longing. [sambucky]

𝟖: just me & you

A cold breeze nipped at Bucky's skin and that's what woke him up. Not rapid breathing, sweating and a horrifying nightmare, but something as simple as air.

He was on his side, bathing in the morning light that seeped through the crappy motel blinds. His hands were in front on him, both metal and flesh, pressed against a firm chest, solid and radiating warmth. During moments like this, Bucky could almost forget a lifetime of torture, and the fact he was still on a mission, on his way to encounter Zemo. With a flutter of dark lashes, he opened his eyes to peer at the sleeping body before him. Sam.

He couldn't see his face but could feel warm breaths against his hair. Sam had his face buried in Bucky's curls while Bucky was essentially snuggled into his neck. The air between them was pleasant, smelling sweet but distinctly male. And he did not want to move.

The ex-assassin couldn't remember the last time he'd been touched, held. His mind was pleasantly quiet with Sam's strong arms wrapped around him like a protective blanket, shielding him from the horrors of the world: John Walker, androids, aliens and wizards.

Sam was merely a mortal man with nothing but blood running through his veins. Yet, Bucky didn't think he'd ever felt so safe. The voices in his head told him he didn't deserve it. He felt his throat tighten, his heart suddenly felt trapped, as if his ribcage cage was nothing but a prison. Bucky knew this was wrong, he lay with a man and was taking advantage of sharing a bed with... a colleague. Bucky couldn't remember his family much, just the undying guilt he felt in their presence. They'd be rolling around in their graves if they saw him in bed with a man, despite their innocent intentions. But Bucky didn't want Sam to go. He didn't want to go.

The heart-wrenching idea that this comfort would inevitably end made Bucky overwhelmed, something he couldn't remember feeling up until that point.

It raced through his body like painful electrical pulses that he couldn't control. Tears trickled down his heated cheeks, the flavour of salt piercing his taste buds. For the first time in months, years, Bucky felt human. Out of all their fights, battles and injuries that was what ached the most. Feeling human.

Pressing his face into Sam's shoulder, he tried to manage his trembling breaths and the hitching in his throat, but a sob broke past his lips, unrestrained. There was a jolt as Sam leant away from their embrace, Bucky went cold. He could feel Sam's eyes on him when he reached up and grabbed the material of his shirt, letting out an embarrassingly desperate sound.

"Hey," Sam repeated. "Hey, sh. It's okay."

Sam sat up against the headboard of the creaky bed, opening his mouth to speak. Bucky could do nothing but grab onto him again, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face into his side, cutting off whatever Sam was going to say. He dampened Sam's shirt as he cried into it with uncontrollable whimpers.
Sam didn't speak, didn't press Bucky to say anything at all.

Bucky didn't want to think about how pathetic he looked in that moment, in the humiliating position where he was clutching onto Sam like a lifeline, sobbing in his lap like a child. But, as always, the racing thoughts stopped when Sam touched him. He put a hand in his hair, carding through it gently.

Eventually, the cries subsided and Sam's touches stopped, but he kept his hand resting atop Bucky's head. To outsiders, they must have looked like a couple, like a couple of queers. Pathetic, Bucky thought. He loosened his grip on Sam's waist and forced himself to sit upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back to Sam, who spoke before he could move:

"Don't you dare."

"What?" Bucky asked.

"Don't block me out," Sam said, he didn't even raise his voice.

Bucky felt guilt twisting in his chest. He ducked his head, shoulders shaking with a trembling breath.

"I can't do this," Bucky admitted.

"Do what?"

Bucky didn't reply.

Sam let out a frustrated laugh, throwing his head back so it hit against the headboard softly. His laughing died down and he pressed his lips together, brow furrowed with a concentrated expression.

"It's because I'm not Steve, right?" Sam asked, though it didn't sound much like a question at all. It sounded as though he'd already made up his mind and he thought he was correct.

"Don't make this about him," Bucky hissed, sitting up rigidly.

"How can I not when-"

"It's got nothing to do with Steve!" Bucky interrupted.

"-you clearly just wanted somebody to comfort you, I knew that. And you can't have him and I'm here so-"

"Why won't you just-"

"-I know I'm not Steve but the least you could do is talk to me-"

"It's got nothing to do with Steve!" Bucky roared. "Steve never held me like you did! Steve never even held me! Steve didn't stay and you did! So, this is about me and you. Just me and you."

Sam swallowed audibly, still for a few moments before he shuffled across the creased bed sheets, sitting beside Bucky and letting their knees knock together. Cautiously, Sam placed his hand on top of Bucky's metal one, as if he hadn't even registered there was a difference between his metal arm and normal arm, like he didn't care he had one arm missing. Everybody else avoided his metal arm, they saw it as nothing but a weapon. But, of course, Sam was different.

Bucky couldn't feel much of his touch, just pressure. But it stang all the same.
Pulling his hand away from Sam's, Bucky looked down at the run-down carpet of the motel room, swallowing around the uncomfortable lump in his throat.

"But I... I still can't do this," Bucky croaked.

Sam didn't have to ask what he meant this time. Bucky prepared himself for the argument, the disagreement. Sam telling Bucky he was allowed to want, that he deserved it.

All Sam did was force a smile. One that looked almost painful as he whispered, "I know."