Chapter Text
“...So then she said I should try meeting people.”
Bucky said it like the words his shrink said personally offended him. Like meeting people was a federal crime.
Sam didn’t even blink. Just took another sip of his beer, leaning against the low wall of the tower’s rooftop, eyes on the skyline.
“And by ‘people,’ she meant…”
“Like, people,” Bucky muttered. “Friends. Maybe more.”
“God forbid.”
Bucky scowled. “Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting. I’m just impressed.” Sam glanced sideways. “What’d you say?”
“I said I have friends. I have you.”
Sam snorted. “You can’t use me as a one-man social life, Barnes.”
“Why not? You’re versatile. Easy going. Terrible at cards.”
“You need people you don’t try to punch once a month.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
They let the breeze roll over them for a beat. The city below moved like it always did. Sam leaned back against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, watching Bucky the way he always did when he was trying not to push too hard.
“So she wants you to date?”
“She didn’t say that.”
“But you heard that.”
“I interpreted that,” Bucky said tightly. “There was a tone. And a suggestion that maybe I was a little too self-contained, and, quote, ‘rigid in my relationship patterns.’”
Sam gave a low whistle. “Damn. She came for your whole life philosophy.”
“I’m not rigid. I’m just, particular.”
“You’re a lockbox wrapped in barbed wire wrapped in ninty years of unresolved intimacy issues.”
“I liked you better when you were just flying into walls.”
“You’re thinking of Torres,” Sam said. “I always land on my feet.”
Bucky huffed. “Congratulations, Catman.”
They stood in silence again. This one softer.
Sam looked at him fully this time. Less teasing. More deliberate.
“You know,” he said, voice even, “there are other kinds of meeting people. Doesn’t have to be coffee shops and awkward small talk. You could start somewhere that makes more sense for you.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What does that mean?”
“You like structure. You like clarity. You like knowing what’s expected. There are… sites. Communities. People who are into exactly that.”
Bucky blinked.
Then: “Oh hell no.”
“Not like that—well, actually, yes, like that,” Sam said, unbothered. “But not in a creepy ‘hey baby wanna be my little pet’ kind of way. In a genuine connection around power exchange and trust kind of way.”
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered, turning like he could physically walk away from the words.
“I’m serious,” Sam called after him. “You want control. Not over someone—well, maybe over someone. But mostly just in your own damn life. That’s what half of this is about.”
“I’m not going on a sex site.”
“It’s not a sex site,” Sam said. Then added, “Not exclusively.”
Bucky shot him a look.
Sam grinned. “Listen. There are ones you can trust. Could be good for you.”
Bucky looked out over the city, arms crossed tight over his chest. The breeze tugged at his jacket.
“I don’t do that kind of thing.”
“Yeah, no kidding. You don’t do any kind of thing. When’s the last time you wanted something that wasn’t a protein bar or a nap?”
“I want you to shut up.”
Sam nudged his shoulder. “You ever consider not being the emotional equivalent of a locked filing cabinet?”
“You ever consider not being the verbal embodiment of a therapy workbook?”
More silence. More city noise.
Bucky shifted his weight, boots scraping lightly against the gravel of the rooftop. He didn’t say anything for a minute, and Sam didn’t press. Eventually, Sam leaned back on his elbows and squinted at the horizon.
“How’s the team?”
Bucky let out a breath that was too close to a sigh. “Which part of it?”
Sam gave him a side-eye. “Any part. Good, bad, different, frustrating.”
“Walker,” Bucky snorted.
“Ah,” Sam said, nodding like that explained everything. “Still a pain in your ass?”
“He’s a walking tension headache,” Bucky muttered. “Thinks everything’s a competition. Talks like he’s reading off a military recruiting poster from 1992. And every time I don’t punch him, he thinks we’re bonding.”
Sam chuckled. “That’s kind of impressive, actually.”
“It’s exhausting .”
“He still call you ‘Sarge’ like he’s doing a bit?”
“Yeah. I think he thinks it’s affectionate.”
Sam shook his head. “Man. No wonder your therapist wants you to meet new people.”
“She wants me to build trust.”
“Right. And instead you’re stuck sharing oxygen with Captain Repressed Rage.”
Bucky didn’t deny it.
Sam glanced over at him again, this time more thoughtful. “You know,” he said slowly, “having to be around people like him? All bravado, no self-awareness? That might actually be the best reason to try the site.”
Bucky frowned. “Because of Walker ?”
“Yeah. You spend all day dealing with men like that. Guys like that bulldoze over nuance and call it strength. This site? Total opposite. Clarity. Consent. Boundaries. Emotional fluency.”
Bucky wrinkled his nose. “Emotional fluency ?”
“You know what I mean,” Sam said. “It’s a space where people actually say what they need. No games. No chest-beating.”
“I don’t need anything.”
Sam didn’t say anything. Just raised an eyebrow.
Bucky looked away first.
“...Maybe I need fewer meetings where Walker explains freedom to me like I didn’t fight Nazis,” he muttered.
“There you go. Emotional honesty. That’s growth.”
Bucky elbowed him.
Sam grinned. “All I’m saying is, maybe the best way to deal with Walker isn’t to punch him. It’s to talk to someone who actually understands control. Someone who wants to give it. Freely.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “What are you suggesting?”
Sam held up both hands, mock-innocent. “I’m suggesting you stop pretending you don’t know exactly what I mean.”
Bucky gave him a look, the kind that usually meant don’t push it , but Sam, as always, pushed anyway.
“Look,” Sam said. “You’re someone who needs clarity. You need trust. Not the vague, ‘I’ve got your six’ kind. The kind where someone looks at you and says, yes, I want you in control. I choose that. And they mean it.”
Bucky said nothing. Just stared out over the city like he could will the topic into the wind.
Sam kept going, steady, careful. “You spent seventy years being used. Controlled. Stripped down and told who to be, what to do, who to hurt. Every time you tried to say no, someone rewrote the script.”
Bucky’s jaw clenched.
“And now, when someone asks what you want, you freeze,” Sam said gently. “Because wanting something still feels dangerous.”
“I didn’t say that,” Bucky muttered.
“You didn’t have to.”
The breeze rolled in again. This time colder.
Sam took a breath. “You like rules because they’re clean. You like structure because it gives you space to breathe. And if someone wants that from you? If they come to you asking for it, trusting you to set the pace, keep them safe, not hurt them?”
He paused.
“That’s not control. That’s healing.”
Bucky was quiet for a long time. Too long.
Sam let the silence stretch before adding, deliberate, but still careful, “I really think that kind of dynamic would be good for you.”
Bucky flinched as Sam said the word dynamic.
Sam noticed. Didn’t call it out. Just softened his tone.
“Think about it . ”
Bucky finally looked at him. Just barely.
“You think that’s something I can do?” he asked, low and flat and far too old.
Sam didn’t hesitate. “I think it’s something you’ve already been doing, even if you didn’t have the words for it. You ground people. You don’t exploit them. And you don’t let go until they tell you they’re okay.”
Bucky exhaled slowly.
“Besides,” Sam added, trying to keep it light, “you’re already dealing with Walker. So clearly you’ve got the patience of a saint.”
That finally earned the smallest tug at Bucky’s mouth.
Sam smiled, but didn’t press it.
Bucky didn’t say anything. But his jaw ticked.
Sam softened. “You’re not broken, man. You just need a different way to connect. This kind of thing—it’s really not as weird as you may think. It’s about trust. And I think you’ve earned some.”
Bucky groaned. “I still hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” Sam nudged him again. “You just hate that I’m right.”
Then Bucky, grudgingly: “What’s the site called?”
Sam didn’t smile. Not really. But he pulled out a sheet of paper and wrote down a name and handed it over.
“Don’t make a face,” he said. “You might like it.”
Bucky took it. Didn’t unfold it. Just shoved it into his jacket pocket like it might combust in his hand.
He wasn’t going to do it.
Definitely not.
Nope.
(Not tonight, anyway.)
Bucky shoved the slip of paper deeper into his pocket and made for the stairwell, boots heavy against the metal steps as he descended. The conversation was still echoing in his head, Sam’s voice too calm, too accurate. Bucky needed air. Or motion. Or a punching bag that didn’t talk.
The corridor was quiet. Until it wasn’t.
“Hey, Sarge.”
Bucky closed his eyes like that might make the voice disappear.
It didn’t.
John Walker stood just down the hall, leaning against the doorframe to the common room. He wasn’t even doing anything, just existing, unfortunately, but the moment he spotted Bucky, he straightened up and slid his phone into his back pocket like he’d been caught doing something.
He probably hadn’t. But Bucky didn’t trust that face. It was the same face he made after saying something vaguely inspirational and incredibly dumb.
“Walker,” Bucky said flatly, like the word had been assigned to him.
John grinned, as usual, completely undeterred. “What’s up? You look like someone kicked your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Yeah, I know..”
Bucky didn’t answer. Just kept walking.
John fell into step beside him. “You headed to the gym? Kitchen? Rooftop again? You’ve been doing a lot of rooftop brooding lately. You alright?”
“I was until thirty seconds ago.”
“Ouch. That’s cold.”
John gave a mock-wounded gasp, but his grin didn’t budge. “I’m just trying to be friendly. You know, build rapport. Team bonding.”
Bucky didn’t bother responding. He kept walking, hands in his pockets, jaw tight. He could hear John’s boots hitting the floor in rhythm with his own, which was irritating in a way he couldn’t quite articulate.
They reached the junction near the elevator when John said, more casually than usual, “Saw you and Sam heading out together earlier. That new?”
Bucky stopped walking.
John kept going, a few steps ahead now, but glanced back when he realized. “I mean, not new-new. You guys’ve always had that gruff war vet connection thing going on. But it seems like you’ve been spending more time together lately.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You keeping tabs?”
John raised a hand like he was surrendering. “No. Just noticing. Like people do. You’re allowed to have friends. I’m just saying, it’s good, right? You and Sam getting along. Probably makes the teams run smoother.”
There was something a little too light in his voice. Something a little too easy. Like he was throwing the words out to see which ones landed.
Bucky squinted at him, not sure what he was being baited into. “You want a medal for observation?”
John smirked. “Only if it’s shiny. And says ‘Least Hated by Bucky Barnes’ on it.”
Bucky resumed walking. “You’d have to beat out Yelena and Bob for that. And maybe the toaster.”
John laughed, but there was a small hitch in it. He recovered fast. “Fair. Just figured, I dunno, maybe next time the two of you head out, I could tag along. I could be a good buffer. Lighten the mood. Talk too much until Sam makes that face.”
Bucky didn’t stop walking.
“Or not,” John added, more quietly. “Just putting it out there.”
Bucky didn’t respond. He was trying not to feel too much, still wound tight from the conversation with Sam, and now stuck in the walking embodiment of everything he was trying to not think about.
Walker. Loud. Competitive. Repressed as hell. And for some reason, relentlessly friendly like they were actual teammates instead of whatever they were now, two men of the same team, same missions, same trauma-adjacent silence.
John shoved his hands into his pockets. “You know, you can just ask me to leave if you don’t want company.”
“I don’t want company,” Bucky said, deadpan.
Walker nodded. “Cool. Still walking this way though.”
Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “And I’m going to tell you again, don’t call me Sarge.”
“What? It’s a nickname.”
“It’s not a nickname. It’s a rank. From seventy years ago.”
“Exactly. Vintage. Shows respect.”
Bucky stopped in front of the elevator, hit the button a little harder than necessary. “It shows you’re bad at boundaries.”
John tilted his head, feigning offense. “You wound me.”
“Not yet.”
The elevator dinged. Bucky stepped in and, blessedly, Walker didn’t follow.
But just before the doors closed, John gave him a lazy, two-fingered salute. “See you around, Sarge.”
Bucky didn’t flip him off. It was a near thing.
The doors shut.
The elevator descended.
And in the quiet, Bucky finally let his hand drift to his jacket pocket. Just to check the paper was still there. Still folded. Still burning like a brand against his fingertips.
He pulled it out. Looked at the name written in Sam’s careful print.
KinkMeet.
Clean interface. Optional anonymity. Verified mods.
A place for people who want to talk about power without pretending they don’t need it.
Bucky folded the paper again. Slipped it back into his pocket.
Maybe not tonight.
But maybe.