surprised that Bucky beat him to the docks. Or that Bucky kept his pace just slow enough to leave Sam only a few feet behind him, so they would practically arrive at the dock together.
“Hey, Bucky.” Sarah greeted, extending a paper plate full of food to him.
“Hi Sarah, is this for me?”
“Yeah, I figured you worked up an appetite running around with the kids. Didn’t want you to miss all the good stuff.” She said with a slight wink that caused Sam to grit his teeth. It was bad enough that Bucky was always flirting with her. She didn't have to encourage it. She clearly only did it in hope that it would rile Sam up to actually share his feelings with the former assassin.
“Thank you,” Bucky said, taking the plate from her.
Sam reached for the other plate in her hand only to be slapped away. “Hey,” he protested, rubbing his hand.
“This is mine. You can get your own plate.” She said, before turning so fast that her braids nearly whipped him in the face.
"Don't you dare say a word," Sam warned Bucky, his pointed finger held in front of Bucky's face.
"I didn't say anything," Bucky said. But Sam could recognizes the glint of mischief in his eyes, even as he held up a vibranium hand in mock surrender. Sam's lip curled slightly at the way the light reflected off the golden strands in the arm. Shuri really did design a masterpiece. He just wished Bucky didn't always feel the need to cover it up with long sleeves and gloves when they were anywhere other than on assignment or Delacroix.
"I'll save you a seat." Bucky offered as he walked backwards towards the picnic tables.
"You better," Sam warned, making his way through the crowd to feel his own plate and trade greetings and small talk with everyone who showed up. He liked his place with Bucky in DC for sure, but nothing would ever be better than this.
By the time he made it to the table, Bucky was already done with his own plate, standing up to get more. Sam couldn’t help but smile as he watched Bucky move through the crowd, greeting people in the same way as Sam, perhaps with a little more charm, but that was just how Bucky was. In another life, Bucky would have made a great politician or con man. Sam supposed there wasn't much of a difference between those two professions. He still remembered the first few times Bucky had visited Delacroix, where he absolutely refused a second helping until everyone else had eaten their fill. Bucky give Sam that icy blue glare anytime the younger man reminded him that this wasn't the Great Depression and there was more than enough food to go around. Still, it took Bucky a few months of observing all of the leftovers that tend to get packed up and shipped back home with everyone, before Bucky realized there truly was more than enough food to go around, even for his super soldier appetite.
“Is that little Sammy Wilson?” A raspy voice shouted from behind Sam.
“Miss Rudolph!” Sam said, standing up to greet the old woman with a gentle hug. “What are you doing here?” He asked, looking over at Taylor, who had one arm looped through her great-grandmother's, hand resting over her pregnant belly.
“Oh, Taylor decided to drag me along after church. She said she was craving some of Tommy’s cooking. Now, who is that handsome fella?” She asked, and Sam didn’t even have to turn to know she was talking about Bucky. “Hey, sugar! Who are you and where have you been all my life?”
“Gigi,” Taylor squeaked out, embarrassed by her great-grandmother's usual antics.
“Hi, I’m Bucky. What’s your name, beautiful?” He greeted her with his right hand held out to shake hers.
Miss Rudolph was grinning, her new dentures on full display. “Diana.”
“What a lovely name for a lovely lady,” Bucky said, taking her extended hand, lifting it to his lips, and kissing it.
“Oh, aren’t you a charmer?” She said, her voice an octave higher than usual.
Sam rolled his eyes. It's like Bucky couldn’t help himself. At least Miss Rudolph was age-appropriate. She was maybe the only person in Delacroix who might be able to rival Bucky’s 106. She had been old and grey since Sam was a child, and she was nearly a great, great-grandmother, given that Taylor’s baby was supposedly due sometime this fall.
“Gigi, Bucky is Sam’s… roommate,” Taylor said, having the nerve to sound unsure. As if Sam didn't tell her on their last trip down here that they were just roommates.
“Ah, I should have known, Sammy always knew how to pick them.” Great, everyone in this town really did think they were dating. This had to be Sarah's fault.
“Sammy?” Bucky said, flashing Sam another dimpled grin. Perfect, yet another thing Bucky will never let him live down. Sam refused to give Bucky the satisfaction of making him embarrassed. After all, he was a grown ass man still going by fucking Bucky for crying out loud. Sam couldn’t deny that he was thankful Bucky didn’t seem to pick up on the undertones in her words. The last place he wanted to talk about his sexuality with Bucky was at a potluck.
“Well, I’m glad you’re here, honey. I don’t think Sammy has brought a man home since that one blond fella. Oh, what was his name? Ryland? Richard?”
“Riley,” Sam responded, feeling the name hit him like a bullet train to the chest. He tried and failed to take a deep breath. Maybe the pain of his death had lessened with time, but that didn’t mean it didn’t still hurt like hell.
“Yes, that was it. Is your sister here?" Sam nodded, trying to do his best to ignore the sudden change of topic. As if Riley was nothing more than a passing thought. That alone stung almost as much as the memory of his death. There used to be a period of time when he couldn't go more than a few hours without thinking about Riley. Now he couldn't seem to remember the last time he had thought about Riley. Guilt and grief warred inside of him, fighting for dominance. "I would love to see sweet little Sarah.”
“She should be around. I think I saw her over with Tommy at the grill,” Bucky said, gesturing over to where they had set up the grill. Sam turned, starting back to the table, no longer feeling up to interacting with anyone. If he were being honest, he was sure his legs would be able to hold his weight for much longer. He wanted nothing more than to go home and retreat into his bed for the rest of the day. But knew he would have to deal with Hell from Sarah for not staying to help clean up.
Sam could hear them saying something else but the noise was drowned out by the rushing wind in his ears. It sounded exactly like the flow of air that surrounded him as he dove helplessly after Riley. Watching him fall. Fall. Fall. Sam gripped the table, forcing himself to take a few deep breaths. He wasn't in the desert; he was in Louisiana. It didn’t seem to matter, the perfect day had faded away. Now he saw flashes between the present and that summer when he had brought Riley home to Delacroix to meet his parents. His the two events intermixed and overlapped in his mind into a torturous supercut. Sam dug fingernail against the side of his pointer finger trying to jar himself out of the flashback.
“She seemed like a nice lady,” Bucky said, sitting down across from Sam. Sam hummed in agreement forcing on Bucky to do some ground techniques. Shirt color blue, eye color blue, hair color brown, metal arm black and gold. When he finally felt steady enough he reached for his fork with a trembling hand stabbing it into the mac and cheese on his plate. It tasted like desert sand and smoke in his mouth.
“So Sammy," Bucky prompted, "Who’s Riley? I don’t think I’ve met him.”
Sam couldn’t breathe as he was dragged back into the memories at the forefront of his mind.
Riley, with his head thrown back, laughing, his freckled skin burning under the unrelenting sun. Riley is running towards the pier, jumping into the water, droplets of water racing down his face from his sandy hair. Riley’s thick southern drawl as he argued about the upcoming college football season with Sam’s dad. Riley was standing on the dock, cradling a newborn Cass as Sarah and Sam had run through inventory with their parents.
Sam’s chest ached at the memories, guilt twisting itself into a thorny knot. Guilt at Riley’s death. But more than that, the guilt that Sam was still alive. Not only was Sam alive but his life had moved on. How dare he have the audacity to keep living his life? How dare he be happy without Riley? It was survivor's guilt talking; Sam had spent enough time in and around therapy to know that. But identifying the source never seemed to lessen the chasmous pit expanding inside Sam.
What was wrong with him. Sam used to be able to get up in a room full of other people and talk about Riley without so much as a tremble in his voice. But that had been different. Sam would prepare ahead of time and decompress afterwards. Hearing Riley’s when he was unprepared for it left him feeling as though someone had altered the axis of his world. He knew that his current crush on Bucky was not helping with his guilt. He remembered those first few years after Riley’s death, when Sam had sworn off relationships, refusing to believe that he could ever love someone as much as Riley.
“Sam?” Bucky prompted.
Sam looked up to meet his eyes, Bucky's baby blue was so different from Riley’s steady hazel. “You wouldn’t have met him. He was my partner in the military. He died overseas.”
Bucky's blue eyes widened, dark eyebrows jumping up. “Shit, Sam, I’m sorry I didn’t—“
“It’s alright." Sam said cutting him off. "Can we talk about something else?”
“Yeah,” Bucky said, before speaking softly about something that AJ had told him that morning. Sam nodded along politely enough, though he knew that he wasn't listening to a word. His thoughts were still too consumed with memories of Riley. He could feel himself drifted out of the present back to that night in the desert. The way Riley had strapped Sam into his tact suit, pulling him in for a quick kiss before they took off. They would have had no way of knowing that would be their last kiss. Sam had spent so many nights lying awake remembering that moment, fighting to remember the last thing Riley had said to him. He couldn't, the words hadn't seemed important at the time.
"Sam?" Bucky asked, his hand closing around Sam's wrist. Sam jerked away from the cold metal instinctively. He hadn't been expecting the touch, and felt too much like the gun that had been in his hand that night. The hurt flashed across Bucky’s face and then disappeared as he shuffled the metal hand under the table.
"Do you want to go home?" Bucky asked, his head leaning in close so no one could hear.
"No, I'm fine," Sam promised, trying to brush him off. Bucky didn't argue with him. He just sat there staring with those damn baby blue eyes. "Sarah would kill me—" He said, trying a different excuse, but Bucky was pushing up from the table.
"I'll talk to Sarah and meet you at your truck," Bucky promised.
Sam wanted to argue. However, before he could even open his mouth, Bucky had disappeared. So Sam had no choice but to obediently head for the truck. Doing his best to avoid any eye contact that would lead to friendly small talk. By the time Sam had made it to the truck Bucky had materialized next to him.
"I'm driving," Bucky announced as he took the keys from Sam’s hand. Sam really must have been out of it because he didn't even bother to argue with Bucky as he moved towards the passenger side, climbing into the truck.
On the drive back to Sarah's, Sam came back to himself enough to realize what was going on. "I have a headache," Sam said. It was a lame excuse, and they both knew it. But Bucky didn't call him on it. Instead he opted to letting the car ride pass with blissful silence. Well, not blissful for Sam. The lack of distraction left him with nothing but his Riley-filled thoughts the guilt consuming him more and more with each passing second. By the time they pulled up to Sarah's, Sam already had his seatbelt undone and started towards the porch, tears already stinging at the back of his eyes.
Bucky followed him, catching the door before it could slam shut behind Sam. He grabbed Sam by the arm, careful to use his right hand this time, and spun him so Sam had no choice but to face him. "Sam?"
"Fuck, I'm fine. Bucky I'm fine." Sam said, trying to wave him off, though he knew the tears were already spilling from his eyes and there was no way he could hide them now.
"Do you want me to stay?" Bucky asked with the same soft earnest he had used at the docks, letting go of Sam's arm.
Sam wiped at the tears in his eyes only for them to be replaced a moment later by new ones. "No it's okay, you can go back to the docks. I'll be fine now."
"Do you want me to stay? Yes or no?" Bucky asked.
Sam looked away from Bucky’s eyes, suddenly very interested in the fraying strand at the end of his sweater. Bucky didn’t move or say anything else, clearly waiting for Sam’s answer.
“Yes,” Sam whispered, surprising himself with the word. That is not what he had meant to say. He should have said no, and sent Bucky away. That's what he had wanted. Wasn’t it?
"What do you need me to do?” Bucky asked. Sam shallowed hard, It was exactly the right things to ask. Why was Bucky so good? Why did he have to make everything so easy? But Sam couldn't help but hate him for it. Why was Bucky treating him like he was something that needed to be handled with care? Didn’t Bucky understand he didn’t deserve this? Riley was dead, and it was Sam’s fault. He didn’t deserve anyones empathy.
“Sam, talk to me.” Bucky pleaded, moving closer to Sam.
Sam’s bottom lip was wobbling, and he didn't trust that his voice wouldn't be just as shaky if he tried to speak. So instead, he closed the distance between himself and Bucky. Wrapping his arms around the super soldier, burying his face into Bucky's chest. Bucky's arms closed around Sam instantly, holding him in a tight embrace.
Secure in Bucky's arms, in the empty house, Sam finally allowed himself to break. Sam cried for Riley, himself, for everything that happened back, now, and everywhere in between. Sam had never been much of a crier. He had definitely never been the type of person that cried in front of other people in front of other people. Not that there was anything wrong with that, it had just never been something he did. Aside from a few really rough therapy sessions right after Riley's death, Sam was pretty sure he hadn't cried in front of another person since childhood. Even when his mom passed away, he distinctly remembers waiting until he was back in his room before breaking down so his dead and Sarah wouldn't have to see it.
The point was that it should have felt awkward being a crying mess like this in front of another person. But it wasn't. This was Bucky after all. Sam knew he would never judge him, even if Sam was dripping snot on one of his favorite shirts.
Sam wasn't sure how long they stood like that, but eventually, when his throat hurt from crying and the tears finally stopped coming, he pulled back. He still didn't trust himself to speak. What do you even say to a guy after that? I'm sorry? But Sam wasn't sorry and knew Bucky wouldn't want him to be. Thank you? But that didn't seem like it could encompass the enormity of Sam’s gratitude to Bucky.
"What do you need now?" Bucky asked gently, reaching up to brush a thumb over one of Sam's cheeks, wiping away the lingering tears.
"I kind of just want to get changed and lie in bed." Sam admitted sheepishly.
"Okay, let's do that," Bucky said, taking Sam's hand in his, leading him up the stairs towards his bedroom. Sam didn’t protest as Bucky stripped him out of his clothes, leaving him in nothing but his boxers. An act that should have felt far more awkward than it did. But Sam’s mind seemed capable of excusing every abnormality with the simple fact that this was Bucky. The rules never seemed to apply to Bucky.
Even when Bucky took off his own clothes, Sam didn’t feel the normal rush of heat or fluttering in his chest that he normally did when Bucky changed in front of him. Once Bucky was similarly undressed, he pulled back Sam’s sheet, helping him onto the bed before crawling in next to him, immediately pulling Sam against his bare chest. It should have felt intimate. And maybe it did in a way. But it was a different type of intimacy. Not one born from attraction, though Sam could not deny there was attraction from his end. This intimacy was based on vulnerability, and the trust it took to let Bucky see this side of him. The trust Bucky had in return for Sam. Fuck, maybe Sam did have more tears left after all.
When Sam woke up, it was dark outside and Bucky was gone, and the spot in the bed next to Sam was cold. However, Sam did notice that there was also a glass of water resting on his wooden nightstand that had definitely not been there before.
He climbed out of the bed only to find his clothes from before were on his dresser. Folded with perfect military precision. Sam smiled slightly, opening a drawer, pulling out a pair of old sweatpants, before making his way down the stairs.
Bucky was in his usual spot on the couch. Blank thrown over his reclined form. Sam crept down the stairs as quietly as he could, but it didn't seem to matter. By the time he reached the landing Bucky's blue eyes were opening and looking at him. It was impossible to know if Bucky had already been awake or if his super soldier hearing had woken him up as Sam made his way down the stairs.
"Hey," Sam said softly, not wanting to wake up Sarah and the boys.
"Hey," Bucky responded, his voice groggy, so he had been asleep. "You feeling better? Headache gone?"
"We both know I didn't have a headache," Sam said as he lifted Bucky's legs so he could sit in the spot where Bucky's feet had been, letting them fall back down into his lap.
Bucky let a little hum, not directly agreeing or disagreeing with Sam.
"It was about Riley," Sam told him. Even though Bucky already probably had pieced that together. "I... I'm not normally like this. It was just unexpected and--"
"I get it," Bucky said with a yawn, as he stretched out on the couch, so that his legs were completely extended over Sam’s lap like a rollercoaster's lap bar. "And I'm always here for you."
"Thanks, Buck," Sam said, rubbing his shin gently, getting a pleased hum from the super soldier as he closed his eyes. Sam might never be able to tell Bucky that he loved him, but he would eventually tell Bucky about Riley. Partly because Bucky deserved to know, but more importantly, because Riley deserved to be remembered.
It wasn’t until two weeks later, when they were back in their place in DC after their S.W.O.R.D. mission in Baku, that Sam felt steady enough to finally have the conversation with Bucky about Riley.
Bucky was already in his normal afternoon position, lounging against their dark gray couch, wrapped up in what seemed to be every single throw blanket he could get his hands on, reading his last thrift store sci-fi book.
“Hey, can we talk?” Sam asked as he walked up to Bucky with the old, worn red photo album clutched tightly in his hand.
Bucky put down his book instantly, giving Sam his full undivided attention. “Yeah, what up?” Sam froze him a moment watching him. Sometimes, Bucky's mannerisms reminded Sam so much of Steve that they almost took him out completely. Stupid hundred-year-old men with their blue eyes and old-timey, common courtesy.
“The other day, you asked me about Riley. I'm finally ready to talk about him. You know if you want to know about him."
Bucky looked from the album in Sam's hands back up to his face. “If you want to talk about him, then I'm ready to listen," Bucky said, sitting up on the couch. He took two of his blankets off setting them to the side to make room for Sam.
Sam sat next to him, opening the photo album on his lap. Riley had given it to Sam for their one-year anniversary. He brushed a hand over the page, staring down at a much younger version of himself smiling up at him, his arm wrapped around Riley’s shoulders, both of them wearing LSU shirts.
“This is Riley?” Bucky asked, leaning in close enough that their shoulders brushed as he looked down at the photo.
“Yeah,” Sam confirmed, his throat was already feeling too tight. “We met in college. We got paired up as random roommates that first year and were inseparable afterwards. We signed up for the Air Force together in our sophomore year. And when they were looking for volunteers for the EXO Falcon program, we picked up those applicants together, too. When I was selected for the program, I already knew Riley also would be accepted. That's was just how things worked for us. Back then, I thought he would be in my life for forever.” And Lord Sam knew if anyone would understand that sentiment, it was Bucky. Maybe that's why once he started sharing stories about Riley, the rest of them seemed to just pour out. He went from sharing the general stories he had told Steve and Natasha to completely word-vomiting everything he remembered from those days.
Bucky listened to Sam talk about Riley reacting whenever it felt necessary, but otherwise, he let Sam get it all off his chest. It was obvious that, despite Riley dying over a decade ago, the wound was still fresh for Sam. Maybe it always would be that way. Bucky couldn't judge Sam. He understood the feeling of being haunted by your past all too well.
Sam had coached Bucky through so many of his own nightmares, lying in bed next to him when he was too shaken to go back to sleep. Now it was Bucky’s turn to sit and listen. So he listened to stories about how they had first met and how Riley had died and any anecdote in between. Bucky loved it. He could listen to stories about Sam from college or basic training for hours. It felt like he was seeing a whole different side of his friend. Sam always seemed to have a good sense of humor, but Bucky had not expected stories of a rambunctious troublemaker. He also loved the sweet smile that spread across Sam's lips, and how he would laugh at his own stories like they were the funniest thing in the world. As far as Bucky was concerned, they might as well be because Sam's laughter and joy were absolute infection.
Bucky barely noticed when the late afternoon light had faded into darkness. Aside from the fact that they were eventually forced to turn on the living room light, they had to take a short break to bring out the leftover Japanese food and a few beer bottles.
“You know, believe it or not, it was hard for me to get a feeling for the wingsuit the first few times. But not Riley, I swear, even after that first day, he was already doing corkscrew spirals in the air for fun. The Colonel once said he took to flying like a duck to water. So, of course, the boys and I started calling him Ronald Duck.”
Something pushed loose in Bucky's brain at that. He ranked his brain for what the nickname reminded him of. Realization came a moment later, hitting Bucky's system like a cryo freeze. It wasn’t possible. Was it? Bucky felt his stomach drop when he pieced together all of the similarities between Sam’s story and his own patchy memory. He could almost taste the dessert sand in his mouth as he said, “Ronald?”
“Oh yeah, sorry, that was his first name. Ronald. Riley was his last name, but it’s what everyone called—" Sam was still talking, but Bucky could hear him over the rushing in his ears and his own unsteady breathing. Ronald Riley, mission report June 3rd, 2012. Bucky felt the bile rise in his throat. No. Oh god no.
His head swam with memories of Pierce’s voice in the helicopter's headset telling him— no ordering him— to set it down outside of Bakhmala in the early afternoon when the sun was at the highest point in the sky. Bucky remembered the long trek in the sand to the city and how it had nearly burned him alive in his black tactical suit. The stark difference between the heat and the cryo freeze he had just been pulled out of hours before was torturous. It was as if his body was no longer equipped to face such heat, but it wasn’t like he could complain about it. He wasn't a person capable of feeling. He was the Asset, Hydra's greatest weapon. When they had arrived, Khalid Khandil greeted them— greeted Pierce. No need for him to have greeted the Asset. He had instead inspected Bucky the way anyone would expect a dangerous weapon they were interested in acquiring. Bucky remembered the man's hands roaming over his body, the grip on his metal arm twisting it so he could better examine it.
“Buck?” Sam's concerned voice cut through the memory. Bucky looked up to see his warm brown eyes staring at him. Sam, perfect and wonderful Sam. Who he never wanted to hurt. Who he had already hurt so many times. Oh God, he was going to be sick. He pushed him from the table, rushing down the hall to the bathroom, barely making it before the vomit poured out of his mouth. What had he done? What the fuck had he done?
He put his hands behind his back, scared that if he rested them against the porcelain toilet bowl. He would destroy it the same way he seemed to destroy everything else in his life. No matter how much he threw up, he couldn’t get the acrid taste of sand and bitter desert air out of his mouth.
There were hands on him again. Gripping his neck. Forcing him down— Forcing him to comply. He didn’t want to comply. He didn’t want to go back into the chair. He didn’t—
“Damnit, Buck, I told you not to eat that old sushi," Sam said.
Bucky forced himself to take a shaking breath. Not Hydra, only Sam. Sam leaned over him to help pull back Bucky’s newly grown hair that had already started to stick to his sweat-dampened skin out of his face.
Sam was always so gentle with him, and Bucky had repaid his kindness by murdering his best friend. That thought sent him heaving into the toilet again. His throat burned from the effort of his gagging, but Bucky couldn’t stop himself. He thought about shoving his fingers in his mouth deep enough to force more up. To force everything out until he could purge the guilt from his stomach. It wouldn't work. Because nothing would ever work. No amount of time or healing could absolve Bucky from his actions as the Winter Soldier.
Bucky brought his left arm up to rest across the toilet seat, setting his forehead on the cold metal. He wasn’t in the desert. He wasn’t the Winter Soldier anymore. But he had killed Sam's best friend. Sam, who was still holding back Bucky's hair and rubbing small soothing circles into his sweat-damp back.
“You’re okay. That's it, you’re alright,” Sam murmured softly. Still trying in vain to comfort Bucky.
Bucky didn't understand how Sam could stand to be around him after everything he had done. Shit. The realization was like another ice shard through the heart. Sam didn’t know. The thought sent another wave of nausea through Bucky. He heaved into the toilet, but there was nothing left to come up.
Tears streamed down his face. Sam didn’t know he killed Riley. He would have to tell Sam he killed Riley. The pressure on Bucky's chest grew till it made his vision blur. How the hell was he supposed to tell Sam he had killed Riley? He could barely breathe, let alone speak. He contemplated slamming his head into the toilet. If he had thought it would actually kill him, he might have done it. Death seemed like a much kinder fate.
Sam pulled Bucky back from the toilet, setting him against the bathroom wall, as he flushed the toilet.
“Come on, man. You’re okay. Everything is alright.” Sam said, wiping Bucky's face with a damp cloth.
“Don’t touch me.” Bucky choked out, his voice raw. Sam pulled back instantly, giving Bucky the space he asked for.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked gently.
Was he okay? Bucky hadn’t been okay since he fell off the train in 1945. If he was being honest with himself, probably long before even that. Bucky didn’t remember the war that well. Just like everything from before Hydra, it only seemed to come back to him in shattered bits and pieces. But when it did come back, it filled him with a paralyzing fear that made it impossible to move. The feeling was so much like cryo freeze that it left him feeling sick for days afterwards.
Sometimes he felt like those memories of what he did during the war were worse than anything he did as the Winter Soldier, because he couldn’t blame his actions on anyone else. Everything he had done, every man he had killed. Well, that had all been Bucky Barnes. Maybe it was for the best that he never came back from it. He wasn’t sure how he would have been able to face his family after all that. Hell, Bucky didn’t know how to face Sam, who already knew all of the terrible things that Bucky had done. Most of the terrible things. He still didn’t know about Riley.
“I’m so sorry, Sam.” Bucky croaked out, wrapping his arms around his knees, pulling them to his chest.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. I get it. Trust me, everyone has to have bad sushi once in their life before they can learn from their mistake.” God, why was Bucky in love with this idiot? Could he really not figure it out? How did Sam not see what was right in front of both of them? The obvious conclusion.
“No, Sam, it’s not— I killed him. I killed Riley.”
Bucky had no choice but to sit there and watch as Sam comprehended Bucky’s words, his smile falling. Fuck it felt too much like killing a man. The moment of looking at the target in the scope of the rifle right before pulling the trigger. Then that split second right after the bullet made contact with its mark, when their face contours with the terrifying realization right before they drop motionless like a puppet cut from its strings.
“I’m so sorry.” Bucky sobbed, tears blurring his vision, offering the slight reprieve of not having to look at Sam anymore.
“I killed Riley,” Bucky whispered. And no, it wasn’t possible. This was some sick fucking joke. Bucky had never been one for cruel jokes, but it was more believable than the thought of Bucky killing Riley.
Sam remembered that night vividly. The light of the RBG as it sailed towards Riley. He remembered landing in Bakhmala and looking for the man who fired the RBG. But they had never been able to find the shooter. The shooter that had been able to pick Riley out of the dark sky from a distance with deadly precision. Which exactly the Winter Soldier MO... no.
Even as Sam desperately thought that it couldn’t be true, he couldn’t deny how much sense it made. Fuck, it almost hurt how much sense it made. Of course, it had to have been Bucky. Who else would have been able to make a shot like that in the dead of night? It wasn’t like there had been a barrage of missiles that had struck Riley down. There had only been one concentrated blast directly at Riley. Long before the people on the ground should have been aware of their presence.
He looked back up at Bucky. He had killed Riley. Bucky, his best friend, the man Sam felt himself starting to fall in love with. Who offered Sam nothing but unwavering support and assistance and had never doubted Sam’s capabilities even when Sam had, was the one who killed Riley: his wingman, his partner, his first love. This was so sick and fucking twisted. Like the universe was playing a practical joke on them.
Bucky's whole body was shaking, knees pulled tight to his chest like he could disappear behind him if he just tired hard enough.
“Why?” Sam asked, fighting to keep his voice steady. Maybe because Sam couldn't help but look for a silver lining in every situation. Bucky might have been the one who killed Riley, but at least that meant Sam could finally get all of his questions answered.
Bucky, however, wouldn’t meet his eyes let alone acknowledge the question. “Why did you kill him?” Sam prompted again. “Why target him!?” Sam knew he was shouting now, but he couldn’t seem to rein in his emotions. Couldn’t Bucky of all people understand that Sam needed to know this? He needed to know why it was Riley who was shot down and not him. Why had the Winter Soldier been in Afghanistan at all?
“James!” He hoped the use of his first name would be enough to shock Bucky out of whatever stupor he was brewing in. And it seemed he had been right because a moment later, Bucky started to speak again.
“It was a demonstration. I— sometimes, when Hydra’s resources were running low or when they wanted to make new contacts, they would pull the Winter Soldier out of cryo. Take him to these potential business partners and loan him out. The Soviets and their Red Room were probably the ones you are most familiar with because it was the longest and most frequent partner, but they did it with other groups as well. The handler—“ Bucky choked on the word like it was poison in his mouth. “Pierce,” Bucky corrected.
“He took the Asset out for one of these glorified shows of power in 2012. To show off its efficiency in the field. It’s obedience.” The shift in pronouns for the Winter Soldier was not lost on Sam. He knew enough about the Winter Soldier program to have nightmares of his own about it. He knew the tactics of dehumanization they used on Bucky to make him think of himself as nothing more than a weapon that was under the complete control of Hydra.
“I don’t know why Pierce took the Asset out there. It wasn’t relevant to its mission. I only know that Khalid Khandil was planning to purchase the Winter Soldier to assist him. But the Winter Soldier, it had been out of use for a while at this point. I guess the rumors were not enough. Khalid Khandil wanted a demonstration. That’s all it was. A show of power. Riley never did anything—" Bucky's voice trembled, tears streaming down his face with a renewed vigor. “He was never a real target. Riley just happened to be there.”
It was about as much as Sam had assumed. There was no rhyme or reason to his death. Wrong place, wrong time. It could have happened to anyone, but it happened to Riley. It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was at least more than what Sam had before.
“The Asset shot him down on the orders of Khandil. After that, the deal went south. There was an attack on the camp. The Asset’s mission changed to protecting its handler. The handler talked about the incident with Zola later. That is how I found out Riley’s name. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have known. He would have just been another nameless, faceless kill.”
Sam nodded slightly. At least he could sleep more easily with the knowledge that the men responsible, Khalid Khandil and Alexander Pierce, were dead. That would have to be enough.
Bucky watched Sam digest every piece of information he gave him. Bucky wanted nothing more than to reach out and comfort Sam. But he knew better than to do that. Had delivered this type of news to enough families to know they never wanted anything to do with him afterwards. But this wasn’t just anyone. It was Sam. His Sam. That he had been hurt in the worst way imaginable.
“I know you hate me right now. And I can’t ever make this up to you, but Sam—“ I can’t lose you, Bucky thought desperately. Thought of Sam’s gap-tooth smile and the way he danced around the kitchen when he cooked. He thought about Delacroix, realizing that he would probably never be welcomed back into the place that had become a new home to him. Sarah, AJ, and Cass. He would probably never see them again. No way Sam would want Bucky around them, knowing what he had done.
Bucky had lost his family once before. Twice if he counted Steve leaving. But God, he wasn’t ready to lose Sam. Not like this.
“I’m so sorry, Sam. Please, I’ll do anything. You can hit me or stab me or shoot me or do whatever you need to do. I won’t stop you.” Maybe that would be enough. Sam was an Avenger after all. Maybe if he took out his anger on Bucky, they could find a way to move past this. Bucky closed his eyes, waiting for the impending blows. At this point, he would let Sam kill him if he so desired. He would rather be dead than have to continue the rest of his life without Sam and his family. But Sam didn’t surge forward to attack him.
Bucky opened his eyes to see that Sam was still sitting there, kneeling on the blue bathroom tiles. Face a mix of despair and anguish. And that was somehow the knowledge that he had done that to Sam was worse than any attack Sam could have taken again Bucky.
“I’m not going to do that,” Sam said dismissively. It confirmed the fear growing inside of Bucky that Sam didn't care about him anymore.
Bucky thought of the way he had called him James earlier. Sam had never called him James. Bucky wanted nothing more than to beg Sam to forgive him. To stay curled up on the floor sobbing until Sam took pity on him. But even as he thought it, he knew he couldn’t do that to Sam. Sam deserved not to have to interact with his best friend's murder ever again. So Bucky could only beg to a God he wasn't even sure he believed in anymore for forgiveness. And hope that someday soon he might get a speedy death. Because he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t lose everything he had all over again. This was another signal that he wasn’t good at being human anymore. What was the point in pushing himself to keep going anymore? Maybe Hydra was right; he was nothing more than a weapon. The only thing he was good at was being aimed at a target and eliminating it.
He looked back at Sam, and the way his broad shoulder slumped and the broken look in his brown eyes. Being here with Sam was probably killing him that little bit more. Bucky had to go, and then he could walk into the sea or shoot himself in the head or something. He would do whatever it took to ensure he wouldn’t hurt Sam again.
“I’m sorry, Sam. I… I’ll fuck off. You’ll never have to see me again.” Bucky moved to stand up, but Sam caught his arm.
“What are you talking about?” Sam asked.
“Look, I know you’ll never be able to forgive me for what I did. And I know that being here with me is probably killing you, so I’ll go, and I promise you won’t have to deal with me or my bullshit ever again.” Bucky tried and failed to prevent his voice from breaking around the words.
“What?” Sam asked again. His hands cupped Bucky's jaw so he was forced to look Sam in the eyes, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Buck. I forgive you. Shit, of course I forgive you.”
The words jolted Bucky like an electric shock. No, that wasn’t right. His neurons were misfiring. His fucking stupid frostbitten brain was hearing what he wanted to hear. But then Sam was pulling him into a tight hug. “Bucky, I would never blame you for this. I know nothing you did as the Winter Soldier was your fault.”
Bucky’s body was trembling in his arms, but Sam held firm. Sam could see in Bucky’s face that he hadn’t really believed his words. Maybe part of Bucky would always blame himself for what he was forced to do. But Sam needed Bucky to know that he would never blame him. He needed it with the vervet need he had for oxygen.
Bucky had buried his face into Sam’s neck, and based on the wetness he felt there, Bucky was silently crying. Sam had been caught up in his own turmoil about Riley that he hadn’t considered the impact it would have on Bucky. Bucky, who still woke up most nights screaming from nightmares, could go mute for days because he would forget that he was allowed to speak.
“Bucky, it's not your fault. You were just as much of a victim as Riley.”
“That’s not true.” Bucky choked out, pushing away from Sam. “I’m not a victim, I— I killed him. I killed so many other people I—"
“Bucky, you didn’t have a choice. Hydra tortured any choice you had out of you. I know that better than anyone,” Sam said. Remembering the days when he and Steve had been hunting for the Winter Soldier. The tapes they had found of Hydra forcing Bucky down into that metal chair, shocking him over and over again as he screamed in pain until he seemed to forget everything other than how to comply with their orders.
“Jesus, Bucky, did you think I would actually be upset with you?” The thought made Sam feel sick to his stomach. Bucky didn’t need him to answer the question. Sam could tell the answer from the slump of Bucky's shoulders and his refusal to meet Sam’s eyes.
“I killed him, Sam.”
“The Winter Soldier killed him.”
“I AM THE WINTER SOLDIER!” Bucky shouted back, tears streaming out of his fractured blue eyes. “I am the Asset, the fist of Hydra, that’s all me. I’m a monster.“
Sam cupped his hands around Bucky's face, tilting his head so he had no choice to look Sam in the eyes as he said, "No. You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re the White Wolf of Wakanda. You’re my best friend!” Whatever protest Bucky was about to have died on his lips.
“You’re my best friend, Bucky," Sam repeated because it looked like Bucky needed to hear it again. "I know you. I know that you are a grumpy old stubborn piece of shit, and if there was even a fragment of you that was able to control the Winter Soldier, then Hydra would have never been able to force you to do everything they did. You might have to live with the guilt of what the Winter Soldier did, but that doesn’t make it your fault. It was never your fault. Falling from the train, getting captured, getting tortured. None of that is your fault.”
Bucky was crying again, and Sam reached up to wipe away his tears. “I thought you would hate me. I thought… that I would lose you.” Sam's heart broke at Bucky's admission. Bucky had believed all of that, and he had still told Sam the truth the moment he realized it. Sam wondered for the hundredth time how someone so good ever thinks so little of himself.
“Bucky, you’re never going to lose me. No matter what.” Sam promised, squeezing his flesh shoulder.
Bucky was still guarded, but he had never been good at hiding his emotions. Sam could see the desperate hope in his eyes. It was the same way he looked when he came to Delacroix that first time, and Sam had offered to let him stay. Like all Bucky ever wanted was to belong. God, Sam had loved Steve, but he would never understand how he could leave Bucky.
Sam pulled Bucky into another tight hug. This time Bucky just crumbled against him, sobbing violently into his shoulder. Sam could hear each shuddering inhale and gasping exhale of breath.
“That’s it. You’re okay,” Sam said, raking his hand through Bucky’s hair. Bucky had started to let it grow out again. Sam couldn’t lie, he had missed it.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He promised again, because Bucky needed to hear it. They could have sat there for an hour, and it would have felt like only a few minutes because Sam could hold Bucky like this for the rest of their lives, and it still would never be enough. Bucky deserved to feel safe and protected for once in his life. Sam couldn’t deny the thrill it gave him that Bucky trusted Sam to be that person.
“Are you feeling better?” Sam asked when Bucky's sobs had finally started to subside again.
“Yeah,” Bucky said, sniffling slightly wiping a fist at his dripping nose.
“Okay, here’s what we are going to do. You’re going to take a shower and get all cleaned up, and I’ll make you some tea, and we can curl up on the couch and watch mindless TV. How does that sound?”
“It sounds nice,” Bucky admitted with a shuddering laugh.
“Yeah? Okay. You take your time, and I’ll be waiting for you in the living room.” Sam said, helping Bucky to his feet before leaving him in the bathroom. Part of him felt hesitant to leave Bucky alone. Bucky probably wouldn’t have protested if Sam had taken him into the shower and started washing him, but Sam knew that showering had been one of the ways Hydra had taken Bucky’s bodily autonomy away from him. Sam refused to make him relive any part of that.
Sam returned to the living room, the plush carpet feeling warm against his feet compared to the cold tile of the bathroom. He moved back to the driftwood coffee table, picking up the photo album, looking down at a photo of him and Riley from basic training. There was once a period of time when Sam thought he would never be able to move on from Riley’s death. He had been so afraid to let someone in again knowing that he could lose them. But that was before he had met Bucky Barnes, who already was highly skilled at slipping past the world's best security systems. Sam's carefully constructed walls never stood a chance against him.
Looking back on it, his love for Riley had been so naive. Even at war, and the "don’t ask, don’t tell" policy of the military at the time, Sam had thought that they were destined to get a fairytale ending. Maybe if Riley hadn’t died, they would have found that, and Sam would have gotten to live a quiet little life where he would have never met Steve Rogers and his annoying ass childhood best friend. Or maybe Riley and Sam were always doomed to fall in love quickly and burn up from the intensity of it. He would never know.
What he did know was that he didn’t have the same rose-tinted glasses as Bucky. Sam knew, given what he and Bucky did for a living, the likelihood of one or both of them dying before their time was more probable than not. But part of that invigorated Sam to want to spend every possible second he had with Bucky, because he would never know when their last one would be. Sam knew Bucky might never want or be ready for an actual romantic relationship. And that felt fine too, as long as he got to keep Bucky in his life. Sam let the photos close and gently put them back on the shelf as he moved to the kitchen to fix Bucky a glass of tea.
While the kettle boiled, he made his way into his room to change into new pajamas. As much as he adored Bucky, he didn't want to keep wearing a shirt that was covered with his tears and snot if he could help it. By the time he made it back out of the water and boiled it, he added it to a mug with the teabag, carrying it out to the living room. Flicking through the streaming service, trying to find something to watch as he sat and waited for Bucky.
“Hey,” Bucky said, hand twisted in the sleeves of his oversized crewneck. Sam hadn’t heard him approach, but that was typical Bucky, light as a cat on his feet. Sam held up the corner of the fluffy blanket he was under as an offering to Bucky to crawl under it with him. Bucky took him up on it, pressing up against him with his head against Sam’s chest. Sam ignored the way his wet hair dampened his shirt once again. It was worth it if it meant having Bucky this close.
They bickered halfheartedly back and forth for a while, trying to decide what to watch before eventually settling on a baking competition show. Sam knew that Bucky seemed to adore reality TV in any form for some inexplicable reason. Sam had long since stopped trying to fight it.
“Thank you," Sam whispered softly.
“Thank you?” Bucky repeated, sounding baffled.
Sam glanced over at him, keeping an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. “I never thought I would get closure for what happened to Riley, at least now I know the truth.”
Bucky looked up at him blue eyes wide, dark eyebrows brought together.
"What's going on in your robo brain now?" Sam taunted playfully.
“I don't understand what I did to deserve you. You’re a fucking angel, Sam Wilson.”
“An angel, huh?” Sam smiled at the redness that crept into Bucky's cheeks before he turned his attention back to the TV.
By the time the episode finished, Bucky had already fallen asleep, and Sam found himself overly invested in a cupcake competition. He brushed his fingers through Bucky's hair, earning a pleased hum and a metal hand wrapping around his waist. Sam concluded that it probably wouldn't hurt to watch another episode.