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Sam was pretty sure that Bucky hated him.
Okay, maybe ‘hate’ was a strong word. Had a very strong aversion to him. Yeah, that seemed more accurate.
The whole situation was weird, Sam would give him that. How do you deal with decades of brainwashing slowly coming undone, reuniting with a supposed childhood best friend you don’t really remember, and forced cohabitation with said childhood best friend’s current friends, all of whom you previously tried to kill? If Sam were in Bucky’s place, he would’ve destroyed the sink several times over. (Oh yeah, Bucky had destroyed the sink. Apparently, the hot water wasn’t coming out, so he punched it. Real productive.)
As it were, Bucky was doing remarkably well. He didn’t talk much, but he’d evolved out of his sighs-and-grunts phase, now choosing to respond in short sentences. He seemed to like Natasha the most, perhaps because she was similarly no-nonsense, and he was more than happy to spend hours sitting on the floor, listening to her tell stories, or watching her do her hair. With Steve, he often got this pained look, like he wasn’t sure who to be – or who he was supposed to be. And Steve was patient, God, of course he was, but the two of them were relearning, regrowing, re-knowing. It was a gradual process. And it involved trust, something Bucky hadn’t fully found yet. He would get there, though. In time.
And with Sam… well. Bucky barely talked to Sam. He seemed to find enough words to trash-talk him while training, but other than that? Radio silence.
Sure, fine, Sam didn't really care if he didn't talk to him, but – Bucky didn't even look at him. At all. It wasn’t like he couldn’t; he made eye contact with Steve and Nat just fine – in fact, sometimes he made a little too much eye contact, like he wasn’t entirely sure how to turn it off. He looked at people’s faces plenty, just – never Sam. Every passing comment was made into the bottom of a coffee mug, or at the television screen, or to some invisible force over Sam’s shoulder. Sam had even turned round, once, to see if there was a ghost following him, only popping up whenever he spoke to Bucky, but (perhaps unsurprisingly) found nothing. Either he was the world’s worst ghost-whisperer, or Bucky didn’t want to look at him.
Why won’t he look at me? I’ve got a great face, Sam told himself, and it wasn’t even an insecurity thing, because yeah. Sam did have a great face. He was Hot Shit, everyone knew that, he had spent half his time in service being called Pretty Boy by every officer under the sun. Even Nat called him that sometimes, when she felt like flexing her flirting muscles (just for practice, y’know, nothing serious), and he would say, ‘oh yeah?’ and Steve would promptly turn the colour of a strawberry and aggressively clear his throat, leaving the two of them to laugh at him and duck as cushions flew at their faces.
Bucky, on the other hand, didn’t call him Pretty Boy. He only ever called him—
“Wilson!”
“Hm?” Sam said, tipping his head back, back, until he was looking at the upside-down form of Bucky Barnes standing behind the sofa.
“Can’t you just turn around like a normal person?”
“You’re much more bearable to look at like this,” said Sam cheerfully. “What do you want?”
Bucky hesitated, like he didn’t know what to do with that question. “Steve said, uh. We should train.”
“Man, this show was just getting good.”
“You can watch it after I wipe the floor with you.”
Sam grinned. This? This, he could do. It may have been the only way that Bucky spoke to him, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t fun. “Oh, it is on.”
Approximately five minutes later, he landed heavily on his back with a thump, and maybe in retrospect, he had been talking out of his ass.
For a moment, his ears rang, but Sam Wilson was nothing if not stubborn. So he got back up. (He always did.)
“You’re pulling your punches,” he said, bouncing on the balls of his feet. Bucky’s eyes focused on the movement, avoiding – as always – Sam’s face. He frowned.
“Obviously,” he said.
“Well, don’t.”
Bucky let out a sound that might have been a laugh, but he wasn’t smiling. “I don’t wanna—"
“You’re not gonna hurt me, Barnes, Jesus. Is that what you’re afraid o—” Sam wheezed as all the wind was instantly knocked out of him, strong arms wrapped around his waist, lifting him into the air. “Fucking hell, you don’t hesitate twice, do you—”
Bucky tossed him over his shoulder, and Sam rolled with the landing. He was quick, always had been, ever since he was a kid being chased around by his sister. And with everything that happened since – the air force, the wingsuit – he had gotten pretty good at falling. One might even call him an expert.
It was his quickness, then, that allowed him to dodge the next couple of jabs, to sweep Bucky’s leg, to pin him down. He laughed triumphantly – a literal ‘ha!’ – though he knew his victory was to be short-lived. Bucky barely wriggled underneath him, because he, too, was fully aware of what was about to happen.
And it happened so fast that Sam could barely register it. One second, he had Bucky pinned, the next, the roles were completely reversed. And now Bucky was on top of him, firm legs bracketing Sam’s own, and they were… close. So close that he could see each individual drop of Bucky’s sweat. A couple of strands of his long hair had come free from his hastily drawn ponytail, dangling towards Sam’s forehead. For some reason, Sam really wanted to push them out of the way. To tuck them behind his ear. To—
What the fuck am I thinking? He shook himself mentally.
Bucky was still avoiding his eyes. Instead, his gaze was fixed on – no. Was he – was he looking at Sam’s mouth?
Before Sam could examine this further, he heard a loud wolf-whistle from somewhere beside them. Both he and Bucky looked up to where Nat was watching, her head tilted appreciatively.
“I love to see a pretty boy on his back!” she said.
Sam flashed her his most charming smile. “Don’t we all,” he said, taking the opportune moment of distraction to shove his feet into Bucky’s stomach, flipping him over his head. Bucky landed with an oof, blinking rapidly, like he was coming out of a daze.
Standing over him, Sam looked at his upside-down face. He nodded, once. “Yep. Much more bearable.”
Bucky grabbed his ankle and pulled him to the floor beside him.
*
“Steven…”
“Samuel.”
“Does Barnes ever, like – avoid looking at you?”
Steve, who was in the middle of an intense game of solitaire, paused. “What?”
“Does he avoid looking at you?”
“When he’s done something wrong,” said Steve, “then sure.”
“Like breaking the sink?”
“Yes, exactly.”
Sam nodded, drumming his fingertips against his knees. “But not most of the time, right? One might even say he has the opposite problem.”
“What’s up, Sam?” asked Steve, his attention now fully shifted. Fuck, he was such a good person. Sam felt incredibly guilty all of a sudden.
“He just—” he glanced around, then lowered his voice to a whisper – “he won’t look at me, man. Ever. And I know he’s healing, and we should give him time, but it’s been months, and he doesn’t seem to have that problem with anyone else. So – so why me? Is he—” Sam went abruptly quiet as a thought occurred to him, but before he could even voice it aloud, Steve shook his head vigorously.
“Jesus, Sam, he’s not racist. I knew him in the forties, and I can tell you he’s not racist.”
“Standards have changed since then!”
“Sam, c’mon.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, because Steve was honest to a fault, even if he was too loyal for his own good sometimes. “Does he just not like me?”
“He likes you,” said Steve, with such confidence that Sam was almost fully convinced in a split second. That was the way with anything Steve said. ‘Let’s go,’ and you went. ‘I’m coming with you,’ and he was coming with you. ‘Thai,’ and you were all huddled around the boxy television set with bowls of pad thai and green curry.
It was a sign of Sam’s concern, then, that a seed of doubt remained nonetheless. “I don’t know. The only times we talk, he makes fun of me and then beats me up.”
“You make fun of him, and you beat him up, too.”
Sam opened his mouth to protest; then closed it.
“He’s following your lead,” Steve continued, and something about the way he said it was meaningful, like he was trying to tell Sam something about himself. Or about Bucky. Or about both of them, maybe. Sam felt a wave of familiarity, like he was fourteen years old and hearing his middle-school homeroom teacher saying ‘ah, Sam,’ when he walked into the room. He had never quite known what she meant; though the twinkle in her eye had made him feel like… like something more.
“So, you’re saying… if I’m nicer to him, he’ll be nicer to me?”
Steve gave a shrug, all faux-nonchalance. “Maybe.”
“I would appreciate a little more certainty, man.”
“They don’t call me Captain Advice.”
“Good. They shouldn’t.”
Steve smiled his stupid, endearing smile. “You wanna help me beat solitaire?”
“Is that a thing you can beat?”
“Oh yeah.”
*
A couple of days later, Sam found Bucky curled up on the sofa, reading. He resisted his first instinct – which was, of course, to throw something at him. And that was a good choice, because – he looked so peaceful. So harmless. So… sweet.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” Bucky growled.
Sam rolled his eyes. So much for sweetness. He nearly snapped back, then remembered Steve’s words. Be nice, be nice, be nice – “Whatcha readin’?”
Bucky went still. “What’s it to you?”
“I’m not allowed to ask? You’ve been grabbing that thing every spare chance you get. I bet you hide a flashlight under your pillow so you can read it at night.”
“I do not,” said Bucky, but his face was getting redder by the second. It was immensely humanising (and kind of cute). Something like delight bloomed in Sam’s chest.
“You should take it on missions, if you love it so—” Sam yelped, side-stepping as the book narrowly missed his nose. He picked it off the ground. “Who’s Richard Siken?”
“Poet.”
Sam hummed. “Cool.”
“Is it?”
He glanced back at Bucky, who was – not quite looking at him, but certainly looking near him. He had sounded… eager. Looked it, too, though he was clearly trying to hide it.
Huh.
“Yeah,” said Sam, handing the book back to him, “it is.”
Bucky stared at the book, brow furrowed. He worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “Just checking – cool still means good, right?”
Sam laughed. “Yeah. Can I stay, or do you want me to leave you alone?”
Somehow, Bucky’s cheeks were turning red again. (This was like a game. One that Sam really wanted to win.) “Uh – you can – you can stay. Just be quiet.”
So, he did. And he kept his word, though Bucky shushed him a couple of times for exclaiming too loudly when he stretched his back.
*
It became a Thing, then. Companionable silence. The occasional conversation, always short, always verging on hostility, but now with a renewed air of playfulness. Perhaps better described as banter.
And Sam liked it. He liked him. Bucky. He was actually quite funny, when he wanted to be. Intelligent, too. And he had this face when he was concentrating; all screwed up and tense, like he was trying to identify an unknown smell within the room. He made it so much that there was an adorable divot between his eyebrows just begging to be rubbed away with the pad of a thumb.
… Not that Sam wanted to do that.
“What is the pretty boy thinking about?” asked Natasha, her voice low and teasing.
Sam tore his eyes away from Bucky’s face. “Nothin’.”
“Who says I was talking about you?”
“Funny. You sure are funny, Nat.”
“As funny as I am beautiful?”
“Now, I don’t know if that’s possible,” said Sam, leaning his cheek against his hand. Nat smirked at him.
“Guys, please,” Steve said from the other side of the room.
“You can’t even hear what we’re saying!” called out Nat, refusing to break eye contact with Sam. He bit back a laugh, like they were two kids at the back of a classroom, cracking up over an inside joke.
“I don’t need to hear! I can sense it!”
Sam whispered, “He’s got a sexy-sense?” and Natasha promptly burst out laughing. Having successfully bothered Steve with this display, she walked off, briefly stopping to mutter something to Bucky in Russian. He was flushed again, Sam noticed, and though he was looking at his book, he didn’t have his concentrating-face on, and his eyes weren’t moving.
He didn’t look up at Nat, though; just gave her a terse reply, also in Russian. Sam cursed his past self for taking Spanish and not talking to the Russian exchange student that everyone had called an in-hindsight rather offensive nickname. Younger Sam responded, ¿dónde está la biblioteca?
“Did she say something funny to you, too?”
Bucky turned a page. “Very.”
“You didn’t laugh.”
“I did. On the inside.”
“Do you do that a lot?”
Suddenly – miraculously – Bucky looked up, peered at Sam (yes, at Sam) over his book, then looked back down again. “Sometimes.”
Sam felt drunk. Holy fuck, Bucky – Bucky had looked at him. Finally.
He swallowed thickly. “You ever laugh at what I say? Y’know, on the inside.”
Bucky made a noncommittal noise. Which could mean anything, Sam supposed, but he could hardly bring himself to care about that right now, because his heart was racing like a fucking machine gun. He stretched out, trying to appear casual, but only succeeded in looking more awkward, so he slowly shifted back to his original position like a giraffe trying to stand up straight after spreading their legs to drink at a watering hole.
Bucky looked at me. Bucky looked at me. Bucky—
“—looked at me,” he said, waving his arms about. He and Steve were standing in a clearing in the woods, miles from civilisation. It was, they found, the safest and most peaceful location to train. The only witnesses were the trees, and they didn’t talk much.
Steve tossed the shield to him. “Well, well, well. Guess they should call me Captain Advice after all.”
“It wasn’t really advice. You just said to be nice to him,” said Sam, tossing it back.
“That’s not what I said. Though the fact that you need to be told that is concerning.” Toss.
“Bullying is a love language,” said Sam. Toss.
“Oh, so that’s what this is?” Toss.
“Huh? Oh – no, no. No. Never. No.” Toss.
A faintly amused smile grew on Steve’s face. “That was an interesting number of ‘no’s.” Toss.
“The fuck you mean, interesting? I told you, I just wanted him to look at me. It was driving me nuts.” Toss.
“I’m sure.” Toss.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The thing! Where you say one thing but you’re actually saying something else and you act like I’m supposed to know what it is, but I never do.”
“You do, though.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” Steve insisted, and stretched out a hand, wiggling his fingers. Sam threw the shield to him, and he caught it effortlessly. “I’m glad you’re getting along. Maybe now you won’t argue when we go on missions.”
“I think arguing is still very much on the table.”
The trees rustled in agreement.
*
It happened slowly, like Bucky was testing the waters (for what, nobody knew. Sharks? Sam was nothing like a shark. He was more like… a baby seal. Or a penguin). At first, he looked at Sam occasionally, when he was asking a question or signalling for him to pass the salt. Then during missions, to show he’d understood a plan. And then… Well, at some point, he started looking just to look. For no particular reason. It was all very subtle, his eyes briefly meeting Sam’s and then darting away, but it was so different from the way he’d acted a month ago that Sam was half certain somebody was playing some kind of cosmic prank on him.
And he’d started to test Bucky, too. When he caught his eye, Sam would smile, in the manner of one hiker passing another and saying, ‘it’s better on the way down!’ as a show of solidarity. Bucky never smiled back. Which was fine – Sam didn’t expect him to – but he always looked away pretty fast.
Nevertheless, progress was being made. Sam was proud of himself. He often found himself in such a good mood that he even started using the time the others were on missions to work out instead of lounging around on the sofa (not that there was anything wrong with that). And maybe he wasn’t at a super soldier level, but he looked (and felt) pretty damn good.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Inverted sit ups,” said Sam, though he didn’t feel the need to explain himself. It wasn’t his fault that Bucky was born a million years before modern gym equipment. “I thought you went with the others.”
“I slept in,” said Bucky. He cocked his head. “You look ridiculous hanging there upside-down.”
“I do not.”
“Like a bat. A big, sweaty, bat.”
Sam grinned, the response falling from his lips with ease; “So you think I’m big?”
From his perspective, he could only really see Bucky’s shins, but he could picture his annoyed face as he said, “Ugh.”
“You wouldn’t be the first,” added Sam, because he never knew when to quit.
Bucky was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “Is this because Nat’s not here?”
“Hm?”
“Never mind,” he said, and started to walk away. Sam felt something strange in his stomach, like he’d eaten something that wasn’t quite settling. It was probably because he was upside-down.
“Wait, wait, Bucky—”
“What?”
“Help me down, will you?” asked Sam. “I can feel all the blood rushing to my head.”
“Maybe it’ll help you think better.”
“Ha.”
Bucky gave him a single poke; watched him sway back and forth. “How?”
“Just hold me.”
“Just – uh – okay,” he said, and carefully placed his hands on either side of Sam’s torso, and—
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. Because now Sam was extremely aware of how gentle Bucky’s touch was, and he probably should be wearing a shirt right now (though in his defence, he thought he was alone!), and Bucky supported his weight so very easily as he dismounted from the bar.
“Thanks,” he said, his face glowing with sweat and effort and… maybe something else, but he wasn’t sure what, yet. Bucky mumbled under his breath, something that could have been ‘don’t mention it,’ or ‘bone tension hit,’ though Sam figured it was probably the first one.
“So,” said Sam.
“So,” said Bucky.
“Just us today. Just a couple-o’-guys.”
“Yup.”
Sam made a trumpet noise with his mouth, like that would do something to dissipate the awkwardness. (It didn’t.) He thought back to Steve’s words: he’s following your lead. “Have you… ever… made beignets?”
“Hydra didn’t really put baking into my programming.”
“Hey, now. You can’t play the Hydra card as a joke.”
“I absolutely can.”
“Fine. Tie your hair up. And get an apron.”
Something momentarily flickered in Bucky’s face, but then he gave a mock salute and said, “Sir, yes, sir.”
And that was how Steve and Nat returned to a kitchen recovering from a flour-bomb attack, with two grown men running around the tiny living room covered head-to-toe in flour and powdered sugar.
“No, you got me already, you got me! Bucky—”
“You guys know we’re paying for this place, right?” said Nat, an amused smile on her face.
Steve’s hands were braced against his head. “The sofa,” he cried. “The walls.”
“Relax, Stevie, it’ll wash off,” Nat said, giving him a hearty slap on the back.
“Steve, Steve,” said Bucky, practically running into him, “try this.” He stuffed a beignet into Steve’s mouth, watching as he chewed, chewed, chewed; swallowed. “Good, right?”
“Excellent,” Steve replied, his voice muffled.
“Sam showed me how to make them,” Bucky said.
Nat’s head snapped towards Sam. “Did he, now?”
“Yep,” said Bucky, missing the way her voice dipped, and he looked back at Sam, his eyes shining.
Sam counted, waiting for him to break the eye contact. One, two, three…
Before Sam could offer his usual smile, Bucky’s face split into a huge grin, the kind that Sam had only ever seen in pictures from the Captain America exhibit at the museum. He looked youthful, exuberant – carefree. The Bucky Barnes he’d come to know had never once smiled like that, least of all at him. The back of his neck suddenly felt very hot.
“You’re a bad influence,” murmured Natasha, who had at some point come to stand beside him. She said it like it was a good thing.
And maybe it was.
*
Sam did not particularly like getting shot at. Unfortunately, a series of questionable decisions meant that he had found himself in the company of people who regularly fought for their lives – and seemed to love it. He should probably have been more annoyed when Bucky jumped off a building, assuming that Sam would catch him, but it was honestly par for the course at this point.
(... And Sam did catch him. So.)
As soon as they landed, he said, “You could have warned me!” because it demanded saying.
“You didn’t need the warning,” said Bucky with a shrug. “Duck.”
Sam did so, and Bucky fired a shot right where his head had just been. A body crumpled to the floor some feet away.
Sam stared.
There wasn’t anything especially noteworthy about Bucky at that moment. He was as serious as ever, like he didn’t need to think twice about killing – and he probably didn’t. But his eyebrows quirked slightly; a little proud of himself, a little concerned for Sam. He glanced at him, then, face softening so subtly that Sam would never have noticed were they not standing so close.
“Got your back,” he said, simply.
Sam swallowed. “Thanks.”
A voice crackled in his earpiece. “You know we can all see you, right?”
“Nat,” he hissed.
Raucous laughter.
Sam shook his head and turned to crack a joke to Bucky, but he’d already gone. How does he do that? he wondered.
Nat’s voice returned. “I lied. We can’t see you.”
“I know.”
“Did he run away?”
“Yeah,” sighed Sam, looking around. The coast seemed clear – of enemies, and of Bucky.
Nat whistled. “Too bad. You ever gonna do anything about this whole thing, or—”
“What ‘whole thing’? There’s no thing.”
“There’s totally a thing. This is a private channel, I swear, you don’t need to pretend.”
“I’m not pretending! Until recently, he couldn’t even bring himself to look at me—”
“And why do you think that is?”
Sam frowned. “What do you—”
“Shit!” Nat’s voice cut out for a moment; then came back. “Listen, if you’re not gonna do anything about it, don’t waste that pretty head worrying.”
“It is pretty, huh?”
“The prettiest. You know, I’ve got a friend who thinks so, too.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I can totally make that happen if you – ah, fuck. Hey, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“I could use some help right now, so make good use of that pretty head and come over here.”
“On my way,” said Sam, unfolding his wings. He took off, heading towards Nat.
When he got there, he saw Steve and Bucky already on the scene, knocking people’s heads together. Something about their fighting styles emulated familiarity, like you could sense their shared origin, but only if you really focused. They both fought out of instinct; though with Steve, it was impulse, and with Bucky, it was automatic. Nat sat somewhere between the two, and Sam? He was Steve’s exact brand of guts, with a slightly more measured approach. Together, the four of them formed some kind of beautiful quartet, messy and bloody and full of heart.
It was magnificent to watch. It felt even more magnificent to be a part of.
Huh. Maybe Sam did love fighting for his life, too. (Don’t tell anyone.)
After a brief brawl, Steve dusted off his shield. “Were you guys flirting on the private channel again?”
“We don’t kiss and tell,” said Nat, shooting a wink Sam’s way.
“Unless you ask very, very nicely,” added Sam.
Steve pulled a face as the two of them crowded him, making exaggerated kissy noises. Bucky watched all of this silently, his expression complicated and unreadable – but Sam was too busy laughing at Steve to notice.
*
“Something smells good,” said Bucky.
Steve didn’t look up; just continued reading the newspaper. “That would be Sam.”
“What?”
“He’s got a hot date!” said Natasha, grinning joyfully.
“With…” Bucky paused. “Is he hanging out with you?”
“Nope,” replied Nat. “It’s like, an actual date.”
Sam took that as his cue to emerge from the bathroom, leaning against the doorframe of the living room in a way that he hoped was casual, deliberate, and attractive all at once. He cocked his head; adjusted his cuffs. “Do I mean nothing to you, baby?”
In response, Natasha screamed. Not a scream of horror, of course, but a scream of pure, unfiltered delight. A squeal, even.
And Sam had to admit – he looked good. Very good.
Somehow, Nat had managed to find an old shirt in the back of his closet, one that he’d bought years ago but never found an occasion for (but he still carried it around, hoping, uselessly, that the occasion would eventually present itself). It was, perhaps, a little tight – but it worked in his favour, and it wasn’t like he was bursting out of it (to Natasha’s initial disappointment). Paired with pants that perfectly displayed his ass and a healthy dose of fresh-scented cologne, he truly was a sight to behold.
Nat was now violently shaking Steve’s arm, even though he was already looking, an approving smile on his face.
“Not bad, Sam.”
“Steve, c’mon, he’s sex on legs!” cried Natasha.
“I was going to say ‘handsome,’ but that works, too,” Steve said.
“You flatter me,” said Sam. He glanced, somewhat nervously, at Bucky.
Bucky… wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were trained on his own feet. And Sam should be used to that, but—
This didn’t feel like before. Before, Sam had honestly, truly thought that Bucky didn’t want to look at him. But now he knew him a little better. And there was a difference, Sam knew, between avoiding looking at something because you don’t want to, and avoiding looking at something because you want to look, but don’t want to make it obvious. And Bucky – to his surprise – was doing the latter.
Bucky wanted to look at Sam. He really wanted to look at Sam.
… Why was he hiding it? What was he so afraid of?
Had he – had he been doing that the whole time? Was that the real reason he never looked at Sam?
Sam’s entire world tipped on its axis. Every interaction he’d ever had with Bucky, every time he’d tried and failed to catch his gaze, every time he had successfully done so, replayed in his head. What the hell did that all mean?
“You don’t like it?” asked Sam, voice low.
Bucky’s eyes flew to his face, then away again. “No, I… I do.”
“I should hope so,” scoffed Nat. “I picked the outfit.”
“Who’re you… who’re you seeing?” asked Bucky.
Natasha shoved her phone towards him. “Friend of mine, she kept asking about him. Honestly, this one’s a slam dunk, she’s a sucker for guys with great asses.”
“Thanks,” laughed Sam.
Bucky pursed his lips, studying the photo. “She’s real pretty.”
“Isn’t she? I got plenty of beautiful friends, if you’re interested,” said Nat, and there was something colouring her voice then, something that Sam noticed, but he wasn’t sure if Bucky did, too. Nat had this way about her; this way of interrogating you, of getting under your skin and into your head without you even realising and then turning you inside out. It was impressive – and a little scary. Sam felt a twinge of sympathy for Bucky – but this wasn’t the time for it, really, he should be focused on – on his date, on having a good time, on charming the pants off the gorgeous woman he was about to meet. (Not literally, although… he certainly wouldn’t turn the offer down were it to come up.)
… But how could he focus, now that he knew? Or – suspected, at least. Fuck.
“I better go, otherwise I’ll be late,” he said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder.
Nat got up and pushed him, physically pushed him, towards the door. “Go, go, go! You got this.”
“No kiss for luck?”
Without hesitation, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed a loud smack of a kiss to his cheek.
Sam put a hand to his chest, like he was about to faint. “How is she supposed to live up to that?”
“She won’t,” said Natasha, “but nobody would.”
Sam’s eyes flicked up, towards Bucky. Brown met blue, just briefly, before Bucky looked away again. What are you thinking? Sam wondered desperately. He cursed himself. Not the time, not the time—
Pushing everything to the back of his brain, he winked at Nat. “Of course they wouldn’t.”
And he walked out the door, on his way to the first date he’d had in years, feeling perhaps a little less confident than he should.
*
The date was… fine.
She was beautiful. And funny. She had bright green eyes, and, while lovely, Sam couldn’t shake the feeling that they were… the wrong colour. Somehow.
Whatever that meant.
They didn’t see each other again. It was probably for the best.
*
A few uneventful weeks passed by. Natasha bothered Sam about his date a grand total of two times, then accepted his dismissal with a wry smile and a shake of the head. Sam pretended not to know what she was insinuating.
Then one night, Sam was shaving, and Bucky silently walked in.
“… Hello?”
“Hi.”
“Do you need the toilet or something? ‘Cause you’re gonna have to wait—”
“No. Just wanted to see what you were doing.”
“Oh,” said Sam. He wasn’t sure if that was a normal thing to do (what would Bucky have done if he had been in the shower...?), but then again, Bucky wasn’t exactly a normal person. So, he returned to the task at hand, paying no mind to the looming presence behind him.
“How does that thing work?” asked Bucky.
“This?” Sam said, holding up the electric shaver. “You just press a button, and the blades rotate.”
Bucky peered at it. “Huh.”
Still looking in the mirror, Sam let his eyes wander from his own reflection to Bucky’s. His expression was pinched in that adorable concentrating-face of his. “You can also use it to trim, if you don’t want a clean shave.”
He’d noticed that Bucky didn’t shave. He assumed it was personal preference, but now – now he thought, maybe he didn’t know how. A lot had changed in seventy years. The razor section at the store offered a hundred different options: three blades, five blades, rotating heads, and so on. It was probably rather mystifying.
And maybe, just maybe… Bucky didn’t want to put a blade to his own neck. A reasonable thing to avoid, considering all he’d been through.
“Look,” said Sam, slotting the guard on and choosing a setting. He pressed the button, and the shaver buzzed quietly as he ran it along his own hand. Bucky flinched at the sight, but of course, with the guard on, nothing happened. “It’s not even touching my skin. Perfectly safe.”
“I dunno,” said Bucky doubtfully.
Sam watched his face in the mirror. He was still frowning. “Do you… want to try?”
Bucky scrubbed a hand over his chin. “Is this you telling me I look like shit?”
“No. This is me telling you to keep your options open.”
Their eyes met in the mirror.
The room suddenly felt very, very small. Above their heads, the bathroom light flickered.
Clearing his throat, Sam put down the electric shaver, reaching for a normal safety razor instead. “Or we could try something more familiar.”
“Haven’t touched one of these since the ‘40s.”
And Sam probably shouldn’t have said this, but there was a distant hum in the air and in his veins, and Bucky’s mouth was pouty and uncertain, so he said, “Do you want me to do it for you?”
Bucky’s lips parted, as if he was about to say something. Then he just nodded.
“Okay,” said Sam, and he closed the bathroom door. He didn’t fully know why. It just seemed wrong, to leave it open. He was about to put a razor to Bucky’s neck, for fuck’s sake, that was a significant thing.
A thought echoed in the back of his mind: he trusts me. Sam waved it away.
He patted the bathroom counter. Bucky hopped up obediently.
“Uh – can I..?” asked Sam, tapping Bucky’s knee. Immediately, Bucky parted his legs, allowing Sam to slot in-between them, and—
Okay. Uh. Sam was standing between Bucky’s legs, carefully spreading shaving foam over his face and neck, and Bucky’s hands were white-knuckled gripping the counter, and the two of them were avoiding each other’s eyes, and this was all very—very—
“You know I taught Steve to shave?”
“Really?” murmured Sam, rinsing the foam from his hands.
“Yeah. I was so excited when I got that facial hair, y’know, the wispy ones you get as a kid? But we both cut ourselves so many times trying to do it right.”
“Well, I won’t cut you.”
“Promise?”
Sam met Bucky’s gaze. It was questioning; anxious; vulnerable.
He nodded shallowly. “Promise.”
He wasn’t sure if Bucky believed him, but then he tilted his chin slightly, like he was offering it to Sam.
Taking a deep breath, Sam touched the razor to Bucky’s skin, that first stroke a little tentative, a little cautious. But then the two of them seemed to exhale simultaneously, and Sam continued to work his way across Bucky’s jaw, rinsing off the razor at the appropriate junctures.
There was no noise in the room aside from the gentle sound of their breathing, the occasional splash of water, and the scrape of the blade against Bucky’s skin. It was almost meditative. Calming. Still.
And with every stroke, Sam was revealing more and more of Bucky’s face, and it – he – was… well. He was heartachingly beautiful.
It wasn’t like Sam had never noticed. He’d always thought Bucky was handsome, of course, but something about him here, now, under the flickering bathroom light, letting Sam stand between his legs and tilt his head in his hands, made something in Sam’s chest jolt arrestingly.
The whole thing hit him like a wave, and he had to pause to catch his breath. He looked at Bucky’s eyes, which were trained on his – for the longest they ever had been, really. Sam hadn’t been counting, but… Bucky had been staring at him since the first touch of the razor. It wasn’t merely breaking a record; it was obliterating it. And even as Sam stopped what he was doing and just looked, Bucky refused to look away.
“Sam,” he whispered.
Swallowing, Sam touched Bucky’s freshly-shaven jaw. He swiped his thumb across it thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you look at me?”
“What?”
“For the first few months we knew each other. You didn’t look at me.”
“I know,” said Bucky. “I was nervous.”
“Why?”
He gave a helpless laugh. “Sam—”
“Did I make you nervous?” Sam demanded, though there was no real heat behind it. “Do I make you nervous?”
“You can’t ask me that when you just had a razor to my neck.”
“But you let me.”
Bucky’s eyebrows softened slightly, like, yeah. Exactly. “Your hands are gentler than they are on the mat.”
A grin grew across Sam’s face. “I can punch you, if you’d prefer.”
“I’d prefer for you to finish the job. I’m not walking around half-shaven.”
“I think you could pull it off.”
“Really.”
“It’d be good for scaring people. Then we wouldn’t have to fight anyone.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, shoving at Sam’s face with his hand. “Fuck off.”
“Okay,” said Sam, starting to step back, but Bucky’s face fell, and he quickly locked his ankles behind Sam’s hips, preventing him from going anywhere. Sam stumbled a little, caught off-guard, and fell into Bucky, bracing himself on the counter.
He blinked. His arms now boxed Bucky in, and he could feel Bucky’s legs around him, and their faces were so, so close, so close that he could feel the breath coming from Bucky’s nose on his skin, and he was looking at Sam with wide eyes, the blue a thin ring around blown-out pupils—
I want to kiss him, thought Sam. I really, really want to kiss him.
… Maybe I’ve wanted to for a while.
He watched as Bucky’s eyes roamed around his face, dropping down to his lips and then back up. And he allowed himself a small smile, and said, husky and low, “Am I making you nervous now?”
Bucky bit at his bottom lip. “You don’t make me nervous anymore,” he said, voice breaking slightly.
“Oh yeah?” asked Sam, cocking his head. “Prove it.”
Bucky made a soft noise, then, one that sounded an awful lot like a whimper. He tilted his chin up, just a little, and then—
The light went out.
“Fuck!” shouted Sam, more out of shock than anything else.
Almost instantly, the bathroom door flew open with a bang, the light from the hallway flooding in. Steve stood there, hands already balled into fists, saying, “Are you al—” He stopped. “—right.”
Steve stared at them; at Bucky’s mostly-shaven face, at the razor abandoned on the counter, at Bucky’s legs wrapped around Sam’s middle.
They stared back.
“The light went out,” said Bucky weakly, as if that explained… everything.
Steve nodded dumbly. His face was pinker than Sam had ever seen it, even more than when Sam and Nat terrorised him with their flirting. “Okay. Okay. I’ll just, uh—” He pointed towards the hallway, and left.
“That’s not – a problem, right?” Sam wondered aloud.
“He’s just a prude,” said Nat, appearing suddenly in the doorway. She folded her arms, giving an approving nod. “The clean shave is good. But you better finish it before necking each other.”
“Necking – we are not necking each other!” cried Sam, but she’d already gone.
“Aren’t we?” said Bucky, a little hopefully.
Sam hung his head. “Not right now. Fuckin’ Captain Cockblock over there—”
“Ha—”
“And man, you look stupid as hell. Just – wait a sec,” he said, picking up the razor again.
“I’ll wait,” said Bucky, his mouth curving into a smile.
And Sam couldn’t help but smile back.
*
“Steven.”
Steve was whipping eggs (presumably for his night-time snack), with far more force than he needed to.
“Steve. C’mon. I’m sorry,” said Sam.
At that, Steve stopped and turned around. Sam half expected him to still be bright red, to be annoyed, or even just standoffish, but he was looking at Sam like he’d just said the craziest thing he’d ever heard.
“Why on earth would you be sorry?!”
“He’s your best friend!” cried Sam.
“Yeah, so?!”
“What do you mean, ‘yeah, so’? I should’ve said something, right—”
Steve shook his head vigorously. “Sam. Stop. It’s fine. I was—” he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was a little freaked out because – I opened that door, and for a second, he looked like himself again. Y’know, as I knew him. Back then.”
“Oh.”
“You really think I would be mad that my two best friends who are very obviously into each other finally made a move?”
Sam scoffed. “I don’t think it was very obvious—”
“It was extremely obvious. I’ve been trying to tell you for ages. So has Nat. Even the whole date thing was to give you a kick up the ass.”
“Thanks for that, Captain Advice.”
“Ah,” said Steve, a pleased smile spreading across his face, “so they do call me that.”
“It’s not gonna stick.”
“I’ll make it stick!”
“You won’t.”
Steve laughed heartily, the kind of laugh that filled the entire kitchen, making the room feel warm. “I am happy for you, but please don’t do stuff in the bathroom.”
“Don’t do stuff?” echoed Sam, fighting back a giggle.
“You know what I mean!”
“I was just giving him a shave!”
“Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“We didn’t even kiss!”
Steve’s smile fell. “You didn’t?”
“No.”
His eyes were now wide and urgent, a stark contrast to his usual calm and collected demeanour. “Pardon my language, but what the damn hell are you doing here, then?!”
“Checking on you?”
“Get outta here!” he exclaimed.
“Jesus, man, alright—”
“Go!” Steve said, throwing a kitchen towel at Sam’s head. He ducked, but it hit him anyway. Damn Steve and his good aim.
*
He found Bucky in his room. He was lying with his head at the foot of the bed, holding his book above his face.
“He’s fine,” Sam informed him.
“I know,” said Bucky. He continued to look at his book, though it really didn’t seem like he was reading.
Sam knelt at the end of the bed, resting his arms on the frame. He took the book from Bucky’s hands, casually and unhurriedly; then dropped it, providing himself with an unobstructed view of Bucky’s upside-down face, dark hair splayed out against the sheets.
“You’re much more bearable to look at like this,” said Sam, by way of making conversation.
Bucky stared up at him, unimpressed.
“I was reading that,” he said shortly.
“No, you weren’t.”
“How do you know?”
Sam sighed, leaned his cheek against his arms. “Are you always so uncooperative with people you like?”
“Who says I like you?”
“Do you?”
Whatever happened in that bathroom earlier had evidently broken some sort of dam for them both, because they continued to stare at one another in silence – and it felt perfectly natural. So natural that Sam nearly forgot that unbroken eye contact was a recent development. In the face of Bucky’s intense gaze, he wondered, mildly, how he had ever gone without it.
The corner of Bucky’s mouth lifted, just a bit. “Wanna know something funny?”
“Please.”
“I shaved when I was on the run.”
“What?”
“I shaved. They used to do it for me, but – when I got free, I did it myself.”
Sam thought back to Bucky’s confused concentrating-face. To the way he watched Sam turn on the electric shaver with a frown. To the readiness with which he sat on the counter. To the innocent way he bared his neck, letting Sam turn his head this way and that.
And he hadn’t needed any help. But he had taken it, without a moment’s hesitation, when Sam offered.
Sam looked at him now, his eyes blue and watery; a storm-ravaged sea. There was something complicated, something deeply sad within them.
When Bucky spoke again, his voice was little more than a breath. “I just wanted you to touch me.”
Oh.
“You could have asked,” said Sam.
“No, I couldn’t,” said Bucky, laughing humourlessly. “And I used to think you hated me.”
“I used to think you hated me.”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I don’t.” His gaze flicked between Sam’s eyes, back and forth, and then he gave a shy smile.
You were following my lead, Sam thought, because of course Steve was right. (That fucker.)
And Sam could probably have been more gracious, but he just grinned, and said, “You want me so bad.”
“Alright—”
“You wanna jump my bones—”
“You’re such an asshole—”
“An asshole you wanna kiss—”
Bucky reached up to smack at Sam’s face, but he dodged. He didn’t get far, though; Bucky managed to grab a hold of his shirt, and hauled him onto the bed. They exchanged shouts and laughs and half-hearted punches as they tussled, just like they’d done a million times before.
It didn’t take long for Sam’s back to hit the mattress, Bucky’s weight settling against his waist. He looked up at Bucky’s face; his cheeks were flushed pink with effort (and a hint of arousal), eyes sparkling.
“I love to see a pretty boy on his back,” Bucky said, a smirk playing at his lips.
Sam felt a delirious laugh bubble in his chest. There were some loose strands of brown hair dangling over his face, so he reached up to tuck them behind Bucky’s ear. He let his hand stay there for a moment, trailing his fingers against Bucky’s jaw before dropping it.
When he looked back at Bucky’s eyes, they were hungry.
“Got no problem lookin’ at me now, huh?” he murmured. “You just gonna look, or are you gonna do something about it?”
In response, Bucky leaned down and kissed him. Sam smiled against his lips, pulling him closer.
Learning one another over the past few months had been an arduous affair, but Sam would do it again in a heartbeat; and learning Bucky in one more way didn’t seem like a task at all. It was a privilege. Definitely a privilege, Sam thought, as a tug on Bucky’s hair released a muffled moan from his throat. Sam swallowed it eagerly, trying to coax more sounds from Bucky with his mouth and his tongue and the tactical roll of his hips.
“Jesus,” panted Bucky, as Sam nosed against his neck, “are you trying to kill me?”
“Maybe,” hummed Sam. “Or just trying to catch you off-guard.”
“What?”
Suddenly, Sam rolled them over, so that Bucky was pinned beneath him. His hair was mussed, lips red and kiss-swollen, eyes dark with want. The perfect symbol of Sam’s victory.
“If you did this whole thing just to try and beat me at sparring, I will actually murder you.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“What’s the logic, here? That I’m too horny to beat your ass?”
Sam tilted his head daringly. “Is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
“Alright, that’s it—”
They started tussling again – but perhaps got a bit carried away, because soon enough, the two of them rolled clean off the bed and hit the floor.
“Ow!” yelled Sam.
“Admit defeat!” yelled Bucky.
“Never!”
“Surrender!”
“Never!”
“Why are you wearing so many clothes?!” shouted Bucky, taking his anger out on Sam’s shirt.
“Don’t rip it, you asshole!”
“It’s in the way!”
“Fuck you!” said Sam.
“I’m trying!”
For a single, heated moment, they stared at each other.
Then they surged forward, lips crashing together, hands impatiently tugging at hems and zippers and waistbands.
“You’re such a – hah – such a dick,” hissed Bucky. “Flirting with Nat all the time—”
“We’re both h-hot, what do you – shit – what do you expect?”
“And those fucking upside-down sit-ups—”
“Inverted sit-ups—”
“You do all this shit on – on purpose—”
“I do not—”
“You – Jesus Christ – you—”
Sam smirked against Bucky’s neck. “I made you nervous?”
“Shut up.”
“Make me.”
And, to Sam’s utter delight, he did.
*
A few rooms away, Natasha and Steve sat in silence.
They’d heard muffled discussion, then some movement, then some laughter. Neither of them had been too bothered by that. On the contrary – they were pretty pleased.
It was the huge bang that made Steve sit up straight, his eyebrows knitted in concern. Particularly when it was followed by shouting.
Nat shook her head. “No.”
“But they—”
“No.”
“It sounds like they’re fighting,” he said, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.
Nat let out a puff of laughter through her nose. “Fighting, fucking, it’s all the same.”
“It is not,” said Steve, horrified.
“You don’t want to interrupt them. It’ll be worse than last time.”
Steve shivered. “Fine.”
Sure enough, the shouting eventually subsided. And a couple of hours later, when Steve had gone to bed, Sam padded into the kitchen wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist.
“Well, well, well,” said Nat.
“Fucking hell,” said Sam, jumping.
She folded her arms, leaning against the doorway. “Do I mean nothing to you, baby?”
“Ha,” he said, pulling two glasses from the cabinet. “You know you’re my number one girl.”
“I’ll happily give that title over to Barnes. Mainly because he’d kill me if I didn’t.”
Sam filled the glasses with water, smiling to himself. “Yeah, he would.”
“Look at you. I can’t believe you said there was no thing.”
“You were being vague!” argued Sam.
“You knew what I meant! Just let me have the win.”
“Fine.”
“Now get your pretty ass back to bed. And don’t worry about being quiet, we heard everything already.”
“Nat!”
“It was kinda impressive, I mean—”
“Nat!”
*
A boot shoved Sam square in the chest. (Not for the first time.) He skidded back, his wings scraping against the ground to keep him upright. Fists flew at his face, but he was too quick for them. He bobbed and weaved, then went straight for his opponent’s legs, tackling them to the ground.
The guy was squirming beneath him, shouting something in another language that Sam couldn’t translate. So, he punched him in the face to shut him up.
He glanced around. “We’re clear on the south side.”
A familiar voice crackled in his ear, low and appreciative. “You look good as hell out there.”
“I bet you look better,” Sam responded, with a satisfied smile.
“You would not believe the view I’m getting right now.”
“Are you staring at my ass?”
“… No.”
Another voice came through: Nat. “What the hell are you waiting for, pretty boy? Come find us!”
“Oh, shit. Coming.”
“… Were you two flirting on the private channel again?”
“We would never.”
“Is this what they call a ‘taste of my own medicine’? ‘Cause I gotta say, I don’t love it.”
“You’re just jealous,” said Sam, but Nat didn’t respond. He checked the area one last time, then got ready to take off. Just before he did, Bucky’s voice appeared in his ear again—
“She’s totally jealous.”
“Shut up, man, I am literally gonna see you in two seconds.”
“Two seconds is too long.”
“Yeah, it is,” Sam agreed, with a slow shake of the head. “Hey, you know what to do when I get there, right?”
“Yup. Following your lead.”
Sam spread his wings and his smile wide, and rocketed into the air; exactly where he was meant to be.