longing. [sambucky]

𝟓: how much for a room?

It was too late to get on a plane to find Zemo by the time the whole malarkey with the police had finished. Sam could barely keep his eyes open, not that he'd tell Bucky that. He rubbed his eyes constantly and was biting his cheek to suppress yawns.

"I'm tired," Bucky told him as they walked away from the station.

A lie. But Bucky was rarely tired in the way normal people were tired. His bone-deep tiredness couldn't be cured by a single night's sleep, Bucky doubted it could be cured at all.

Sam didn't know, but Bucky was already walking to the nearest motel. Sam was too exhausted to even question where they were going. He followed Bucky aimlessly, moving sluggishly, barely able to keep himself upright. It was sort of adorable.

"Oh? You are?" Sam sounded relieved, "I could keep going but if you're tired we can stop."

Bucky was glad he was walking slightly ahead of Sam, and that his face was hidden from his view, because he was biting back a smile.

"I don't want to call your friend this late, he's done enough for us. We can catch a normal flight tomorrow and see Zemo then," Bucky said.

"Torres doesn't mind, he's a good kid. Big avengers fan."

Bucky rolled his eyes and scoffed, gesturing in the general direction of the motel they were headed for, "I only have $50 on me, you got enough money to buy your own room?"

Sam hesitated, Bucky could hear him patting his pockets.

"I got nothing," Sam muttered, there was insecurity laced in his tone.

Bucky glanced back at him and his tired eyes, his dark skin that was glowing in the dim streetlights.

"I figured you'd be loaded, you know, like Stark. And..." Bucky found he couldn't say 'Steve' anymore. His lips couldn't form the word. "Well, Captain America wasn't exactly short for money."

"Well, I'm not Captain America," Sam laughed sadly. "And I'm also not white."

Bucky pressed his lips together, slowing the pace of his walking so he came to stroll beside Sam. He didn't meet his eyes, though he wanted to. It was an action he hadn't mastered yet and part of him was scared that if he met Sam's eyes, his feelings would make themselves known. It would be too hard to pretend to hate him then.

"When I was a kid, coloured folks were always poor," Bucky said.

"That's kinda an outdated term, Buck," Sam nudged him in the side though he didn't sound offended.

Bucky's cheeks turned crimson red anyway, mostly due to Sam's friendly touch.

"I'm sorry! I-" Bucky shook his head, "I just meant that black people were poor back then and if nobody changed the system, it must have stayed the same. And you get the short straw even now, just because of the colour of your skin. I was just wondering if that's why you're struggling for money... I'm not calling you poor! I'm not! But- I- I mean Isaiah lived in a tiny house and he was a hero. I- I just- I'm being offensive. God. Sorry. Fuck."

Sam stopped walking and Bucky braced himself for the worst case scenario. But all he got was a laugh. Sam's soft, happy laugh that echoed around the empty streets and made Bucky's heart hammer against his ribcage.

"You just explained systematic racism to me and you're a 106 year-old white dude," Sam tilted his head, pointing a finger at Bucky. "Be careful, I might start not hating you."

Bucky bit his bottom lip and started walking again, looking anywhere but Sam because his cheeks were burning red.

"You're right, though," Sam told Bucky. "It's harder for people like us because, statistically, we're brought up in poorer areas with higher crime rates. It's kind of hard to have a country where we all have equal rights when we started off with less."

Bucky understood that. He really did. His heart ached for Sam, though he wouldn't tell him that. His sympathy wasn't what Sam needed, what Sam needed was his support. Right now, that meant buying a motel room.

They approached the motel and it looked how it had back in the eighties, Bucky remembered it from one of his missions. It had a light-up red sign saying 'open', tiny windows and an ugly reception with an equally ugly receptionist, who looked at Bucky through her thinly-framed, square glasses.

"Yes?" She croaked.

"How much for a room?"

She looked between Sam and Bucky, then narrowed her eyes. Her eyes lingered on Sam who raised a brow, waiting for her to respond.

"I recognise you," the woman said, pointing at Sam. "Are the police out looking for you or something?"

Bucky stood up straight, whacking the wood of the desk with his gloved metal hand. He couldn't believe this was happening again.

"He's not a fucking criminal!" Bucky snapped.

There must have been such fury in his tone that Sam thought he was going to lose him to the Winter Soldier. Sam's warm hand was on his shoulder, just like his thigh that had been pressed against his in the back of the truck with John Walker. With that touch Bucky's anger disappeared. He wanted to be good, for Sam.

"I'm sorry," Bucky let out a shaky breath.

The woman was holding out a key card with a trembling hand and Bucky took it from her and handed her money. He didn't wait for change and turned away, wanting to be out of sight from the world. He could feel eyes lingering on him and there was a lump of guilt in his throat. He was too occupied to even notice they only had one key card.

Sam didn't say anything on their way up to the room. Even when they'd opened the door and saw that there was only one double bed with an ugly floral duvet and tough-looking pillows. Even then, Sam didn't speak.

"I'll take the floor," Bucky was the one to break the silence.

Sam lingered in the doorway as Bucky stepped into the room, tugging off his jacket and hanging it on the hook on the back of the door.

Sam eventually entered, closing the door behind him and watching Bucky curiously when he perched himself by the window sill, looking out at the sleeping city.

"You don't have to protect me," Sam uttered after sitting on the edge of the bed and feeling the uncomfortable stiffness of the mattress beneath him.

"You don't have to protect me," Bucky argued back.

Sam laughed softly, the sound was still as beautiful as the first time Bucky had heard it.

"We aren't very good at hating each other," Bucky mumbled, mostly to himself.

"No," Sam kept his eyes down but smiled.

"No, we aren't."