#yearnmaxxing

guh

THE YEARNINGGGG

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Sam was bleeding.

It wasn’t anything serious. He was Captain goddamn America, okay, he had experienced worse, he would experience worse again someday. At least he could still walk.

There was blood all over the sheets of the shitty motel bed, though. Not ideal. (The poor cleaners.)

The gaping, ugly wound over his ribcage might have made someone else pass out. But not Sam. He just set to work sewing himself back up. It was easy enough – he had medical training; he’d been on the run and unable to visit a hospital before. It didn’t require much. A needle, some thread, a borrowed cloth now stained beyond saving. And he was phenomenally fast at it – well, he certainly was when he was stitching someone else up. This was, admittedly, a little worse. Something strange swam in his stomach at the sight of his own blood seeping through his fingers.

“Ow,” he hissed.

“Jesus,” said Bucky, from the doorway of the bathroom. He was freshly showered, bringing a cloud of heavy humidity and the tang of cheap soap with him into the remainder of the room.

“Not my name, sweetheart,” said Sam, because it amused him to say this. Bucky didn’t seem to agree. He walked across the room, light on his feet, to where Sam was sitting on the edge of the bed. And then he knelt.

Sam blinked rapidly. He wasn’t losing that much blood, surely – surely he wasn’t imagining things. Because Bucky – yes, Bucky was on his knees, looking up at him with gentle, sad eyes, his mouth downturned. He reached up, covering Sam’s hand with his own.

“Let me,” he said. It sounded like the first half of a sentence that neither of them dared to finish.

“No, I – I got this.”

The divot between Bucky’s brows deepened. “No hiding, Sam.”

“It’s not hiding,” Sam said, but his voice was trembling.

“C’mon,” whispered Bucky, squeezing Sam’s hand, once. “Let me.”

Breathing deeply, Sam handed the needle to Bucky. His gaze wandered to the wall. There were marks all over it, and a missing chunk of plaster where a past occupant had punched it. He wondered what happened. He wondered if they were alone when it did. He wondered if their knuckles were still bruised from the force of it.

“Since when do you know how to do this?” he asked, still looking at the wall.

“Used to stitch myself up,” said Bucky, “sometimes.”

Sam glanced at his ribs. The stitches were efficient, well-placed. A bit messy, but they were getting the job done.

“Not too shabby.”

“But not as good as yours?” said Bucky, a hint of a smile to his voice.

Sam chuckled – then immediately winced. Ouch. “Never as good as mine.”

“We can’t all be perfect, angel boy.”

Perfect, thought Sam. I don’t think I ever have been. He frowned, looking back at the wall. There was a spider slowly descending from the ceiling, a thin string of web its only lifeline. It swayed precariously.

“Done.”

“Hm?” He looked back to where Bucky was tying off the stitches and clearing the bloodied cloth out of the way. He didn’t move from his position, though. He stayed there, kneeling, looking up at Sam like—like—

Sam didn’t even know what. But the air felt… thick. 

“When’s the last time someone else stitched you up?” Bucky asked. He was still speaking in that breathy, low tone, like he was afraid something might shatter if he raised his voice.

“I don’t know,” admitted Sam. “Years, probably.”

His answer seemed to physically wound Bucky. For a moment, Sam was worried he might cry. Instead, he just lifted his left hand; touched a single finger to the side of the wound. Sam shivered from the cold touch of the metal.

“Is there anything else I can do?” Bucky said, watching the way Sam’s ribcage rose and fell with each breath. The question, for some reason, made Sam want to slam his head against a wall. He’d heard it often, but in all the wrong places. Never when he needed it. And never like this.

It affected Sam’s thinking, evidently, because he found himself saying, “You could kiss it better.”

Bucky’s eyes widened, flying to Sam’s face as if searching for understanding and only finding a mirror of his own shocked expression.

… Why did he say that?

No, seriously, why did he say that?!

Oh fuck, Sam had ruined his closest relationship. It was over. No more friends-and/or-partners-turned-roommates. Bucky was going to move out imminently without a single goodbye. Sam would have to change his name and permanently relocate. To a space station. In another galaxy. Or even better, in another universe. (Turns out there were plenty of those knocking about.)

But then Bucky looked down at the stitched-up wound; at the bruises and scrapes around it; at the line of Sam’s hips carving a path towards his waistband. His throat bobbed.

And he lowered his head.

It was barely a kiss. A mere brush of lips, fragile and fleeting, to the sensitive skin beside the injury.

If you told Sam it was a heart attack, he wouldn’t have known the difference.

The air wasn’t just thick anymore, it was suffocating. It was no longer air that you breathed, but air that you drowned in. Sam could hear his heartbeat in his ears, could feel every drop of blood rushing in his veins, could sense the tiniest bead of sweat forming on his forehead.

Bucky looked up at him and his eyes were hazy, a little desperate. “Where else hurts?”

Sam silently pointed at the centre of his chest. He wasn’t lying. It ached and ached. He didn’t think it was possible for it to hurt so much.

“Okay,” said Bucky, and he shifted, getting into a more comfortable position. He stared at Sam’s chest, his jaw set, then glanced back at his face to confirm, “Here?”

“Mhm.”

He leaned in, pressing his mouth right over Sam’s heart. Sam wondered if he could feel how fast it was beating. Then again – he was a super soldier. Perhaps he already knew.

Bucky let his lips linger a little longer than before, then pulled back. It seemed to take visible effort for him to drag his eyes away. “Better?” he said.

Swallowing, Sam gave a single nod. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it, doll.”

And he didn’t. Neither did Bucky.

… But Sam couldn’t deny it anymore. Something had changed.

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screaming crying shitting throwing up