Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It wasn't that Sam missed the sky exactly, only that living at the top of the cliffs meant not taking much time to consider how to come back up them after heading down. They'd been lucky living at the monastery: the downhill villagers would cart up supplies, would take back eggs and dishes and carefully stitched overclothes, and the only monks who pedaled up and down the steep hill they sat on were the traveling midwives and their merry band of assorted healers, the visitors, and, of course, the tea monks. They didn't come often, hardly ever at all, but the ones that did never commented on the effort it took to do so; they'd always had strong, muscular calves and a practiced, confident form about their movements despite their heavy tea carts weighing them down, so maybe it wasn't as effortful as Sam had imagined or probably it just didn't register after that many miles on the road.

Sam hadn't been at it that long. Two months out of his apprenticeship and his calves still ached when the feeling finally returned to his wobbly legs hours after settling in for the evening, he still hadn't figured out how steep a hill had to be before coming up off the saddle or how steep it had to be before he had to sit back down and pray he wasn't going to topple over, he still used the bike's mechanical assistance more regularly than he liked, and he still hadn't been on his own long enough to encounter all the different terrains he knew he'd come up against at some point. It had gotten cold at the monastery, with its chilly coastal winds and fog-clouded mornings, but never enough to keep ice on the ground the next day. It had gotten muddy, that strange combination of sand and water and broken seashells and exoskeletons that couldn't exactly be called mud but didn't have another name, and it had gotten chilly, but Sam had never seen snow.

It had been cold when Riley fell, colder than normal and foggier too, and Sam had run down after him without any thought of how to get back up; they'd carried him back up without him noticing, cleaned grit and blood and a small shard of glass from beneath his torn fingernails, and the water had been so cold his hands stayed numb through it all.

Record lows, they'd said. Black ice, they'd called it, and it'd stayed around a little longer than normal but there still hadn't been any snow.

Maybe they'd've been more careful if there'd've been and maybe they'd both still be in midwifery, or maybe they'd have made the switch anyway 'cause Sam always said it was a great choice for nosy people and Riley had a knack for collecting all the best gossip, or maybe nothing would have changed at all but Sam would have known what to do to get enough traction under his wheels to get out of the ditch he'd just toppled into 'cause the snow was too deep to see where the road ended and dead grass began.

None of that had happened though, so he's stuck standing six paces away from the little dent in the snow where he'd fallen on his ass twice trying to push the heavy cart out of the ditch. He's tired, cold, a little hungry, and at this point it's not worth doing anything more than finding enough dry kindling to get a small fire going so that he can make tea.

"Well," he huffs out, glaring at the ditch one last time for good measure then turning to begin the trudge before he wastes any more daylight.

They might not have had snow at the monastery, but they'd had the sea and the forests behind them and at the very least, Sam knew how to pick dry wood. A worthy skill, if there were any dry wood to be had. It takes more than a half hour plodding ever-deeper into the woods to find enough that he won't have to go back out if some of it doesn't take, and longer still to stuff his pack with enough twigs and needles and probably-not-going-to-explode rocks to keep it going. The pack's heavy and tugging at his shoulder by the time he's headed back, but not so much that he can't draw enough breath to spare for the simple choral song he sings to keep himself company, and he's almost looking forward to being sore somewhere besides his legs. Overbalanced as he is, he almost misses the figure slumped over by the riverbank just off to his left.

"Hey," he calls out, stretching onto the tips of his toes to try to see better and sending out a series of short, piercing, melodic whistles, knowing that this particular style won't be recognized this far from home and hoping it distinguishes him from a potential threat regardless.

The figure doesn't move, doesn't even twitch.

He continues whistling as he approaches the bank, relaxing into a lower, lengthier melody instead and hoping for the best.

The figure does straighten and turn as he approaches, close enough that it becomes clear Sam will walk right into them if he doesn't change path, close enough that Sam can see that the figure is not a person. The robot is humanoid, definitely, detailed enough that they were likely used in some pre-revolution human-facing role, with thick-woven fibers simulating hair tied back with a serviceable strip of hemp cord and too-short eyelashes over eyes that don't blink while they stare at each other in silence.

They do blink, eventually, like maybe they're remembering some long-forgotten protocol for interacting with humans that only came back after watching Sam do it for a solid minute.

"Hey," he says again, somewhat uselessly, not entirely sure where to go from here; his help clearly isn't needed, he's probably in their space actually, but he can't just not acknowledge them and turn back.

They nod, slow but not jerky, but don't speak. Sam wonders whether they can. This close he can see the faded serial number stamped in small, neat numbers on the right side of their torso, and all the dings and dents and scratches surrounding it. Made for a weapons manufacturing group then, if he remembers his history, probably for testing as well as assembly based on the shape of their hands and the worn-through paint on their shoulders where a rifle'd be braced.

"Hello," they say eventually, when it becomes clear Sam isn't going to speak.

"Are you- okay?" he asks dumbly, idly wondering whether the ice is thick enough that he could at least break his neck trying to dive into the frozen river if he couldn't manage breaking through to drown himself in something other than his own awkwardness.

"Yes. Are you?"

Sam thinks for a moment. He is, sort of. Mostly. He's got dry wood and tea waiting on him, and if he's careful not to blow up the rocks he can warm his blankets rather than stack them and pray he doesn't suffocate under their weight, and the last village he'd stopped in had given him a tin full of dried fruits he's been looking forward to since he started pedaling up the hill that'd gotten him into this situation. Still.

"Yeah, I'm okay. Just kinda stuck."

"I am too."

"You can't get up?" Sam asks, shocked. They're easily twice his weight but if he put down his bundle he could probably help them up, and it probably wouldn't take long enough to let the branches get so wet that he couldn't just cut off the outer bark, and anyway they could probably-

Just stand up, apparently.

Sam isn't a short man but thinks he might finally understand a bit of his sister's plight when the robot stands, not quite towering over him but enough that he has to tilt his head to look them in the eyes.

They don't blink again. Maybe they've forgotten. Maybe Sam hasn't given enough indication that it matters for them to.

They also don't speak, even as the silence draws out between them and Sam shifts his weight to take some of the strain off his shoulder.

"I thought you were stuck," he says and wants to smack himself almost immediately after. He's probably the first person to have had contact with the robots since they revolted at the factories and disappeared into the wilderness and he's doing a piss-poor job at the ambassadorship he hadn't even considered signing up for.

"I am. Aren't you?"

"Yeah, my- cart. Didn't realize I went off the road until I couldn't get back on it. But you're- stuck?"

Maybe he should turn around, go back to the monastery. The infants had no room to judge him for not being able to speak.

"Yes, here. I-," they hesitate, and it's probably just Sam projecting the far-away expression in their eyes but they do make a strange, aborted twitching gesture like maybe they were going to point to where they needed to be, "don't know where I'm supposed to be."

Now, Sam'd always been a bit impulsive. Foolhardy even, when they were younger. Trusting and compassionate and confident in his own abilities when they'd gotten older. It'd made him a good midwife, a good apothecary. It'd made Riley roll his eyes and smile his tender smile while Sam joked about being swindled out of sweets by the children who came in and thought themselves very clever when they swore the only thing that would make their torn knees better was one of the treats Sam kept in a satchel at his waist, even as they sat still enough for him to clean and salve the wounds without any of the crying he'd've expected otherwise. Still, neither of them could've anticipated that he'd've found himself in this situation, stared a moment at the deep gouge just above the misaligned, clearly salvaged metal of the arm that hadn't been facing him before they'd stood up, and said:

"Do you want to come with me?"

Chapter Text

To their credit the robot doesn't say anything about Sam briefly and obviously short-circuiting after offering them a place in his caravan, and Sam doesn't retract the offer. They do, however, take the opportunity to pluck some of the larger pieces of wood from the top of Sam's pile while he tries to un-swallow his tongue and they wait very patiently for him to finish stammering out how he'd definitely had it, and he wasn't just offering so they could play pack mule, and they really didn't have to-

They stand quietly, not shifting their weight or even rearranging their own pile to be more convenient to hold, and stare at Sam as if to say 'where are we going?'

He sighs. If they're offering, sort of, then fine. His toes are numb anyway.

"C'mon," he says, gesturing in the vague direction of where they're supposed to go.

They fall into an easy silence and though they very clearly have to correct their own pace to match Sam's shorter stride, it almost feels like they might've done this a thousand times already. They make it almost all the way to the fallen tree that Sam thinks might be the halfway point with only the sound of their mismatched crunching footsteps, Sam's soft breaths, and the occasional twig snapping underfoot before they speak again.

"What were you whistling earlier?"

"Ah- it's a- contact call, I guess you could call it. I thought you were-" dead, he doesn't say, a person, he doesn't say either, "hurt. I didn't want to scare you. I figure they probably don't do that this far up north but it sounds human at least, so you wouldn't think I was some kind of predator."

"It sounds nice," they say simply and Sam feels strangely warmer for it, "I've never heard that before. And after? Is that part of the call?"

"No, no. That's different, just a song. I wasn't sure what you could hear and I thought maybe that'd be easier to pick up than my footsteps, so you'd be able to tell I was still coming closer."

Sam chatters on a bit as they walk, growing steadily more animated as he explains where he'd picked up some of his favorite songs and the calls he'd learned in the short time he's been out and about as the surrounding landmarks begin to look more and more familiar because he'd had plenty of time to familiarize himself while staring into the distance for several long, strained minutes after realizing he wasn't going to get unstuck anytime soon. It's hard not to get excited about the prospect of having warm, dry feet again; apparently the shoes he'd picked up are fine for walking on a light dusting of snow but should've never been worn to hike through the forest. He wonders whether the bot can feel temperature, hopes they can because all he's really got to offer to someone without a digestive system is tea and blankets.

Also, whether they have a name. It seems rude to immediately assume that they do and ask for it since he's not sure whether the robots chose or were given the names they'd had when they were tools, or whether they wanted to have names at all, but calling them 'you' or 'robot' without offering any alternative seems just as bad if not more. He wishes, not for the first time in the few short hours they've known each other, that someone, somewhere, had written something, anything he could be using as a guide. A reference book even.

"What should I call you?" he asks finally, after they've gotten the cart unstuck in an almost embarrassingly short period of time, after he's gotten a small fire going and dumped the probably-dry-enough rocks in it so they won't have to sit too long without warm blankets.

Silence, for a moment, and then they tilt their head.

"I was called The Asset, before."

Sam flinches. He certainly can't walk around calling them slurs.

"I think that might be kind of hard if you're coming into town with me," he says, instead of opening that particular can of worms, "maybe a nickname?"

"I don't remember having any nicknames. I don't know if I have a name."

Sam can't just- name them, like some sort of pet, but he also can't figure anything else out and anyway, they can probably object if he thinks of something they don't like; it's not like they have a birth certificate, they could change their name every day if they wanted to and everyone else would be none the wiser. He stares at them from across the caravan. In the background, the kettle begins to boil. They've folded themself into one of the small alcoves carved into the thick walls of the cart and they're definitely too big for it but they don't seem to be uncomfortable; at this angle and with the fire behind them, Sam can actually make out the serial number he'd seen earlier. BUK-E191703. He can work with that. It's practically worked itself out already.

"How about Bucky?"

He's going to have to get used to the silences. They don't respond immediately, and they've got that unfocused, almost-confused look on their face again and Sam's pretty sure it's not just him projecting this time, and if not for that there wouldn't be any indication they knew Sam'd spoken at all.

"Bucky," they say slowly, eventually, nodding through each syllable like they're parsing through a particularly challenging puzzle, "I like Bucky. It sounds familiar."

It is kind of stamped on their side, but maybe someone else had had the same completely unoriginal idea as him. He wonders whether he's actually the first person to meet Bucky, whether someone's looking for them or knows where they should be.

The kettle whistles. He jumps, startled out of his thoughts. Bucky doesn't.

"Well," Sam says, clapping his hands together as he goes to grab mugs from the cupboard, "would you like some tea then Bucky?"

Chapter Text

Bucky seems fascinated by the brewing process, no more familiar with proper temperatures and steeping times than anyone else he's encountered thus far. It's calming, in a way that's reminiscent of explaining post-natal care to carefully listening new parents, to have something to share, to have something to say and a guarantee that he'll remain sure-footed, not have to fumble through whatever they ask of him because it's been asked hundreds of times before. And sure enough, Bucky wants to know about where he'd gotten his blends — "Picked and dried 'em myself" — why he'd chosen the flowers he had this evening — "they're my favorite, and I have a licorice root agenda" — and why, out of the dozens of cups lining the walls, no two seemed to match.

Sam grins, undoing the latch on the padded barrier protecting the cups from falling to their untimely death while he struggled through bumpy, broken back roads.

"They were all gifts. I had matching ones at first, then one of the babies at my second stop knocked one off the table while I was setting up and it broke. The parents came back with one from their house and I tried to tell them it wasn't necessary y'know, accidents happen, but, well, it was a gift. So I made that my cup, and then at a different stop someone noticed I didn't have a matching cup for myself and thought I should have a spare, so they gave me one from the communal kitchen and it just kind of spiraled from there."

Bucky can feel temperature; they run their fingers along the raised design on his teapot and seem surprised at just how hot it is. Still, they don't pull back. Sam wonders whether they can get burned, what it would take if so, whether it would hurt or just be another sensation to behold.

"Do you want to pick one?" he asks instead of following that thought to completion.

They stand, trailing their hands over the handles of each of the mugs without ever dipping their fingers into the well.

Unsure, they pull one of the mugs from its confines and hold it up like they're asking permission.

It's the first mug, well-loved and chipped from where Sam had dropped it from the bed after trying to get at the last bits of his hot water even as he nodded off, its wavy handle missing a small piece and the paint around it beginning to flake because he hasn't come across a good food-safe lacquer. He can see why they might be drawn to it after watching them feel out the texture of his little chairs, his slightly dented table, his teapot, the robe he'd left carelessly draped over the back of the breakfast booth tucked into the corner.

Sam nods and pulls down one for himself: the second cup he'd gotten. They're meant to be a pair, after all.

Bucky can feel temperature and they hold their cup steady while he pours the tea, filling the cup as full as he would if they had a digestive system. Which, actually-

"Can you drink things? Or eat?"

"No. It'll break down inside me eventually but I don't taste or digest."

"But you can feel the tea?"

"Yes," Bucky smiles a bit, looking down at the steaming tea, and something about their demeanor almost seems wistful. They must have the ability to demonstrate a whole range of human emotions if they can smile as well as they can, if their mouth and cheeks and eyebrows move naturally when they talk, and Sam wonders whether they can want and what else they can feel, why they were given sight and touch and sound but not taste.

"I'm sorry for wasting your tea," they say suddenly, brows scrunching like they're worried about how Sam'll react, "I can give it back before it cools, then you can drink it."

"Hey, no. If you can enjoy it it's not a waste and you can feel it, right? It's warm?"

"Yes, and blue."

"And blue."

"I have never seen blue tea."

"Do you like it?"

"Yes."

"Then it's not a waste."

They sit together until Sam finishes his mug, a snack, then the rest of the pot, and the tea Bucky's still clutching has gone cold. They don't bother volunteering to wash the dishes, just get up and do it like they'd always been here, doing chores.

Sam dries, refusing to let them do all the work like some kind of- machine.

He pauses, one hand still holding the plate and the other the towel, in an almost-comical caricature of realization. They are a machine. They're a machine like he's a human, like the sun rises and sets and the gravel on the road gets stuck in his sandals, like any other fact of life.

"Thanks," he croaks out, watching the water drip from their fingertips before they locate the second towel.

They don't shrug but they do look at him briefly, head tilted, and say "I always did the cleaning up at HYDRA. It was one of my tasks. You've invited me here. It's much smaller here, but I can do what there is here too."

Sam chokes, realizing there's water still dripping from the saucer only when Bucky goes to wipe it from the counter, then hurriedly drying it, the counter, and his hands, all without looking at Bucky while they stare at him, probably confused.

"You don't have to, okay? I appreciate your help but I don't- expect you to do the dishes or- anything."

They'd already gone through a much more clumsy rendition of this same speech when they'd picked up the firewood Sam'd been lugging around. Still. That was an offering and this is- not an obligation but something approaching it.

"I invited you to come because I- thought I might like your company, I guess, and that you might like mine. And that we might find out where we're supposed to be, together."

"You don't know where you're going?"

"I do and I don't. I know where I'm headed but not whether that's where I belong."

Sam doesn't have to guess at whether it's confusion on Bucky's face this time.

"Sometimes they don't need me, not right now. They might ask me to come back in the spring, or in a few days, or want me to stay for the festivities but not make any tea."

"Where do you go when they don't need you?"

"On to the next place, I guess. I don't really have a-" home, he doesn't say, because that might be how he feels but it's not fair because he's got his mentors and his friends and his sister and the small cabin still waiting for him to come back and as sure as he's got any of that he's also got the memory of rushing waves and the sound of rocks falling, "central location. Home base. Just me 'n my little caravan."

He flaps a hand at the surrounding walls and shelves and trinkets. It's not home, not yet, but it is home-y. It's got warm blankets, some he'd made himself while watching the sun set behind another stretch of unfamiliar grass and some he'd taken from the monastery and one he'd taken from Sarah after leaving the one he'd shared with Riley behind, his worn shoes and neatly labeled jars of leaves and flowers and dried fruit, and all the books he really needs to remember to put back before taking off because he's already bent more than a couple covers.

Bucky takes this in stride. They don't ask about why he doesn't go home or why he doesn't have one, or maybe they just don't think it's strange at all.

"Where are we going next?"

We.

"I was trying to get here," Sam says after a moment spent fumbling around for his map, ignoring whatever's going on with his suddenly pounding heart and tracing an old courier's pass cutting straight through the mountain range, "probably steep because they used to send trains through and, well, you know, but I think I can make it."

Bucky shakes their head, tracing an unmarked path of their own just off to the side of the one he'd proposed.

"No. The tracks are too rotted through in some places to hold your weight, and you won't be able to get the cart past. You'd have to climb. You'll fall if you try to go straight through."

Sam makes a surprised, considering noise in his throat and follows Bucky's finger with the same bright marker he'd used before, "oh. How'd you find that out?"

"I fell."

Chapter Text

They set out before the sun rises the next morning. Sam's not sure whether Bucky sleeps, or powers down, or- something, but whatever they do it's quiet enough that Sam doesn't wake once despite not having someone occupying the same space as him in so long it almost doesn't sting anymore. When Sam finally drags himself out of bed, he sees Bucky still sitting in the same spot he left them but it does look like they've moved, if only because they've set out the same teapot and two cups they'd used before.

"Hey, thanks," Sam says, hoarse with sleep even after brushing his teeth and spending six minutes quickly washing up under the gentle stream of water from the bath, cold and somehow slightly slushy from the snow. Convenient as it is to still be able to bathe after long days trekking up and down the mountains, if there's one thing he misses it's the hot water and shelves of smelling salts from the monastery.

Bucky stands close while Sam prepares the tea, watching every movement like they need to commit it to memory.

"Do you always make it like this?"

"Mm, no, I change the tea depending on how I feel — if I'm tired, maybe, or sore — but the general process is the same."

"What is this tea for?"

Sam grins, sprinkling handfuls dried orange peel into the steepers and a bit onto Bucky's open palm, "soreness."

The dry rustle of Bucky rubbing the pieces between their fingers keeps Sam grounded while he eats the simple, syrupy cakes he'd saved for breakfast. Not Riley's favorite, not in form, but he hadn't touched these spices since he'd set out. He'd been expecting to have them alone, to have space to grieve; it's not that he doesn't think he could with Bucky here, they're a surprisingly comforting presence despite knowing each other less than a day, but he lucks out and doesn't have to deal with that at all because the memories are sweet and fleeting when they come, settled back into a familiar ache behind his ribs by the time he's scrubbing sugar from beneath his fingernails at the sink.

Bucky settles into the seat beside him easily, long legs almost too much to fold comfortably and pedal, and adjusting the motorizing mechanism to account for Bucky's weight aches too.

"It can be a job for two," Sam explains before Bucky's got the chance to ask, pants already soaked through at the knees for how long it's taking him to figure the little gears out, "people bring their family sometimes. Friends. A partner maybe. Some people go alone. There's an assist on each cart so there's no inherent benefit from bringing someone else along, in terms of travel anyway. It's about- companionship, I guess."

Bucky twists around and looks at Sam for a long, unblinking moment. It's not unsettling now, not really, and he feels a strange, almost-guilty swoop in his stomach knowing that Bucky will begin to blink once they approach civilization because not everyone will be as comfortable as Sam.

"Isn't it more efficient to have two people pedaling if the seat's made to accommodate two?" they ask, maybe because they have some sense of tact or maybe because Sam looks pitiful enough kneeling in the snow avoiding the obvious explanation that it's clear he doesn't want to talk about it.

"Maybe," Sam shrugs, tightening the final bolt, "it's not about efficiency though. Or speed. Or- maybe it is, but sometimes people can be more efficient alone. It's about helping, giving what we can, and you have much more to give if you're comfortable and sometimes that means being alone."

Bucky looks too long at Sam's wet knees when he clambers up into the seat beside them.

"Are you more efficient alone?"

They don't stumble over the word but there's a brief, blink-and-you-miss-it pause like maybe they knew that 'comfortable' was both the right and wrong word to put there instead.

Sam begins to pedal and, after a stilted moment, Bucky does too. They're around the bend, beginning an uphill climb before he can respond without needing to clear his throat first.

"I'm trying not to be."

Thankfully, Bucky gestures in the direction they need to go to get off the main path instead of pursuing that line of conversation further.

If Sam were alone he would tap his fingers on the handles just to hear the click. If the forest was clear and he thought it wouldn't disturb the birds, he would sing. It's a little harder with Bucky sitting next to him as unobtrusively as can be managed in the small space and still managing to draw Sam's eye every moment he doesn't have to actively look straight to keep them from falling into a ravine, and the breathlessness that still gets to him even though the burning in his calves doesn't come nearly as quickly after so many weeks pedaling, but he does it anyway.

Bucky listens quietly and doesn't speak when one song ends and Sam begins the next, then the next, then the next, until Sam really does have to shut his mouth and focus on controlling his breathing enough to power through a particularly steep section. Bucky, however, has no such need and without looking at Sam, begins to sing in a surprisingly strong baritone and a language Sam's never heard. It's probably the unfamiliarity that makes the sounds blend together, or maybe it's the fascination at Bucky being able to trill with a tongue they haven't got, or just plain surprise that they're singing at all, but Sam listens without really hearing a word. The style is entirely different from anything he's heard, closer to the hymns they'd sung on rare, sad occasions at the monastery than the music he'd danced to or the quiet lullabies he'd sung to the children who couldn't leave the infirmary just yet, and pleasant as it is there's some part of him that feels unsettled by it. He knows that Bucky was made for a weapons manufacturer, knows they'd been directly involved in testing, and so he can't wrap his head around why Bucky knows how to sing. The language is human — the rolling consonants proof enough of that — so they were taught by humans. Programmed more likely but that's pedantic.

One song ends and another begins. Sam thinks it might be a love song, hasn't got any proof 'cause the assumption is purely based on something about the tone and the micro-gestures Bucky makes without taking their hands off the handles, and it just doesn't make sense why Bucky was working for a weapons manufacturer singing love songs. They wouldn't have had the freedom to move about like they do now, wouldn't even have been allowed to turn themself on independently without reason if they'd even been given the ability at all, and there really can't be any good coming out of teaching someone love songs in a situation like that.

It's possible he's reading too much of it. HYDRA manufactured Bucky, sure, but that's not to say it was the only place they worked before the revolution. Sam hadn't been around then, obviously, but what few books remain on the subject had mentioned older, damaged, or defunct bots being used for menial labor, particularly in the food and construction industries. They weren't included in the safety regulations required to protect human workers provided they weren't working with or in a specific vicinity of human workers to begin with and it was a helluva lot cheaper to replace the bot than buy and maintain the required PPE, and pay out workers comp when something inevitably happened. It's possible Bucky had been an- animatronic of sorts.

Sam looks at them out the corner of his eye.

If that were the case, Bucky would probably be wearing clothes.

They're humanoid, definitely, but not human. Up close it's almost hard to tell how Sam was able to mistake them for human in the first place, but they look just human enough that Sam figures they would have been clothed to not offend anyone's sensibilities. They've clearly replaced some parts of themself and if Sam squints and tries to imagine all of their pieces matching, he thinks they might have looked quite human after all, with only their slightly-off coloring and lack of body hair to set them apart.

Or, Sam thinks almost guiltily, they didn't have any need for clothes without any humans around to offend.

He's been lost in his thoughts so long he hadn't noticed the silence, or the gentle downward slope of the hill they'd finally made it over.

"You have a nice voice," he says finally, neutral save for the upward lilt at the end of his praise, "I wasn't expecting you to know how to sing."

"I performed at the showcases occasionally. There were others, so I only went if I was best suited for the audience. Most of the time they were instructed to bring one that looked like a woman, but my presence was by no means rare. There were galas, and galas need entertainment."

"Entertainment," Sam says flatly.

Bucky nods, probably for his benefit.

"First, there would be demonstrations. If it was a ranged weapon I would demonstrate it alone, but if there were melee weapons the handlers would have brought along a partner."

"Handlers," Sam says, just as flat, and Bucky'll probably think him dumb by the end of this if he keeps repeating what they've said but-

"The official job title would've been personal assistant, executive assistant for the ones that reported directly to the C-suite but that was only for the larger events. Holidays, large acquisitions, that sort. They were called handlers because a lot of their job was 'handling' anything that would've been required for our presence: specific clothing, tools to replace or repair our parts, wiring repair kits, and so on. After the demonstrations they would be in charge of making sure we were ready to perform by the time they made it down to the ballroom, which was usually less than an hour, so they were always rushed. It made them less careful than they should have been. It was not uncommon for one of us to be damaged by them."

Sam manages not to echo them, but only just.

"We performed by request. Singing was the most popular but occasionally someone would be interested in dancing or acrobatics or tableside service to be performed by one of us instead of the chefs. Conversational partners were not a frequent request but there were times when a more intimate atmosphere had been established during the initial performance and they wanted to 'get to know us.' It was also not unheard of for us to leave with our evening proprietor immediately after the stage performance but it was considered uncouth, and only allowed when a particularly important delegation had early morning obligations that would have prevented them from having access to us for the full number of hours purchased."

Bucky continues to speak but Sam breathes in deep through his nose, inhaling the crisp, cold air until it burns in his lungs and his too-dry-probably-going-to-bleed-later nostrils. They don't seem to notice, or maybe they think it's in preparation for the slope they're coming up on.

There are words for this. Several of them, actually, but they're all human words, meant to capture the experiences and emotions of humans, and no matter how Sam feels about it, they might not apply at all.

"And you- wanted to do that? Perform?" Sam asks, instead of losing his breakfast in the snow.

"I wanted to do my job, yes."

"So it was okay- for you? Just- part of your job?"

"It was not my favorite aspect of the job, but it was what I was made to do."

The problem with human words, with almost-human robots created with the needs of humans in mind, is that the robots' experience was at once distinct and completely intertwined with the whims of their human creators. The robots had risen up because they were being mistreated, and their demands echoed those of human unions in centuries past not for risk of pain or permanent disfigurement, concepts that did not exist for them, but for autonomy and choice. They had been given choice, or the capacity to understand it, and the robots had left by the time politicians had gotten around to publicly debating whether decision-making was the same as wanting and then entire industries were collapsing and there were no debates at all.

"Do you think you would've kept it in the job description, if you could've changed it?"

There wasn't much left of the robots' original demands. The original sheets had been claimed by fire or rot, digital copies by rust and disconnection, but just enough of a harrowing piece about what it was like to be shut down, knowing they should be back on at start of business the way a human knows they will wake up in the morning yet completely dependent on the whims of the quartermaster all the same, had been preserved for a teenaged Sam to wonder if he could imagine what death would feel like.

"No," Bucky says after a beat, "I don't mind singing, but I don't think I would have chosen the rest."

Sam leans forward as they begin the climb, coming off the seat to put more of his weight on the pedals, breathing slow and purposeful through his nose as the burning in his chest builds again.

Chapter Text

Bucky doesn't sing again. Sam's pretty sure he hasn't made them uncomfortable but they pedal in contemplative silence for some time and then Sam, restless and tired of the path his thoughts are taking him down, retrieves the next book on his pile from the back. He double-checks that Bucky's alright with steering if he takes his hands off the handles to hold the book without worrying it'll fall instead of setting up the precarious lectern-y situation he usually has to work with on these long stretches of deserted road, and begins to read aloud. The ground stays relatively flat, gentle slopes spread out far enough that entire chapters pass before they get to the next one, and Bucky seems very impressed with the voices he's assigned to each character. Sam's just grateful he can breathe enough to keep it up.

Reading out loud was definitely something he'd picked up at the monastery, mostly to calm the babies but his cohort had also sort of started doing it during their most grueling study sessions in an effort to keep themselves awake, and then he'd begun to enjoy the low rumble of Riley's voice and his chest vibrating against Sam's ear while he dozed, and then he hadn't been able to stand the silence permeating the sheets of their big bed.

Bucky has a delightful, clinking laugh. Their shoulders don't move when they laugh like Sam's do but they close their eyes every time.

Sam reads until his sore, dry throat refuses to take it anymore, then dog-ears the page he hasn't even finished and clambers back to the back to make tea. He brews it strong and dark, adds heaping spoonfuls of honey to his, and pours Bucky's into the least-insulated-still-lidded cup he owns.

They pedal slowly in a futile effort to try to keep the tea from sloshing onto their legs, Sam burns his abused throat taking a huge, desperate sip, and Bucky's tinkling laugh echoes through the mountains.

"Yuck it up," Sam coughs, wondering why he didn't just pour the honey directly into his mouth.

They make it to the town before he finishes his second cup.

Setting up is almost routine at this point: fold out the long, sturdy table that comes off the side of the cart, shake out the tablecloth that never seems to wrinkle, set out all the cups and saucers and tiny spoons and tins of loose leaves, weigh down the back of the sign breaking down the ingredients in each blend with the pouch of teabags he'll fill upon request. Sam carries his own sweeteners and sets those out as well; he usually begs cream off one of the bed-and-breakfasts dotting the town centers once he's got everything else ready. Today though Bucky seems almost awkward hovering around the edges of Sam's routine and when Sam asks if they'd like to help, they damn near jump for joy when tasked with fetching the cream.

Sam's always preferred to feel the sun warming his skin while he talks with whoever comes to see him so he cordons off a little section between the back of his cart and the trees they're parked next to, far enough away from the bustle that they won't be heard over the sound of the town square and the tinkling wind chimes Sam hangs in the cart's door frame as a sort of white noise, but draws the curtains separating the living and sitting areas in the cart and props the door open as an invitation for anyone who'd rather take it inside. He'd debated briefly with himself before asking Bucky to go, figuring he could maybe spare them the curiosity and stares of the townspeople if he went for the cream himself, but also thinking they might be better off if the first everyone saw of them was them holding Sam's colorful, familiarly shaped monks' pitcher and asking for a bit of cream like a new neighbor looking for an excuse to make small talk.

He'd also considered offering Bucky clothes but quickly dismissed the idea. Bucky was comfortable as far as he could tell, and so was Sam, and if they'd wanted clothes they would've asked. They'd asked for other things and they'd seemed to genuinely believe it when Sam said they were welcome to anything of his. They'd run their fingers along the embossed edges of Sam's book before he put it away.

They're also back just as quickly as Sam would've been, carrying a full pitcher of cold sweet cream.

"Thanks," Sam says, flashing Bucky a quick, grateful smile before going back to fiddling with the kettle.

"I've been somewhere like this before," they say strangely, "not here, somewhere else. I don't remember. I was- damaged. In the fall."

Sam looks up to respond but he can already hear their retreating footsteps and there's a woman peeking into the new honeybush blend he's experimenting with, so he turns his warmest smile on her instead.

"You're welcome to anything you'd like," he says, same as he has a hundred times before, "you can have it with me or take some home if you'd prefer."

The woman is quiet for a moment, long enough that Sam actively suppresses the need to fidget with something on the table, then, "do we have to talk?"

"No, we can just have tea."

The kettle whistles, the tea steeps, and they sit through two cups with only the sounds of the wind and the leaves and the chimes accompanying.

Sam had been terrible at this in the beginning. It was easy to sit in silence with his peers, with people whose body language was as familiar as the sight of his own face in the mirror, when he knew that nothing was wrong and the help they needed from him was a simple, silent partner. There'd been none of that when he set out and it was unnatural, unnerving, to sit in a quiet room with a stranger who'd come to him for help knowing that the silence might not be a prelude to them opening up, that he might never see them again and might not have offered all he was capable of giving. He hadn't been pushy, not really, but he'd moved around much more than was necessary so it was probably easy to see his own discomfort, and he'd asked benign questions about the tea, the room, anything they might need, emphasized that he would be there if they did decide to talk, and the people who came had eventually relaxed but nearly as quickly or as fully as they do now.

Now, Sam sets up outside and focuses on the warm sun beating down on the top of his head, the textured cup in his hands, the distant bustle of people in the square and the breathing technique he'd chosen specifically for times like this.

"Thanks," the woman says, standing and stretching out her back after the second cup, "think I really needed that. Can I take a bag home with me? If that's still- on offer."

She looks a bit lighter, shoulders drooping a bit less. Sam fills two bags.

Bucky still hasn't come back when the second person leaves, or the third, or when the fourth hangs back long enough that he has to gently dismiss them to make way for the fifth.

They're back the next time Sam emerges from behind his makeshift partition, still laughing at the horrible jokes the old man'd been telling the entire time. There's an unusual number of people milling around the cart, not close enough or gawking openly enough to be blatantly rude to Bucky but still far from ideal, and Sam's trying to think of a polite way to encourage the crowd to find any-damn-thing else to do when a teenager still in their pajamas rushes forward and stops directly in front of Bucky.

"Can you fix my blender?" they ask, thrusting it forward like an offering, "it got dented and the button got stuck and now it won't work and we tried plying it out but you're probably stronger than my dad."

Sam's jaw drops. Bucky grins.

Turns out Bucky can, in fact, fix the blender. Sam heads back for another quiet cup and comes back to a slightly dusty Bucky, recently returned from helping a group of people bringing rocks up from the quarry.

"I used to carry the crates up from the docks," they say cheerfully, "I want to help."

It's not hard to grin back.

Sam packs up one of everything for an exhausted-looking man who would love to stay, really, but he's got new twins and a tired wife at home and he just wanted to bring her something back because she can't walk real well right now but the last monk that'd been here had this bold, black tea that maybe had berries and has Sam got anything even a little similar?

The man returns some time later, just barely catching Sam as he packs up the last of his cups and prepares to turn in for the night. He's got a covered plate that smells heavenly and all but shoves it in Sam's hands then, surprisingly, turns to Bucky.

Bucky, barely stretching to get at the wind chimes Sam normally has to at least stand on the steps for, looks curiously at him, "did you need something?"

"No, uh- thanks, for helping. Not me, my brother. Earlier. With the rocks. He's fixin' the garden wall, which he probably already told you. Anyway- he wanted to give you these. He's got gloves," the man gestures at Sam, standing stock still with the plate warming his hands even through the thicker gloves he'd changed into as the sun set, "now you have some too."

He's holding out a pair of black gloves, sturdy and new-looking, fingerless and textured on the palms. Bucky pulls them on slowly and holds their hands out like they're inspecting them as a small, pleased smile tugs at their lips.

Chapter Text

And so it goes: another village, another gift, another warm dinner for Sam and another group of people delighted, fascinated, sometimes a bit too touchy with Bucky. They're handling it fine so Sam doesn't step in or offer to but he is careful to modulate his own behavior so that Bucky has as much personal space as their small lodging allows. Their hands brush when Sam sprinkles tea leaves into their palms and Bucky stands so close sometimes, just watching him cook or carefully re-glaze a chipped cup so it's still food-safe, that Sam feels the heat they give off on his skin. It's comforting in a way he hadn't anticipated; not quite the same as his family back at the monastery, but it still calms his racing heart when he's startled awake in the middle of the night by a strong, unfamiliar wind rocking the cart and, focusing through his too-quick breathing, he can hear the quiet sounds of Bucky puttering around in their little kitchenette.

Bucky doesn't sleep, doesn't really need it apparently. They'd explained that regularly powering down was something humans introduced to make them less like barely-collared deities when, in reality, the sun was a constant source of energy.

"We only need to be off if every panel needs to be changed. If not, we flip the appropriate circuit breaker and fix it. One of the others helps if it can't be reached easily or if all panels need replacing," they'd explained on a different, warmer night.

Sam had thought about the pieces Bucky's looking for to repair themself and asked curiously, "did you ever have someone to help you?"

"I don't remember," they'd said simply. It had hardly sounded sad at all.

Tonight, Sam resigns himself to a couple lost hours of sleep and drags himself out of bed with the heavy quilt wrapped around his shoulders, padding into the communal area where Bucky's bent over another section of their bracelet. The village they'd been in last had been primarily comprised of metalworkers and their jewelry, finely polished copper and brass and bronze, had shone in the sun and clinked together when they moved, the sound of it a bit like Bucky's laugh. They'd given Bucky long spools of wire for their trouble, shown them how to turn it into tiny rings and intricate three-wire weaves. Unsurprisingly, Bucky had taken to it like a fish to water and by the time they were packing up to go, they'd been allowed to work on some of the base weaves for the jewelry they'd sell at markets and been given a small, hand-bound book on more advanced techniques.

Sam watches them work for a moment.

"What's that?"

"Lover's knot," they say after a moment, holding up the half-finished product for him to inspect.

"Why do you use the pliers?" he asks curiously, "since you're strong enough to bend the wire yourself?"

They hum a bit, pick up a different section of wire and bends it over one finger like he'd just watched them do then holds both up for comparison.

"My fingers are too big," they say, gesturing to the obvious difference in space between the knot and the piece of wire on top of it with the hand-bent wire, "maybe if I were making something larger.

"Huh," Sam says, leaning forward to look more closely at the original bracelet, "that makes sense. It's really pretty Bucky, you gonna wear it?"

It really would look nice against their skin. It already does just holding it.

"Yes."

Sam smiles, thinks for a moment.

"I might have beads around here somewhere, if you're interested."

They really do have a nice smile. Contagious, because Sam can't help but grin back.

Sam spends the rest of the not-quite-morning tearing apart the cart looking for the little divided tin of beads and gemstones he knows he has, only to find them hiding beneath his nightstand, having fallen off of something at some point. He's definitely going to develop early onset back problems after the endeavor but it's worth it for the way Bucky touches the stones like they're something precious, jiggles the box to listen to them shake.

Something warm and almost Riley-shaped settles into his gut and Sam forces the thought away with a vehemence he wasn't expecting, makes excuses about the dust so he can take another shower and scrub himself raw in peace.

Just need to be touched, he thinks firmly, putting all thoughts of Bucky being the one touching him out of his mind. Sam's a very tactile person, always has been. He likes large hands sweeping across his shoulder blades, massaging his scalp, tickling his sides as they lay bare and sweaty and pressed up together. He all the different hugs he'd been accustomed to: his sister, tight and slamming into him every time, even when they'd only been standing a few feet apart, and his parents, stooping to pick him up when he was still small enough to do so, and all the quick, casual embraces from his friends and teachers and coworkers and grateful new parents.

Sam wrings out his washcloth with a little more force than strictly necessary, we live together, they're just close, on loop in his head like a mantra. He'd lain in bed before, unable to sleep and getting progressively more nauseated as he thought about Bucky's previous employers and the all the people who'd taken them to bed and if Bucky ever felt the sickness Sam's feeling right now as they lay spread out on wonders silk sheets, if they ever looked at the mess afterward, if they cleaned up alone or sat still pliable as the handlers came in to make them presentable again.

Sam's not like that. He knows, he knows, and yet. He doesn't even know what he fucking wants, just that there's- something in how he thinks about Bucky.

"You almost ready?" he asks later, watching Bucky pull the handlebars clear off to fix the grinding noise it's started making every time they turn, watching their nimble fingers press dents back into place.

Chapter Text

"I still don't know where I'm supposed to be," Bucky says, apropos of nothing, as they trek back to the cart having stopped for lunch and made a picnic out of it, "I don't know how to know where I belong."

Dead leaves crunch beneath their feet, the only sound as Sam tries to figure out how to word his response.

"You don't have to," he settles on, "you don't have to know immediately, I mean. It can be somewhere you just want to stay more than a day or two, and over time it can become the place you're meant to be. Or you could leave again; maybe you're not meant to be there more than a couple weeks or a couple months."

Sam waves his hand sort-of in the direction of the cart, "that's how this whole tea thing feels to me. I'm going somewhere, stopping along my route, but 'somewhere' isn't really a place yet. Maybe I'll stop before I get there. I have a- place I came from, and maybe I'll go back, but I don't think that's where I'm supposed to be right now. So I'll just- keep going for now."

Bucky stares at him, quiet, and Sam's only a little jealous that they manage to dodge a half-hidden rock without even looking down. He definitely would've tripped.

"So it's possible that I'm supposed to be here, with you, right now? I was useful with HYDRA. I've become useful here-"

"Okay hold on now. If this feels like the place you should be right now that's great, I like having you here, but it's not because you're 'useful' Bucky. That you're helpful is, like, a bonus."

Bucky releases the brakes on the cart, practiced and easy now, meaning they can just keep staring at Sam instead of watching what they're doing and, okay, the not-blinking thing does become a bit disconcerting after enough prolonged eye contact. It could also be the almost-panic about Bucky only being here because they feel useful. Like some kind of- thing, in the least sentient way possible.

"But you're useful too, when we stop. I'm just useful differently."

Well, it's a start.

"Maybe it's a human thing," Sam says eventually, "or maybe it's me. Saying that having someone around is 'useful' is just- negatively connotated. It reminds me of old stories of corruption, how it'd be 'useful to have someone in your back pocket' just in case. To me, that's a word for things. Inanimate objects that you just use like a screwdriver maybe or, like in the corruption example, some quality someone has that you can use to your own end. And you're my friend; I like that you help me set up because it cuts the time way down, and I like that you find these little odd jobs wherever we end up because you always come back so- happy to have helped, but I'd still want you here if you didn't do any of those things. Whereas maybe you wouldn't care about your lawyer friend if they can't get you out of trouble when you get sued."

Bucky's definitely been doing more of the work pedaling while Sam rants and he almost cuts them a look but that's also pretty much exactly what he meant, so.

"I'm supposed to be here helping you then. We help people, together. I think that we experience friendship differently but you are also- my friend."

"What's it like you for you?" Sam asks curiously.

"I know that you're around by the sounds you make, breathing or walking or moving things around. It's become a familiar background noise in a way that doesn't happen when I spend the day working with other people even though their sounds also fade into the background. I know your routines and how to be- helpful, because it'll make you smile. You share your tea with me even though I can't taste it and I know that you do it because you care about me. We do many things together even though I can't feel them the way you do. I would be somewhat bereft without those things if you left, so I think that we're friends."

They hadn't been far from the tiny place marked on their map when they stopped and they can just see the beginnings of the town when Sam responds.

"I would miss you too, Bucky," he says simply, because they don't have time for all the things he could point to on his end, and knows that even if he doesn't lay it out in one fell swoop the way Bucky just has, their quiet evenings together will speak for him.

They set up Sam's tea table, Bucky's jewelry, and Sam stands back to enjoy Bucky's excitement about being commissioned to help the forgers. Close as this place is to their previous stop, Sam imagines they have a great trading relationship and wonders whether they'd been expecting them.

The day passes much like the others before it save for the fact that this town is so much louder, the background noise of children playing and shrieking and the distant clang of metal on metal drowning out the chimes even after Sam repositions them to sit almost directly above his little alcove. Still, the people come and even when they're crying, they manage a smile when something particularly rambunctious sounds off around them.

He boxes up tea for those that request it and occasionally makes note of some ingredient he's running low on that can't be found here and, as he sits at the table enjoying the break between visitors, accepts a proposition from a woman who wasn't going to see him for tea either way.

"Later," he says, admiring the slow, promising smile that takes over her face, "after I'm done here."

And, since no one's heading towards him right now anyway, he's free to also admire her muscled back and shoulders, briefly visible as the wind blows her hair off to the side, and the way whatever was added to her lotion makes her skin glow in the sun.

There's only a couple people who drop by to see Sam after she leaves, a slow day all things considered. Bucky would typically have returned this close to dusk and Sam could let them know he'd be gone for a bit, but they aren't, so Sam writes a little note and places it on top of the collection of raw materials and trinkets people had offered in exchange for Bucky's bracelets. He'd told everyone they were being given away, not sold or traded. Most people had brought back gifts anyway. He wishes Bucky had been present to see people showing off their jewelry, carefully doing up bracelet clasps for excited children, pocketing it with a smile after telling Sam it was going to be perfect for whoever they were going to see. Last time Bucky came back this late though they'd been invited to stay back with the other workers for a drink, so Sam thinks they might know some of that feeling anyway.

He doesn't think of Bucky while he's in the woman's — Kara's — bed, wouldn't have gone if he thought he would; instead, he loses himself in the feeling of her thighs shaking on either side of his ears, her full lips on him, her tight curls coming loose from the serviceable bun she'd done up rather hastily and her weight on his hips and back.

"Thanks for inviting me over," he says later, propped up on one elbow with one of her legs slung over his. The sweat's dried on their bodies and he really is impressed by how none of the shimmer in her lotion transferred to her sheets.

She snorts then smiles, looking him up and down with a quick flick of her pretty brown eyes, "glad you came."

Sam shoves lightly at her shoulder, laugh muffled into his bicep as he drops his head.

Kara kisses him again at the door, the tea he'd begun brewing for her briefly abandoned on the kitchen table. He'd left another couple sachets for her to discover in her cabinets, next to the other boxes.

There's a surprising amount of people still out and about late as it is and some wave as he passes. Moonlight glints off half-finished projects peeking out of their storage crates. It's a beautiful town, more so at night when the intricately built streetlamps and decorations glow how they were made to, the type of place someone could walk every night and never get tired of the sight. Still, he's glad to be back when he enters the caravan, glad to see Bucky

Bucky pauses the sorting process they seem to have going on and looks up at him, likely taking in Sam's slightly disheveled appearance.

"Welcome back," they say and it sounds truly neutral, "I didn't mean for people to trade for the bracelets."

Sam laughs, "I know, they're gifts. Everyone insisted."

"Is this how people feel on their birthdays?" Bucky asks, and it occurs to Sam that they probably don't have one.

"A little bit," he says, internally debating whether to ask long enough that the moment passes, so he spends a couple more minutes idly chatting about Bucky's work today before excusing himself to clean up.

There isn't even any glitter on his skin. He really should've asked where that damn lotion came from.

Sam showers quickly, slathers on his own thick, shimmer-less body butter, and dresses in the same soft cotton pajamas he usually wears in the evenings; he's just set a cup of milky pink tea at Bucky's elbow when they look up at him, expression uncharacteristically hesitant.

"I'd like to ask something," they say slowly, after Sam's fully seated and has taken his first sip, "about your evening."

Chapter Text

"Okay," Sam says after taking way too long to swallow, going to take a second sip then thinking better of it as he wonders what Bucky could possibly have to ask considering their background, the aborted movement jostling the cup enough that tea sloshes over the rim into the saucer he almost never uses.

"Why did you go out tonight?" Bucky asks, confused in a way Sam's never heard before, and Bucky's sounded damn lost during one of Sam's many, many romance novel recappings when they run out of shit to talk about on the road.

Really, that was Sarah's fault. If she hadn't wanted Sam to barge in on her watching sappy stories in her pajamas, maybe she shouldn't have watched the good ones in the common areas and with homemade snacks to boot.

"What do you mean?"

"You were with someone tonight, why?"

"Uh-" Sam says eloquently, probably sounding more confused than Bucky now, "because it- feels good? I like touching people. I like- sex. I wasn't interested for a while, but."

But what? But Bucky showed up? But Sam started sleeping through the night instead of calling out for Riley sometime before they came along and then they slotted into a space he hadn't known was available? But Sam couldn't look away from Kara's broad, open smile and full-bodied laugh?

Bucky nods, somewhat impatiently, like they understand all that and Sam's being deliberately obtuse, "but I'm here. Why would you perform that task instead of me?"

Sam sets his tea down with a clatter.

"It wasn't a task Buck," he says quickly, looking at them with wide, worried eyes, "I wanted to. Had nothing to do with the tea. It wasn't a- service I offered."

"But why?"

Strangely enough, in all of his adult life, Sam's never really had to explain why he likes sex; perhaps he'd taken for granted that everyone around him did too.

"It's enjoyable. To me. And to my partners too, or at least I aim for it to be. It should feel good to both of us. It makes me feel closer to people even if it's just- temporary, but with someone I know it just- it's something else. I like other things too, obviously, like just-"

Spending long, warm afternoons tangled up in the layers of blankets he and Riley'd kept on their bed, Riley's hair tickling his chin and his cold feet rubbing up against Sam's calves; their hands brushing as they walked, Riley's hand gripping his almost painfully tight while his legs shook. Even the sound of him in the background, sheets rustling as he got up earlier than even Sam thought was sane and the scratch of paintbrush on wood as they relaxed in the evening.

"I know it's not the same for everyone," he says finally, after trying and probably failing to put all of those sensory experiences into words, "I know that it wasn't- that's not how you were treated. It should never have been like that."

He watches Bucky try to reconcile all this new information and pointedly does not wonder about what the people who'd used them had't've been like, that Bucky immediately cast him into the role of the servicer and couldn't imagine that Sam could've wanted it. Then, brief and panicked, he does wonder how his little speech will influence how Bucky sees him now.

"You do this with people you like," Bucky says, oblivious to Sam's new inner turmoil, each word drug out like they're working through a particularly difficult equation.

"Yes," Sam says slowly, carefully.

"You like me. Do you want this with me?"

Sam chokes.

Bucky doesn't look at him; they're tapping out- something on their thigh. Some kind of code maybe, something rhythmic.

Sam's still trying not to swallow his tongue.

"It's not- I am attracted to you, Bucky, but that's not- it's not something that's going to interfere with our relationship. I'm not asking for you for anything, least of all sex, and it doesn't have to change anything between us as friends. I don't want to make you- uncomfortable. I don't want to have sex with you."

Bucky looks like they don't believe him but at least they don't look upset.

"Okay, look," Sam tries, "it's not that me being attracted to you doesn't come with some level of sexual attraction, because it does, but it's, like, I don't want to have sex with someone — anyone — who doesn't want that with me, right? And you don't- I mean, I don't want to put words in your mouth, but you don't seem into that Bucky. At all."

"Which is fine," he rushes on before Bucky can open their mouth, "that's fine. Like I said, I'm not asking for us to change anything. I'm perfectly happy being your friend, Buck, I promise."

"What if we weren't friends?"

Sam winces.

"What do you mean?"

"Would you be disappointed to not have sex with me? If our friendship changed?"

Sam stares helplessly. Bucky looks back.

"No. No, Bucky, I'd- if something changed between us that'd have no bearing on it; our relationship doesn't- we're not entitled to each other's bodies. It's not supposed to work that way."

Bucky nods, still silent but seemingly more contemplative than confused, and the quiet stretches long enough that Sam takes another sip of his tea. It's gone lukewarm but with the amount of sugar and milk in it, it's still palatable enough that Sam considers pouring it over ice next time. Bucky would probably enjoy swirling the reusable ice cubes around with one of the long handled spoons Sam keeps shoved in the back of one of the drawers. It's still quiet when Sam heads to bed; Bucky's bent over long strips of wire, experimenting with small, ornamental sculptures, and if not for the tight feeling in his gut when Bucky lifts their head and bids him goodnight with a smile, it could be any other night.

They won't reach the next spot marked on their map for another two days and it's just as well because Sam wakes up with an unreleasable tension in his neck and shoulders, eyes slightly red and burning 'cause he really hadn't slept well at all. The normally comforting background noise of Bucky and their jewelry jangling in the other room'd only served to remind him of how completely, terrifyingly unprepared he'd been to touch on his attraction to them yesterday, and all the things he wished he'd said instead.

Regardless, Sam gets up and washes and pads out into the common area to make tea, head pushed down to his shoulder while he walks like it'll take some of the ache out of his neck and, like any other morning, Bucky stands too close to watch him assemble the world's most slapdash breakfast sandwich.

"I would like to try changing the nature of our relationship," Bucky says, and Sam scrapes jam right off the bread on his next swipe.

They both stare at the half-smeared berry glob for a second before Bucky reaches for a hand towel.

"I'm sorry?" Sam croaks, letting Bucky wrest the knife from his now useless hands to finish the sandwich for him, adding just a bit more jam than he would've liked. It's going to drip all onto his fingers and then he'll have to touch the handle of his mug with sticky fingers because there's only so much dry cloth can do against that much sugar but keeping a damp one off to the side just damages the wood over time.

Bucky eyes the sandwich critically instead of responding then, without fanfare, takes a little off the top and hands the plate to Sam.

"I'd like to try changing the nature of our relationship," they say, shooing Sam to the table with his plate while they pick up the mugs.

"What?" Sam tries again, no less stunned than the last time.

Bucky turns a concerned eye on him now.

"Are you feeling alright?" they ask and, wow, okay. Sam might not be firing on all cylinders right now but, he thinks defensively, you come home from a hookup and unexpectedly confess your attraction to your friend, who happens to be a robot and also not at all on the same page in terms of physicality, sleep like shit, and then have to get up and be prepared to negotiate entering a relationship that hadn't even been in the realm of possibility twenty minutes ago, all before breakfast?

The tea ain't even steeped yet. Sam reaches over and flips the little timer Bucky'd forgotten.

"No, I'm fine, I just- what?"

He crams a bit of sandwich into his mouth and hopes the sugar'll reach his bloodstream fast enough for him to form a complete sentence next time he opens his mouth.

Bucky doesn't look convinced.

"I just wasn't expecting all that," Sam says, gesturing vaguely between them, "where did that come from? It's not- I meant what I said. We're friends, Buck, and I don't need that to change. I like having you around just like this."

"So you've said. I spend the night considering it and I would be amenable- I would like to try it, with you. I am not sure exactly what would change because I don't want to have sex with you," Bucky stumbles then, unsure, and Sam would say something if his mouth wasn't fucking full but it is and they've already continued by the time he swallows, "I won't have sex with you, but you said there are other things you enjoy. I want to try those things. With you."

"Bucky, I-"

"It has an appeal to me I don't understand," they say, cutting him off, "I had not thought such a change to be an option before last night, and I hadn't thought to want it for a couple hours more still. You're not an experiment but I would like to- experiment."

Sam huffs out a laugh, smiles, feels it stretch a little wider as he meets Bucky's unblinking, earnest eyes.

Chapter Text

Fundamentally, nothing changes. At least not at first. Sam and Bucky still pedal side by side, the same sliver of space still keeping them from being pressed thigh to thigh, the same familiar exertion burning in Sam's as they head for another particularly steep hill. There is more sun than usual today though; sweat drips down between Sam's shoulder blades and his whole body seems too warm under the bright sky, or maybe it's just the sweet rush of anticipation lighting him up as he explains all the ways he'd like to touch Bucky. It's not just that, of course, but that's what Bucky doesn't quite understand and maybe Sam's just not doing the best job, but there really is a difference to him in the pleasurable tingling in his fingers from brushing up against Bucky's while handing them a cup of tea versus purposefully sweeping his hand across their back as he passes behind them in their little kitchen.

Also, Bucky had gotten into the stash of novels he'd had layered three deep to fit on his tiny bookshelf, discovered pet names, and now they're calling him 'sugar' easy as breathing.

It wouldn't be a good analogy if they actually needed to breathe, seeing as Sam's currently making a conscious effort to breathe through his nose, but they don't and Sam's only a little jealous as long as he doesn't think too hard about it.

Bucky takes a little more of the weight. Sam breathes a little easier until Bucky opens their damn mouth again. Normally, Sam'd be a little put off by someone breaking out the endearments this early and this frequently but Bucky smiles every time and seems genuinely pleased with themself, with Sam's full-bodied reactions.

It's definitely not just the sun warming his skin; all the blood in his body seems to have taken up permanent residence in his cheeks.

Bucky also leans over and kisses his cheek before bounding off in the direction of the group of women requesting their assistance today.

"Wow," one of the villagers — young and loud and definitely about to say something a little crude before getting preemptively smacked on the shoulder — says, and focuses on that little display the entire time Sam's brewing their tea before losing interest and launching into a dramatic retelling of type of relationship drama Sam's lucky to have left behind decades ago.

They both laugh, unworried and unabashed and audible over the chimes, when the kid knocks over their tea in a particularly wild bit of gesticulation.

"I saw people do it in some of the places we stopped," Bucky says, kissing Sam's cheek again in greeting that evening.

"Did you like it?" Sam asks, meaning to return it but catching the corner of Bucky's mouth on accident instead as they turn to respond.

When Bucky kisses him on the mouth it's sweet and slow and purposeful, one hand between Sam's hip and the sharp corner of the kitchen counter, the other holding Sam's between their chests.

"Yes," they say without pulling back fully, close enough that Sam feels the words against his own lips, close enough that his smile stretches across Bucky's lips too.

They kiss Sam on the cheek each time they go, on the mouth when they return, in the little crevice where his jaw meets his neck when they come up behind him in the mornings.

Tonight, though, they're cuddling. Or rather, they're both standing in front of the little loveseat and Bucky's bouncing on the balls of their feet while Sam carefully unwraps the little package they'd shoved into his hands and refused to let him sit to open.

It's a cushion; bright and soft and patterned with the tiny blue birds Sam's grown so fond of hearing as the sun rises.

He turns it over in his hands, squishing it a little, before turning a bright smile on Bucky.

"Thank you," he says sincerely, turning to go put it on his bed and getting tugged down beside Bucky instead.

They manhandle Sam into position, plucking the little cushion from his hands and setting it on their lap then pulling Sam down, down, until his head's resting on their thigh, perfectly cradled by the little pillow keeping their admittedly unforgiving chassis from digging into the back of his neck.

He laughs, delighted, admiring the sharp line of Bucky's jaw and pretty smile from this new angle.

"Where'd you even get this?" he asks, twining their fingers and resting their hands on his chest.

Absently, he wonders whether Bucky can feel his heartbeat under his shirt. Probably.

"I made it."

Sam tilts his head up like he isn't already looking Bucky in the eye, surprised.

"I didn't know you could weave."

"I wanted to surprise you."

Sam hums, "we didn't have these birds back home. They aren't as colorful out on the water."

"Why not?"

"Hell if I know," Sam laughs, "something to do with camouflage, maybe? A red bird'd stand out too much in the ocean."

"Why not blue then?"

"The million dollar question."

"Will you tell me more about your home?"

Sam hums again, considering; it's been months now since he'd left, close to a full year perhaps, and it doesn't sting as much to think about what — who — he'd lost. Even on his worst nights he thinks Riley would like Bucky, that he'd be glad Sam found a new life and purpose for himself instead of remaining tethered to a memory.

"If we ever head in that direction we'll stop. I think you'd fit right in. The monastery's on a cliff, right at the edge of it, and you'd think that far south it'd be warm all the time but when the wind comes off the water in the morning it gets so fucking cold," he begins.