SamBucky/WinterFalcon Oneshots!

Apart Of The Job

(Idea was given to me by whatintheduck from their Soulmates/Sambucky book)

Bucky

As a kid I was told that men don't cry, then I went to war and realized why. Men will have seven bullets in their chests and not cry because if they survive, all those fighting beside him will call him a wuss. You could ruin a man's reputation just by saying that he cried, you could shrivel his social contact to none...it still makes men get called weak today.

All except for one exceptional man. 

We were at the end of a battle, terrorists blew up a building and ran- routine stuff. Sam was gracefully kicking ass and looking like an angel while doing it. Who knew that a man could look so hot...? I didn't want to feel how I did about him, didn't want to acknowledge the fact that I want to cuddle him. Gods, I got shot because I was thinking about Sam's strong arms carefully wrapped around me, a warm loving embrace.

I quickly went down, gasping in pain as my shoulder screamed with agony. This was my right shoulder, of course, if it was my left I wouldn't be holding back tears. Then I was shot again while I lay writhing on the floor, trying to get up. I don't know if it was because I was caught off-guard or that my mind was still stuck on Sam's bulky arms, but I was down for the count.

But then my angel swooped in and saved the day.

Sam quickly found me, taking me in his arms like I longed for him to do, except I was bleeding out. He quickly swoops down to the military tents they had set up, laying me down on a cot. I thought he'd get a medic or something, but he quickly runs back in with a large first aid kit and a worried expression. 

"Where did you get shot? Was just two bullets?" He questioned, pulling up my bloody pants leg to inspect the wound, "Fuck, Buck, just hold still, okay? I'm going to have you apply pressure to your shoulder with this cloth, and breathe steadily, okay? Can you do that for me?"

The worry in his eyes as I take the cloth and apply pressure is evident, moving closer to me to sterilize my leg wound. He looks up at me for a second, a silent sentence telling me he's about to use the rubbing alcohol. I hiss, but try not to move, as to not make it any worse.

"You're doing great, Buck," Sam murmured as he takes out the bullet with a set of pliers, "You're going to be okay,"

"Mhm," I mumbled, trying my hardest not to show any signs of truly how much pain I was in.

It baffled me at the time, that Sam knew exactly what to do and how to do it. To think Captain America saved my ass and then immediately started to tend to my wounds showed that he cared about me, which scared me. I didn't want to fall for him or have him get close to me, because hurting people unintentionally is a part of my nature. But he didn't care. He just wanted me to feel better.

"I'm going to sew up your wound, okay? It might pinch a little, just take deep breathes, you can do this,"

I felt his fingertips gently caress my leg as he threaded my wound back together, easily getting lost in his bulky frame and gorgeous eyes. If he had ever asked me why I was staring, I would have easily have lied and said 'making sure you don't screw up' when in reality, I was admiring him as to not feel the pain.

The second he looked into my eyes, half-smiling, I grimaced. I did so because I could see that he cared for me, that he wanted me to recover, that he hated having to put me through even more pain to do so. There was a gentle look in his eyes, one that told me everything was going to be alright. I knew I'd be okay with him by my side. 

"I'm going to need to take off your shirt, is that okay with you?" Sam asks, fingertips running over the seams of my shirt.

All I could do was gulp and nod my head. This is not what I meant when I said that I'd want to be shirtless in a room with Sam, I meant sex, not this goddammit. But he's so tender and soft, he goes slowly, watching my eyes for any sign that I'm uncomfortable. He then takes my metal hand off of the wound, beginning to clean it.

His eyes trail over my bare chest, the ghost of a grin on his face. His eyes burned holes in my chest so real I thought he had some kind of laser eyes, but in reality, my heart was just exploding with affection for him.

No one has ever put me first, no one has ever tended to me first. He didn't even hesitate to help bandage my wounds and sew them up, he simply was a hero. I've never had someone treat me so well when I was wounded, it was really heartbreaking to think about.

But all I can think about is Sam's hands brushing over my flesh, holding my hand while he puts on the antiseptic. I felt like I was swooning at this point, for him holding my hand felt so right, so necessary. If it was anybody else but them I would've rudely told them to go away...but Sam...

Sam's my angel. He's got the wings to prove it. He's the Captain America we need, the kindest heart of the century. He's selfless, going above and beyond just to make everyone comfortable. 

Including me, an 106-year-old super-soldier with a staring problem.

He patched me up, then started to tend to my less pressing wounds like my scrapes and bruises. He leaned in so close to me to clean a cut on my neck that I was tempted to press my lips against his. I didn't, of course, as he continued cleaning me up.

And after all was said and done, more was said than done. But I relive that moment every now and then, just reminding myself that I am capable of being cared for, loved. I'm capable of slowing down, of letting others take care of me for the moment. I'm capable of remembering, and holding onto the memories of intimacy between us, even if it wasn't all that intimate.