Only Human

giving comfort

Most people would not describe Bucky Barnes as "comforting." Hell, a year ago? Sam probably wouldn't have, either, what with the permanent scowl that for the longest time had been etched into Bucky's face. Even now Sam wasn't sure "comforting" was the exact word to describe his partner. There was an implication of dialogue and communication and just plain speaking that tended to accompany the word "comforting," and yeah, no. Bucky still wasn't much of a conversationalist.

Being of service, though? He'd taken that part of Sam's advice to heart.

Giving comfort, then. That was a more accurate way to describe Bucky. He learned to bake Sarah's favorite desserts, patched Cass and AJ up after particularly rough tussles in the yard, checked in with Pepper about Morgan at least once a week, even treated Torres to drinks or dinner every so often.

And with Sam?

Bucky helped him maintain the family boat, Bucky helped him train with the shield, Bucky helped him deal with throbbing muscle aches, particularly in his upper back. Bucky helped him corral the media, Bucky helped him make dinner every night, hell, Bucky was simply there whenever Sam needed him by his side. He'd come a long way since his days of ignoring Sam's texts, and Sam couldn't be prouder.

Oh, and as of a week and a half ago, Bucky gave comfort in the form of damn good kisses, too. A hell of a bonus, in Sam's humble opinion.

Bucky was currently giving Sam comfort, however, in one of Sam's least favorite—if still appreciated—ways: post-battle patching up. No injuries so serious as to require hospitalization, but smarting enough that the worst hurt like a motherfucker every time Bucky's hand grazed the wound with antiseptic. The fact of the matter was that Sam's cuts and bruises were more intense than they should have been, though not for a lack of trying on anyone's part. It had just been...

Well. 'One of those days.'

Sam hissed as Bucky wiped down the nastiest wound that ran across his right side, this particular cut almost a perfectly horizontal gash beneath his ribcage. "Shit, Buck. Is the alcohol really necessary?"

Bucky shot him a withering look dirtier than the bloody rag he tossed aside. "You're telling me you'd prefer an infection."

"No, I'd prefer it didn't sting like a bitch."

Bucky grabbed a tube of neosporin. "And I'd prefer you stop recklessly throwing yourself into danger like it's no big deal. Guess we're both unhappy."

Sam snorted. "I do not need the geriatric without a lick of self-preservation criticizing me about so-called reckless behavior." He grimaced as Bucky began spreading the antibiotic ointment across the wound. Thankfully, his partner was using his human hand while he worked—much warmer than the cool vibranium and 99% as sterilized. "At least admit you're a hypocrite before you start trying to lecture me."

"No, I'll at least admit I'm a supersoldier," Bucky corrected, a sharper edge to his tone than that which typically followed a tough mission. He didn't meet Sam's eyes as he stepped away to prepare the bandages. "You, Sam, are only human."

Sam was thankful that he wasn't yet so exhausted from the day's events as to be delirious, otherwise he might have started singing Christina Perri. "Come on, Buck. We've talked about this before. Injuries are part of the job. Hell, they're the first item in the job description—"

"Yes, injuries," Bucky echoed, glaring at him with more ice than what global warming had melted in the Arctic. "Not taking unnecessary risks. There's a big fucking difference, Samuel."

"Oh, you're one to talk," Sam snapped, Bucky's pushy attitude and use of his full name finally grating on him. There was only so much hypocritical bullshit Sam could take. He pointed an accusatory finger at Bucky, fighting back a wince at the resulting tightness that seared across his stomach. "Which one of us thought it'd be a brilliant idea to absorb the weight of a speeding 18-wheeler with his normal shoulder, huh?"