Sam set the bag on the table and looked around. The temporary accommodation rooms had been designed so that two people could live in them without feeling like they were trapped in a ping-pong ball. Couch, table and chairs, closet and drawers built into the wall, bathroom off to the side, single bed. It was bigger than a lot of places Sam had lived in and cleaner than most of the places they'd stayed in on the run, but Sam didn't relish living in it for the next foreseeable. It was a little too sterile for him to really feel comfortable. The small, high Windows didn't help. And no privacy without one of them leaving. And the single bed.
Bucky was standing just inside the door, looking at nothing again – not at Sam, not at the furniture or the gray carpet or the little windows, not at his own arms, crossed over his torso like he was protecting himself from something.
Sam was going to cry.
"Do you want a shower?" He said it because he had to say something, had to help do something, but Sam wanted to kick himself once the words were out of his mouth. Bucky would never use the word "trauma" or "torture" about himself, but when they were looking at apartments he didn't want to live somewhere with only a shower cubicle. "Sometimes," he'd said "When I'm rattled I get funny about having water on my face." Sam had put two and two together.
Bucky just gave a minute shake of his head, and again when Sam said, "It doesn't have to be a shower, you can just sponge off."
But Bucky did the little head shake to that, too, and if he let this go on Sam was going to end up bossing him into taking the shower, into doing whatever he thinks Bucky should be doing just because it’s going to make him, Sam, feel better.
“You have... stuff in your hair.”
The bathroom was small enough that they were right next to each other in front of the sink. This close, Sam could see that the stuff was on Bucky’s forehead, too. All he could tell was that it had dried clear. Sam spit on the cuff of his shirt and started to wipe it away as gently as he could. He thought about the corpse on their bathroom floor, and how Bucky had looked just as dead when he saw him, and the bloody thing lying next to him on the bedroom carpet, and the last time they had been in one of these rooms, standing by the sink. They had both been stripped to the waist, Bucky laughing, eager, still running high from the mission and taking any excuse to insinuate his crotch against Sam, who was this close to snapping that unlike some people he was just a regular human and it had been more than 24 hours since last time he woke up and the only thing his body could get excited about right now was hitting the mattress.
Sam had to run his hand through Bucky’s hair to flake the last of the stuff out of it. Bucky smelled like sweat and hospital linens and horrifyingly like sex. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance somewhere over Sam’s shoulder.
Sam reached in the clear plastic bag and held up the street of sedative in its wrapper. "If you want to take this, I want you to wake me up, okay? Any time. You can do it yourself if you want to. I’ll just talk you through it.”
Bucky jerked his head once. Yes.
“C’mon, Bucky, talk to me.”
Sam didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t Bucky saying, “I’m sorry about the pictures.”
“What?”
“Our service pictures.” Bucky mimed pulling something apart with his fingers. “Two tore them up before he – did me.”
Did me, fuck. “Bucky,” Sam said, trying hard to keep his voice calm and steady. “I don’t give a fuck about the pictures. I give a fuck about you. I love you.”
Sam had once gone along with a “plan” that consisted of him flying at the target holding Bucky by the straps on the back of his jacket, while Bucky fired some kind of laser gun that none of them really knew how to use or had seen before that afternoon. He had watched that awful Flash Gordon movie with Bucky without rolling his eyes once. He woke up next to Bucky every morning in their shabby one-bedroom. They shared a bank account and a bathroom sink. Of course Sam loved him.
"Can I hold you?"
One jerky nod.
Bucky felt like he always had. Same warmth, same span of shoulders in Sam’s arms. Sam gave himself one long moment, one wet, shaky exhalation into Bucky’s shoulder, before he made himself step back.
"You should... Do what you want." It sounded as stupid as I love you.
Re: No Saltwater Lake (8/?)
Bucky was standing just inside the door, looking at nothing again – not at Sam, not at the furniture or the gray carpet or the little windows, not at his own arms, crossed over his torso like he was protecting himself from something.
Sam was going to cry.
"Do you want a shower?" He said it because he had to say something, had to help do something, but Sam wanted to kick himself once the words were out of his mouth. Bucky would never use the word "trauma" or "torture" about himself, but when they were looking at apartments he didn't want to live somewhere with only a shower cubicle. "Sometimes," he'd said "When I'm rattled I get funny about having water on my face." Sam had put two and two together.
Bucky just gave a minute shake of his head, and again when Sam said, "It doesn't have to be a shower, you can just sponge off."
But Bucky did the little head shake to that, too, and if he let this go on Sam was going to end up bossing him into taking the shower, into doing whatever he thinks Bucky should be doing just because it’s going to make him, Sam, feel better.
“You have... stuff in your hair.”
The bathroom was small enough that they were right next to each other in front of the sink. This close, Sam could see that the stuff was on Bucky’s forehead, too. All he could tell was that it had dried clear. Sam spit on the cuff of his shirt and started to wipe it away as gently as he could. He thought about the corpse on their bathroom floor, and how Bucky had looked just as dead when he saw him, and the bloody thing lying next to him on the bedroom carpet, and the last time they had been in one of these rooms, standing by the sink. They had both been stripped to the waist, Bucky laughing, eager, still running high from the mission and taking any excuse to insinuate his crotch against Sam, who was this close to snapping that unlike some people he was just a regular human and it had been more than 24 hours since last time he woke up and the only thing his body could get excited about right now was hitting the mattress.
Sam had to run his hand through Bucky’s hair to flake the last of the stuff out of it. Bucky smelled like sweat and hospital linens and horrifyingly like sex. His eyes were fixed on the middle distance somewhere over Sam’s shoulder.
Sam reached in the clear plastic bag and held up the street of sedative in its wrapper. "If you want to take this, I want you to wake me up, okay? Any time. You can do it yourself if you want to. I’ll just talk you through it.”
Bucky jerked his head once. Yes.
“C’mon, Bucky, talk to me.”
Sam didn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t Bucky saying, “I’m sorry about the pictures.”
“What?”
“Our service pictures.” Bucky mimed pulling something apart with his fingers. “Two tore them up before he – did me.”
Did me, fuck. “Bucky,” Sam said, trying hard to keep his voice calm and steady. “I don’t give a fuck about the pictures. I give a fuck about you. I love you.”
Sam had once gone along with a “plan” that consisted of him flying at the target holding Bucky by the straps on the back of his jacket, while Bucky fired some kind of laser gun that none of them really knew how to use or had seen before that afternoon. He had watched that awful Flash Gordon movie with Bucky without rolling his eyes once. He woke up next to Bucky every morning in their shabby one-bedroom. They shared a bank account and a bathroom sink. Of course Sam loved him.
"Can I hold you?"
One jerky nod.
Bucky felt like he always had. Same warmth, same span of shoulders in Sam’s arms. Sam gave himself one long moment, one wet, shaky exhalation into Bucky’s shoulder, before he made himself step back.
"You should... Do what you want." It sounded as stupid as I love you.