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Friday.
There's a moment, mid-fight, when Sam sees the bullet from the corner of his eye, and thinks: that's odd, bullets move too fast to see.
But maybe that's when he's already on the ground, something ringing in his head. And then it's just Bucky leaning over him, screaming in that aggravating way he has, his face murderous.
Then everything goes black.
Tuesday.
He wakes up in a hospital room, and he thinks he's alone at first, but then there's movement next to him.
"Oh good, he lives," Bucky says, and sounds for all the world like he wishes it were the opposite.
"Uh, thanks?" Sam tries to move, but a jolt of pain across his eyes convinces him it's a bad idea.
"Yeah, I wouldn't do that. They said the bullet entered your thick head but not your brain, probably because you don't have one. They said that you're very lucky and would probably be dead like, if it had been a hair's breadth closer. The doctor actually used the words ‘hair's breadth', so I guess that's scientific." Bucky has a magazine in his hand. He throws it onto the side table and rises to his feet, scowls at Sam. "But I guess you won't die."
And then he's gone, and if those hospital room doors could be slammed Bucky probably would have slammed it. Instead Sam just has to watch it close in silent judgment.
"What," he asks no one in particular, "the hell was that?"
Thursday.
They discharge him the next week, finally. Sam thinks they're happy to get rid of him, although he doesn't blame them. Somehow someone leaks to the press that Captain America is in the hospital, and there's a bit of a fuss. Not that much, and Sam's forever grateful the world largely has superhero fatigue, but enough that it's probably inconveniencing a place that just wants to go on about its business saving lives.
In the wheelchair they force him into, Sam says, "Let me just call an Uber, don't think I can drive," but the nurse looks surprised.
"Bucky's waiting for you outside," she says, with a surprising air of familiarity in the way she says Bucky's name.
"Bucky? What's he doing here."
"He never really left," the nurse says, and he remembers her name is Jasmine; is shocked that he'd forgotten, it was only yesterday he'd asked for it.
Bucky's surly, stalking up to the wheelchair to take it from Jasmine. "I'll do it," he says.
Sam says, "No, I'm fine. I can wheel my own damned chair."
Jasmine looks alarmed. "You can't, actually. Hospital rules."
"You hear that? Hospital rules." Bucky pushes the chair with grim determination, and Sam really wants to protest, but also he's not entirely sure he has the arm strength just yet, so he keeps his mouth shut.
No-one says anything when Bucky basically just lifts Sam from the chair and carries him to the truck like he's a very light bag of groceries. A few people stop to stare, and Sam mutters, "Stop it, man."
"What, you want to walk?" He yanks open the passenger door he had just shut behind Sam. "Go on, give it your best shot."
Sam wants to do it, just to prove a point, is about to, but Bucky's eyes narrow and he slams the door shut again, daring Sam to open it. When Sam just stares, he nods and stalks over to the driver's side. His scowl lifts, briefly, and Sam can see him smile at Jasmine, at the doctors who had followed them out as well for some inexplicable reason.
Sam's too tired to care. He closes his eyes, and is only jerked awake when the truck rolls to a stop.
Bucky says, "I told Sarah and the boys you were fine, no need to come all the way to D.C. to visit, but you should call at some point. I'll set up a video link." His hand is on Sam's chest as Sam tries to get up. "Just stay."
Sam's halfway out the door by the time Bucky comes over, but then he tries standing on his feet and everything goes hazy.
"You're a fucking idiot," Bucky says, and again Sam finds himself in Bucky's arms, being carried like a small child or a Disney princess.
Everything hurts. "I thought I only got shot in the head," he says, grimacing as Bucky walks to the front door.
Bucky's face darkens even further. "You don't remember," he says, and it's a statement, not a question. "You free-falled. The only thing that saved you was the suit."
In the apartment, Bucky lays him down on his bed. The nurses had dressed him for discharge, but now Bucky methodically strips him down, ignores Sam's protests once again. "Up," he says, when Sam's down to his boxers. Sam lifts his arms, and Bucky slides a T-shirt over his head. He disappears for a bit after that, returns with pills and a glass of water.
"What are these?"
"Just take them."
Sam swallows dutifully, too dazed to argue. He lies back down onto the bed and stares up at Bucky's blank face. "You can go now, thanks. I'm good."
Bucky just shakes his head. "I'll be in the spare bedroom. Phone's on the nightstand. You know my number."
Then he's gone.
Sam glances over at the clock: It's only 5pm, but the meds must be kicking in, because he can't keep his eyes open, and everything goes dark in less than a minute.
Friday.
Bucky catches him in the living room, jerks his head in the direction of the couch. "Sit. Or back to bed. You have two choices."
"Where's my shield? I need to -"
"No, you need to sit your ass down. The doctor told me -"
"You spoke to my doctor?"
The doctor had said, before she discharged Sam: "You need to rest, Mr. Wilson. No strenuous activity for at least a month. The longer the better."
"Define strenuous activity," Sam replied, already thinking about what he had to do. What was left undone. The people that shot him had escaped, and Sam knew they were plotting something big.
"No, I meant. No flying. Or Avenging."
"I don't think that's gonna be possible, doc."
She only frowned, and then muttered something under her breath. Sam pretended not to hear her.
"Yeah, she said you need rest," Bucky says now. "So what do you need?"
"The bad guys -"
"I'll take care of it."
Sam narrows his eyes at Bucky, ignores that there seems to be two of him, and both are blurry. Bucky crosses his arms over his chest. "You know I can take you even when you're one hundred per cent right? That's kind of how I work."
"You could not."
"You want to test me, Samuel?"
And maybe Sam would, another day. Not now though. Now there are three of Bucky, not two, and he knows when he's defeated. He sits heavily on the couch, then lies down on it.
A few minutes later, a blanket is thrown unceremoniously on him. "I'm making breakfast."
"Mmm. I could use some bacon and eggs."
"I get bacon and eggs. You get oatmeal."
"Seriously?"
But there's no arguing with Bucky. Sam eats the oatmeal, if only because Bucky threatens to force-feed him if he doesn't. Said like he means it, and Sam believes him.
Friday.
"The guys that tried to kill us," Bucky says.
"What about them?"
"I took care of it."
"What do you mean you took care of it."
"I mean I took care of it." He sniffs, and he still looks angry all the damn time, and Sam can't figure out why, but his head is too muddled to ponder too hard about it. "No, I didn't kill them. I'm disappointed you would think that."
"I didn't say anything," Sam points out, and he hadn't. Nor had he thought it.
Bucky pauses. "I wanted to," he says, and he sits down on the coffee table, in front of where Sam's lying bundled up on the couch. "They almost killed you, and I wanted them dead. I had to call Dr. Raynor. She told me I should find other ways to express my feelings besides lashing out. I think she's wrong, but whatever."
"Buck -" They were just kids, this is what Sam remembers. Not the Flag Smashers, but some other group.
Another group, another grievance he doesn't quite disagree with, another day wondering: is he on the wrong side? Then the shooting started, and it had all gone to hell.
"No. I've decided you don't get to call me Buck anymore."
"What? Why?" Sometimes Sam feels like all he does is go two steps forward and then two steps back with the man. One week everything is cool, and the next Bucky's frowning like he wants to murder Sam, like he wishes Sam were someone else.
Sam is rarely convinced he doesn't.
Hell, he himself is not often convinced that the shield doesn't belong to someone else still.
Did Steve ever have to put up with bullshit bureaucracy and trying to save lives while still somehow failing to keep his finances afloat? Sam doesn't know. Captain America also doesn't get paid all that much. Not an official member of any military agency. Just a guy in a fancy vibranium suit and a shield who calls himself Captain.
Sam shivers, and thinks he needs to get better soon. He can't just lie here, waiting to recover. He gets himself up onto his forearms somehow, but is almost immediately thwarted by Bucky, pushing him back onto the couch with nothing but the tips of his vibranium fingers. "You're not getting up," he says, face schooled into professional disinterest. "Doctor's orders."
"Doctor doesn't know -"
"Samuel. This is never going to go the way you want it to go, so maybe don't even try."
"If I don't get to call you Buck, you don't get to call me Samuel," Sam snaps, immediately regretting the force of his words as a spike of pain winds up his neck.
"Fine, I'll call you whatever you want. Just stay down."
Thursday.
Sam jerks awake, and it's dark. He's not in his bedroom, but he reaches automatically for a weapon, braces himself for attack.
"Hey," a voice says, and Sam relaxes. Bucky’s body is a silhouette at a doorway of what Sam finally recognizes as his own living room. "You fell asleep, and I didn't want to wake you."
Sam rubs his face wearily, tugs at his sweaty T-shirt.
"You were having a nightmare." It's a statement, not a question, but Sam denies it anyway.
"No, I only have nice, soothing dreams." He lies back down on the couch, closes his eyes in exhaustion. What was he dreaming about again? Karli. Small child with big dreams. She could have been his sister, maybe. Instead she's dead.
A warm hand on his forehead. "Well, you don't have a fever," Bucky says. "That's good. It's time for your meds anyway. Then I'll take you back to bed."
"I can walk," Sam replies.
"No."
Sam doesn't argue. He takes the medicine dutifully, and then allows Bucky to carry him to the bedroom, tuck him into bed. "Why can't you just help me instead of carrying me," Sam asks.
"Why? You don't weigh anything to me."
"Protect my manhood, maybe."
"Yeah," Bucky says, and the first time in a while there's a hint of a smile on his face. "I promise to still respect you in the morning. Samuel."
Sam flips him the finger before the pills take him out, closes his eyes to Bucky's exasperated grunt.
Friday.
Better is relative. Sam sleeps, and then he wakes up.
Bucky is usually there. He helps Sam to the bathroom: Sam insists he can at least clean himself, and Bucky, mercifully, doesn't argue.
Then Bucky dresses his head wound, and it's ugly, Sam can see that. "Maybe you could get the Wakandans to heal me with their fancy tech."
"Why? So you can try to kill yourself again?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Bucky just growls as if anything he said makes sense. He throws a soiled gauze in the trash, picks up the new one. He always redresses Sam's wound with a competence that smacks of some experience.
"Where'd you learn how to do that," Sam asks.
"The Winter Soldier couldn't exactly drop in to a hospital if he was injured and there was no Hydra base around. I was taught to take care of my own wounds."
"What happens if they were in places you couldn't reach."
"Then I just bled." This said without emotion, and Sam stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. "You're done," he continues. "Come on, I'll take you back to bed."
"I don't need to be carried." It's a futile attempt, but Sam tries anyway. "You're enjoying my helplessness, aren't you."
There's a vaguely amused cast on Bucky's face, but he only says, "If it makes you feel better, sure. Believe that."
Thursday.
A doctor's visit. Bucky drives, and somehow is allowed into the examining room with Sam. "He's not my next of kin," Sam points out.
"Actually -" and the doctor clears her throat. "Well. It's good to have someone here. You have a head injury Mr. Wilson. You need care."
"Then get someone else." Sam grips the edges of the examining table. "Call the VA or something."
Bucky exchanges a look with the doctor, and Sam realizes they're going to ignore him, that he's being handled.
"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself," Sam grouses.
"Of course you are," the doctor says, as Bucky snorts.
His wound is redressed, an MRI done, and by the time they're finished Sam can't even fight with Bucky, he's so out of it.
In the truck, Bucky asks, uncharacteristically reserved. "You want some actual food? I'll order something."
"Okay," Sam says, too drained to even suggest a cuisine.
Bucky orders Japanese in the end, and when Sam can't handle the chopsticks he doesn't go and get forks, instead he just uses his own, starts putting food to Sam's mouth. "Open and swallow," Bucky says, when Sam just stares.
Sam does as he's told.
Monday.
He wakes up in a cold sweat, heart thudding in his chest. Movement, and Bucky's at the door. "Water," Sam manages to say.
Bucky nods and disappears. He returns with the water and puts it to Sam's lips.
Sam just drinks, and doesn't say anything when Bucky lifts the covers and slides in behind him, wraps an arm around his waist.
Wednesday.
Bucky discovers that Sam has a bathtub in the spare, mostly unused bathroom. He tilts his head at Sam: "Should have told me earlier. I spent the whole day cleaning this place, could have used a bath."
Sam can only shrug. "Thanks," he has to say, because he knows Bucky spends a lot of time making the apartment as spotless as Sam usually keeps it.
Bucky sweeps, mops, wipes down surfaces without complaint, and it's surreal; this is the Winter Soldier, a man who strikes fear in the hearts of dangerous men just at the mention of his name. But here he is, and sometimes Sam can hear him humming under his breath, some tune that is decidedly not from the 40s. Sam suspects it might be Taylor Swift, but if he mentions it to Bucky Bucky might stop, so he's just going to hold that for another day.
"Feel free to use it, if you want."
Bucky looks thoughtful. "You could use one, I think."
Sam wants to argue, but there's nothing he can do nowadays to dissuade Bucky from doing whatever he feels like, whatever he thinks is "best for Sam's recovery." It's bullshit, clearly, and Sam thinks he's going to whup Bucky's ass once he can stand for longer than five minutes without falling down, but for now he just shrugs.
Bucky fills the water with bubble bath, strips Sam down and helps him into the tub. Sam leans back and closes his eyes, thinks to ask, "Is that lavender?"
"It was on sale."
Sam cracks open an eye, and Bucky's just standing there awkwardly. "What, man. You want to join me? Tub's big enough for two."
It's a joke. But maybe it's not. Maybe it's inevitable, this. Bucky pulling off his jacket, T-shirt, boots, jeans. He pauses at his underwear, briefly, but then slides them off in one smooth motion. There's no expression on his face.
Sam averts his gaze, but is unsure why. He moves so Bucky can slip in behind him, but Bucky chooses to sit facing him instead, his bent knees in between Sam's.
“Bucky," Sam says. "That's a little close, don't you think."
Instead of replying, Bucky just scoots forward with a limited kind of grace, raises himself half out of the tub, and kisses him.
So.
In a million years, if you'd asked him, he would never have been able to guess that at any moment in time, he'd be lying in a warm bath, skin to skin with a guy with a metal arm who's tried to kill him several times.
Bucky's body is unnaturally warm as he shimmies against Sam, warmer than the water it seems. Sam can barely breathe.
He doesn't look at Sam, instead his gaze is concentrated at a spot behind Sam's head.
"Hey," Sam says. "Hey. Look at me, Buck."
Bucky finally locks his gaze with Sam's, but only briefly, before he leans forward and kisses him again. Sam wraps his arms around his waist, and Bucky shudders. When they break apart there's a small smile playing on Bucky's face. It feels like it's been weeks. Sam traces the line of Bucky's lips with his thumb, and Bucky says, "I'm not actually sure the doctor gave the green light for sex."
"A bit too late for that now, isn't it."
"Yeah," Bucky agrees. He presses his face into the crook of Sam's neck, but holds himself up above Sam with his arms gripped against the sides of the tub. Sam pulls him down so their bodies touch again, and Bucky moans against his skin.
Friday.
Things get better. Bucky walks around less like a bear with a nail in its foot, doesn't look like he's about to snap at the drop of a hat.
He tells Sam, casually, "Doctor says sex should be fine, but nothing too athletic."
Sam decides to let slide Bucky calling his doctor to talk about his sex life. "So just lie there and take it, huh," he says, wry.
Bucky shrugs. "I could ride you, if you like."
Sam's mouth goes dry.
Saturday.
They fuck, a lot. Mostly on the couch, sometimes on the bed.
Bucky rides him, or fucks him, but either way he's holding Sam down, deliberately, so Sam can hardly move. Sam can't stop touching Bucky, though, traces his fingers down his arms, his chest. He jerks Bucky off and Bucky always reacts like he hasn't been touched in years, his mouth falling open as he curls in on himself. "Hey, I'm here," Sam says, and Bucky nods, clutches at Sam's other wrist.
Whenever Bucky goes down on him, it makes his vision turn black. It can't be good for his health. He mutters something about it to Bucky, who only smiles, his lips swollen and wet, and lowers his head again.
"When I get better I'm going to fuck you so hard you won't be able to walk for a week," he tells Bucky, in all seriousness.
Bucky pulls away briefly. "Jeez, man. You kiss your sister with that mouth? You know, considering I'm the super soldier here, it'll probably be the other way around, but you're welcome to give it a try, Cap."
It's the Cap that does it, really. He grabs Bucky by the hair, and it's probably just Bucky's surprise that keeps him from easily pulling away. A few jerks with his own hand is all it takes and then he's coming, hot on Bucky's face.
Bucky blinks, exhales. He looks completely wrecked, but it doesn't seem to bother him. Instead he crawls up Sam's body until their faces are inches apart. "Hey," he says, and he's so close Sam can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell his own come. "Lick it off."
Sam doesn't reply, just does what he's told.
Monday.
"You're doing great, Mr. Wilson," the doctor says.
Sam's not surprised; he's been feeling much better. It doesn't hurt to move anymore, and he can actually walk without falling down. Yesterday, he’d even gone for a jog, even though Bucky groused at him for a bit. But if you don't strive, you don't get better. And all he's been doing is laying about, letting his muscles atrophy, letting Bucky take care of him.
Or rather: Letting Bucky bully him into being taken care of.
The sex makes up for most of it though, and it's so easy to slip into this rhythm of normalcy, where they're just two guys living together, cooking meals, watching tv, going for long walks in the evening, ostensibly so that Sam can build up his strength but mostly because the weather's lovely and he likes it when Bucky buys an ice cream sandwich from a street vendor and they share, fingers rapidly becoming sticky as it melts.
It's an illusion, but it's nice. Bucky's easy smile is nice, almost as if they were back in Delacroix again and nothing much mattered but family and the sea air.
At some point, Sam had been glad to get out of the military, happy to stay out; till today he couldn't give anyone an answer if they'd asked him what the wars he fought in were for.
But now he's Captain America, and that has weight.
Bucky's silent, driving back from the hospital. "Don't push yourself," he says.
Sam's not quite sure what he means, so he doesn't reply.
Friday.
The first mission back, and already he's in trouble. Some asshole says something stupid and Sam kicks him, and he goes flying into a helicopter which starts to crash, and Sam only just manages to avoid its rotating blades by flying up into the night sky, and then the explosion sends him adrift for a hot second before he manages to get control of the wings and come back down onto a nearby building.
More bad guys there, and Bucky, but Bucky's only staring at him, mouth agape. Sam has to take half of them down by himself before Bucky manages to get his act together and reengage, but when they're standing with their backs together is when the yelling starts.
"What is wrong with you."
"Excuse me?"
"You could have died just now." He's spitting out the words as if they'd been buried there for ages, waiting to emerge. Someone makes the mistake of trying to approach them with a gun, and Bucky just tears it away from him as if handling a small child and puts him down before continuing his tirade. "I can't be watching out for stupid ass every time you do something stupid. Do you have a death wish or something?"
"Says the man who always runs head first into the dumbest situations without thinking about it."
"Yeah well, I die less easily, what's your excuse?"
Sam opens his mouth to say something, but then something explodes behind them, and the conversation gets shelved.
Sunday.
Bucky's back to sulking: he bangs things and slams doors and shoots Sam angry glares. It's a thing that comes so natural to him Sam has to wonder how Steve put up with it for so long without smacking the shit out of him. That Steve was a sickly runt for most of their relationship probably had something to do with it.
He decides to ignore it, and they're too busy anyway: things had gone somewhat sideways since Captain America was taken out of commission for close to a month. Costa Rica. Paris. New York. And at the end of the day or the morning or whenever they can catch a break, they're both too tired to speak, just fall into a kind of exhausted lull.
Wednesday.
It's in Beirut that Bucky loses it. Sam doesn't even know what he's done: just normal stuff. He survives with a gash on his cheek, but it'll heal.
Except Bucky's basically screaming at him, and Sam's just about had enough.
"I just don't understand why you're so mad," he snaps, turning to walk away, but Bucky grabs him by the arms and pulls him back.
"Don't, Bucky," Sam warns. He doesn't want to fight.
"Don't what."
"This. Don't do this. Whatever it is you've gotten into your crazy robot head. Just don't."
Bucky bares his teeth, and Sam sighs loudly, exasperated to breaking point. "Let go of me, or I swear I will hit you."
"Go to hell," Bucky says, but he lets go. Sam starts walking away, but then Bucky calls out to him. "Your problem is that you're reckless. You take risks you don't have to, you put your own life on the line unnecessarily, and for what? We just lost one Captain America and you think - what, the world should lose another?"
Ah, and now it makes sense. Sam stops, turns back and rolls his head. "So, it's about Steve then? You're mad because you lost him and now you think if I go the shield goes?"
Bucky stills, and Sam thinks he's stopped breathing. When he speaks, it's low, tight: "You," he says. "Are the biggest fucking idiot in the whole goddamned world. And I know from idiots."
Then he turns, and stalks away.
Thursday.
They stop speaking.
Bucky's still living with him, and Sam won't say anything about it because whatever their beef, Bucky shouldn't be alone. And in truth, Sam doesn't want to be alone anymore either.
But Bucky mostly grunts when Sam asks for something, and Sam grunts in return when Bucky does the same.
It's awful, and Sam just wants it to stop. On missions,Torres relays messages between the two of them like he would rather be anywhere, just anywhere else on Earth. Like he would rather be blipped.
Sam can't blame him: he often feels like he would rather be blipped too, nowadays.
But then one morning, as Bucky is scrambling eggs and Sam is at the kitchen counter drinking apple juice, Bucky says, quiet: "Do you want to die, or is it just that you don't think your life is worth anything."
"Buck, what the hell are you going on about?" Sam's exhausted, tired of this. Tired of Bucky, tired of everything.
But Bucky just keeps talking like Sam hadn't even spoken. "When I was the Winter Soldier, I didn't care either. I just did whatever needed to be done, no matter what happened. Even super soldiers have limits, and I blew past them all the damn time. I think Hydra thought it was because they'd programmed me so well I would do anything to complete the mission. But that wasn't true. I didn't want to die, but I didn't particularly want to live, either."
"I don't want to die, don't be ridiculous." But he thinks of Riley, falling out of the sky and Sam unable to catch him. He thinks of Nat dying alone on another planet, of Karli's small, broken body. She'd weighed nothing; she was a feather, could turn to dust like he had. Lagos. All the people he couldn't save.
"You almost died, Sam. And you brush it off like it's meaningless. If I hadn't been there you would have just walked it off and gone back and gotten yourself dead."
"But I didn't," Sam points out.
"I can't -" Bucky puts down the spatula, turns off the stove. He leans against the kitchen counter and his face is something Sam's never seen before. "It's not about the shield and it's not about Steve. He's gone, and the shield is what it is. Look, I don't have -" He pauses, and looks like he's steeling himself. "I had nothing, for so long. And now I have - or I think I have, sometimes -"
"That's not something you should doubt," Sam interrupts.
"But it's not about me, though. I'm not overreacting - you know."
Sam can only stare at his hands. "We're soldiers, Buck. Putting our lives at risk is part of the job. I don't know what you want me to say." He doesn't want to have this conversation. Cannot believe Bucky is throwing this at him. This man, of all men. It's aggravating.
Bucky snorts. "You are so full of shit. So full of shit. You know what, I'm done."
And at that, Sam looks up. "What do you mean you're done?"
"Nothing," Bucky says, and he looks defeated. "I can't deal with your denial right now. I'm going to go for a walk."
He doesn't come back until late, close to 3am. Sam listens as he takes his coat off, throws the keys on the coffee table. He expects Bucky's heavy tread to pass by his room, but instead the footsteps stop just outside it. Stubbornly, Sam doesn't turn, but then Bucky's on the bed, sliding his arm around Sam's chest as he presses against his back.
"We doing this again," Sam asks, but it's not a question. He's already turning around, pushing Bucky onto his back. That he wants Bucky despite all the arguing is not up for debate: He wants Bucky, always. "Hey, I made you a promise, right."
In response, Bucky only wriggles out of his grasp, shifts until he's on his belly. Sam drags Bucky's shirt up, lays a kiss on the small of his back. Bucky shivers, makes the quietest of noises in the back of his throat.
Things get hazy, after that.
Friday.
Over breakfast, Bucky says, "I can still walk."
"Guess I'll just have to try again."
"No, it's my turn."
Sam just smiles in response, not at all displeased.
But then Bucky says: "Let me take you somewhere, tomorrow."
"Where," Sam asks warily. "The last time you told me that we ended up in Zemo's garage after you'd committed a felony."
"Trust me?"
"Always."
Bucky's surprised start makes Sam's throat tighten.
Saturday.
"I can still walk," Sam says, as they get into the truck. It hurts a little to sit though, not that he'll give Bucky the satisfaction.
Bucky somehow notices, and asks, "Do you need one of those inflatable pillows or something?"
"Just drive, man. Before I change my mind."
It's hours. They stop for lunch, some diner where no-one recognizes them, eat greasy cheeseburgers and drink probably the worst coffee Sam's ever had in his life. The chili cheese fries are decent though. He fights Bucky over the last fry; Bucky wins, but then leans over and offers it to Sam.
Sam just takes it, unthinking.
"You know," Bucky says, "you're really much more fun when you're helpless and can only open your mouth for certain things."
"Come on," Sam says, throwing a wadded up napkin at him. "Let's go before it gets dark. Wherever we're going."
They reach the cemetery close to evening, and Sam's already figured out where they are by the time they leave the truck. He'd paid for the grave, wanted to ship the body back to where she was born, but it was impossible. Bureaucracy and some vaguely horrifying thing about the serum in her body, so this was the next best place, unknown to everyone except Sam.
"How did you -"
"Eh, I have my ways."
Karli Morgenthau was only 19 years old. She died as she lived: without fear. Sam could only put her first name on the gravestone.
"Why are we here, Bucky," Sam asks, after he's had time to put himself together again. "You want to warn me?"
"No, hardly that. You want some tough love?"
"Not really, but I don't think I have a choice."
Bucky says: "I'm not Captain America, I don't do big speeches. And I think you already know - you push yourself beyond the brink because it makes you feel a little less guilty about being alive. But," and here he inhales. "People need you alive, Sam. I need you alive. So just, get your shit together and stop being a dumbass."
Sam slides his hands into his jacket pockets. "That's not a very good speech, Buck."
"I told you I'm not Captain America."
"Yeah, but I am. And I -" he turns his head away from Bucky, sighs. "I don't know. Sometimes I think if I stop I won't want to start again. That I'm just holding on as it is."
The truth is: Sam's used to giving advice; used to telling people what they need to hear to make them feel better, or be better. It's not that he thinks he's some kind of healer, everything he ever told anyone comes from experience, from living it. But if he doesn't walk the talk, then who is he? Just some asshole telling people how to live their lives.
"You're really good at keeping people together, Sam. Maybe you can think about yourself once in a while. It's okay to be selfish." He pauses. "Except when it comes to hoarding the covers. That's just wrong."
"Maybe," Sam says. And so maybe - maybe Bucky's right, and maybe that's a start.
He nudges Bucky with his elbow as they head back to the truck, says, "Not a very good talk."
"Fuck you, Samuel."
"Later, for sure."
Bucky laughs, and so yeah: maybe that's a start.