Chapter Text
“You can't be serious, Sam.”
Steve was digging in hard, pinching his eyebrows together, puffing out his chest, and shaking his head like a fifth grader refusing to eat his vegetables.
Actually, no.
Sam lived with a fifth grader, and comparing Steve to somebody Sylvie’s age was an insult to ten-year-olds everywhere. Steve was acting like a spoiled three-year-old spitting half-chewed chunks of broccoli at his mama.
“Look at my face. Does it look like I’m kidding?” Sam straightened his spine to make it crystal clear that he ate his Goddamn vegetables. “‘Cause I’m not, Steve. I know this situation sucks—believe me, I do—but that doesn’t explain why you’re shutting down a solid idea.”
At this point, you’d expect a trusty co-captain to open his mouth and explain himself, but this was Steve, and Steve had a very thick skull.
“You’re really just gonna stand there in your Speedo, shrugging your shoulders like an asshole?"
Glancing down at his own swimsuit, Sam sighed. They should’ve dealt with this shit in the locker room before they'd ditched ninety-nine percent of their clothes. It didn't matter that Sam had been swimming with Steve for the better part of three years, arguing with your best friend when you could see the outline of his balls was disturbing. And being ignored in a Speedo was even worse.
“In case you’ve forgotten,” Sam said, imagining himself in a baggy white t-shirt and basketball shorts, “the entire reason we’re having this extra practice—as opposed to the extra practice we had at 5:30 this morning—is to get this shit settled.”
Steve crossed his arms, which was his way of doubling down.
“It’s Friday, man. The one day of the week where, if I'm lucky, I get to squeeze in a nap." Sam rubbed his forehead to try and wipe off some of the stress. “And I need one, Steve. I slept like shit, swam like shit, and bombed my first big chemistry test. And Tony calling me a beautiful Black man at lunch got on my last nerve. He said that shit at least fifty times.”
“Tony was just being Tony,” Steve said as he flexed his massive pecs. “And it’s true. You are a beautiful Black man.”
“And you’re an annoying white boy who needs to get his pecs under control. Who do you think you are? The Terminator?”
Steve laughed. Not on the outside—but Sam was more than a little familiar with the telltale twinkle in Steve's eyes as they changed from your average, everyday white-boy blue to something straight out of Finland. Was it annoying? Hell yes. But the way Steve kept switching between flexing his right pec and flexing his left pec was more good-natured asshole than passive-aggressive dick.
Make no mistake, Sam wanted to laugh—on the outside—but somebody had to fix the roster before Coach Fury stormed into the natatorium with his clipboard and whistle. The last thing Sam needed was another long-winded lecture from a retired Marine with a short fuse. One a day was all he could handle.
Last night’s meet had been a disaster—a point Fury had driven home by making the team swim double relays this morning. Normally, Sam got to sleep in on Fridays. Hit snooze a few times. Eat a decent breakfast. Take a shower that lasted ten minutes instead of two. But when you lose the second meet of the year, you practice six days a week instead of five. And when your ‘trusty’ co-captain drags his feet about recruiting an alleged “game changer” who could keep the team from losing next week, you practice after school.
Without Devin to anchor their relays, Steve and Sam had gotten their asses handed to them in the 200-yard medley and the 200-yard freestyle. Bye-bye first place, hello second and third. It wasn’t Harry’s fault—Fury had plugged him into Devin’s spots with barely any warning—but after he'd blown their lead in the medley, team morale had taken a nosedive and everybody had been thrown off their game.
Well, everybody but Kuba. That kid was a machine.
As the only junior who’d been on varsity last year, nothing was going to stop Kuba from landing the captain spot next year. Not Harry making excuses after he’d choked in the medley. Not Frank pushing Harry against the diving platforms after Harry had choked even worse in the free. And not Brock screaming that the entire team “fucking sucked” in front of the opposing team’s coach. To prove it, Kuba had kicked it into high gear, touching the wall before Jack and Ezra in the 50-yard free for the very first time.
Man, they’d been pissed. And they’d been even more pissed when Kuba had done it again this morning.
Looking past Steve’s shoulder toward the locker room, Sam said, “The whole team is about to bust through that door, and when they do, we have to have a plan.”
“You mean beyond taking a nap?”
Steve knew damn well that adrenaline and disappointment had kept Sam awake until three o'clock in the Goddamn morning, making Steve's shitty little smirk even shittier.
“Careful, man. I’m not responsible for what I do when I've had less than two hours of sleep.”
If Sam had done something productive like reading the third chapter of Great Expectations for Kuzinski’s class or studying mass and volume for chemistry, he might not be on the verge of pushing Steve into the pool. But like a dumbass, he’d helped his sisters Sylvie and Breonna film a bunch of goofy dance videos—costumes included—and spent hours on the couch with a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, watching cat videos, dog videos, prank videos, and memes. Somewhere around three, he’d finally crawled into bed, but instead of getting two solid hours of sleep, he’d tossed and turned, sweating as he'd dreamt about dancing to "Juju on That Beat" and flunking his chemistry test in the nude. And the icing on the cake? Twenty minutes before his alarm was supposed to have gone off, his sisters’ cat Snuggles had woken him up by aggressively humping his face.
Long story short, Sam didn’t want to deal with Steve being weird about replacing Devin. He wanted to go to sleep.
Trying not to think about Snuggles’ sex drive, Sam squared his shoulders to match Steve’s. “C'mon, man,” he said, traumatizing himself with the image of Snuggles’ fuzzy cat balls, “it's not like we've got a lot of options here. We can’t pull Kuba from his events to fix our relays. Ezra and Timo are fast, but not fast enough. And Harry and Charlie can’t handle the pressure. We’re all good swimmers, Steve, but not everyone can be a Goddamn Olympian.”
“Devin wasn’t an Olympian. He just had really long arms.”
“Okay, that’s some bullshit, and you know it.”
Steve shrugged because—surprise, surprise—he’d switched back to being a passive-aggressive dick.
“I’m not down for a repeat of last night,” Sam said, letting the frustration pour out of his "beautiful Black" pores. “My parents had to watch us lose those relays, Steve. My mama said Breonna cried when they announced the times.”
“Your sister wasn’t crying.” Steve rolled his eyes. “I saw her waving at Reggie.”
That was true. Breonna might only be in seventh grade, but the way she crushed on Reggie was just as bad as the senior girls who crushed on Steve. According to Breonna, Reggie looked like Bruno Mars if Bruno Mars were Asian American and ripped, which might be funny if she didn’t spend all her free time listening to "Uptown Funk" and drawing Reggie’s six-pack.
Ignoring the way Steve was raking his fingers through his chlorine-blond undercut, Sam conceded.
“You’re right,” he said just as Frank kicked open the locker room door. “Breonna had a great time learning about Reggie’s anatomy as she chowed down on popcorn and Milk Duds. But that’s not the point, Steve. Second best isn’t something I plan on getting used to, and Coach Fury says Barnes is really good.”
Never one to pass up an opportunity for deflection, Steve pretended to be highly invested in the way Brock and Jack were pushing the juniors onto the pool deck like they were wearing football jerseys instead of Speedos.
“We’ve got sixteen guys honing in on this conversation like flies on shit." Sam poked the center of Steve’s chest. "Are we doing this or not?”
“Doing what?”
Steve had the audacity to squint at Sam like he hadn’t been sitting in the chair next to Sam in Fury’s office this morning. Like Sam hadn’t been bugging him about making a decision about Barnes all day. And worse, Steve started rubbing the corners of his eyes like he'd just woken up from a nice, long nap and had no idea why he was standing next to a pool.
“Yo, Sammy Boy! What’s shakin’?”
The voice hadn’t come from any of the guys on the team, and it sure as hell hadn’t come from his co-captain. It had come from the one person in Sam's life who gave him more ulcers than Steve.
Tony wasn’t supposed to be here. And he definitely wasn’t supposed to be standing in the doorway at the top of the bleachers, shouting, "You’re just delaying the inevitable,” into a megaphone.
There was nothing unusual about Tony turning on the megaphone’s siren and pacing back and forth on the top row—or the fact that he was doing it in his ridiculous red-and-black striped suit—but Sam was highly concerned when he set the pace at a brisk jog. It wasn’t that Tony wasn’t nimble. For a guy who didn’t play sports, he was surprisingly sporty. It was just— Sam cringed when Tony hopped down a bleacher. There were... other problems.
Switching off the siren, Tony got dangerously close to the edge when he stopped at Sam’s end of the bleachers. So close, in fact, that the toes of his rose-patterned Gucci sneakers were hanging over the edge when he said, "Just pull your cell phone out of your banana hammock, lick off the ball sweat, and punch in Eddie Vedder’s digits, lickety-split."
One wrong move and Sam would be rushing Tony to the hospital.
Again.
"Five K says that poor poor guy—seriously, I bet Oliver Twist trades food stamps for tramp stamps—has one of those old-fashioned flip phones. Or, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, maybe even a beeper!"
In retrospect, it had been a big mistake to tell Tony about Barnes at lunch. But in Sam’s defense, Tony was supposed to have left after “social hour” to get a, quote unquote, “real education.”
“Why the hell aren’t you at Columbia?” Sam asked, throwing some extra bass into his voice. “Don’t tell me you skipped out on those genius-level college classes just to harass me at work.”
“Pfft. Work schmerk.” Tony took a swig from his ‘water bottle’—meaning he downed a shot of something a hell of a lot stronger than H2O—before stumbling down two entire rows. “Haven’t you heard, Sammy Davis Jr? I got myself a flashy new assistant from across the pond. A tall one with panther hair. So now, instead of rolling up my sleeves like a peon, I get to do whatever the fuck I want.”
“Like interrupting my practice?”
Dropping the megaphone, Tony took another swig. “I’m the manager of Lolo Kitty—heavy on the man—and I’m the manager of this team. So here I am, Sam-I-Am, gettin’ my drink on and managing things.”
“You’re full of shit, Stark."
Great, just what Sam needed. Brock Rumlow and his big mouth.
Brock loved drama. Creating it. Sticking his nose in it. Stirring it up like a bratty kid smashing a wasps’ nest with a stick. And sure enough, Brock waited for everybody to make a loose circle around Steve and Sam—juniors in the back, seniors in the front, like always—to say, “The only thing we need Stark to manage is this weekend’s pussy. Right, Cap?”
Sam cringed when Brock slapped Steve’s back.
There was no denying that Brock was their friend. They partied together, ate lunch together, and shot hoops after school. But in addition to being the guy you called when you needed to move a bunch of kegs into the basement, Brock was the kind of guy who picked fights, broke beer bottles, and said shit like “manage this weekend’s pussy.”
Taking another swig, Tony said, “I’ll manage Brock’s pussy,” which to the untrained ear, probably sounded more like “Ali Baba Bra’s goosy.”
In other words, the shit show was only getting started.
If Sam had to guess what was in the bottle, he’d go with Stoli Elit and Sprite. It was Tony’s go-to drink for partying undercover—or in this case, partying with an audience.
“I’m not sharing my cougars with anybody. Especially you!” Tony pointed in Brock’s general direction. “Ever since you messed with my mermaid’s blowhole, my cougars growl for me and me alone!”
There were chuckles all around because the majority of the team had made it to Tony’s Fourth of July party at his parent's house in the Hamptons. And those who hadn’t had definitely heard about it secondhand.
Tony’s name was synonymous with over-the-top parties, and "Mermaids and Meatheads" had been no exception. In typical Tony fashion, he’d made his assistant hire ten exceptionally attractive ‘college girls’ to dress as mermaids and splash around in inflatable kiddie pools. Misogynistic, yes. But everything had been relatively fine until Brock had jumped into a mermaid’s ‘lagoon’ without her permission, officially reducing Tony’s mermaid count from ten to nine.
Good times.
“Wax on, motherfucker!”
Everybody turned to look at Tony, who—against all odds—was holding the crane pose from Karate Kid.
Well, everybody but Steve because Steve was too busy staring at the diving boards to worry about drunk billionaires, objectified mermaids, or fixing the Goddamn team. Was he daydreaming about Sharon doing cartwheels in her blue-and-white cheerleader skirt? Mentally organizing beer pong teams for Ezra’s party tomorrow night? Pretending that Devin had never left? God only knew.
Breaking away from the pack, Rhodey said, “Tony, sit down before you die," as he walked up the first few rows of bleachers. “We have major problems, and you acting like a clown in that Prada suit isn’t helping.”
Sam smiled. He could always count on Rhodey to have his back. Aside from being the only other Black swimmer on varsity—not counting Coach Fury—James Rhodes was an enigma in a room full of hotheads. A rational guy who, instead of breaking beer bottles and spouting off about women’s “pussies,” actively campaigned for Hillary Clinton and volunteered to be the designated driver. But it wasn't Rhodey's unwavering dedication to women's rights and sober driving that had just lifted the weight of a very small, very drunk teenager off Sam's back. It was the fact that Rhodey was one of only two people at Eaton who could get Tony to stop doing the crane pose.
Why Tony’s enormous ego bowed to Rhodey and Peggy in particular was—
Actually, Sam didn’t care. He was just happy that the drunk clown had given up karate.
Rhodey had gotten Tony to lie on his back—a major accomplishment in itself—but he wasn't able to stop Tony from kicking off his gaudy sneakers and pedaling his legs like he was riding a bike.
“Clowns need unicycles,” Tony said, pedaling as fast as his short little legs would allow. “Be a dear, Rhodey Rhodes, and fetch me a one-wheeled bike!”
Was it funny? Hell yes! Was Sam going to laugh? Hell no! He’d save that for next week when Tony inevitably rode into school on a fusion-powered unicycle that he’d built in his workshop with robot scraps and a screwdriver.
Coach Fury was going to be here any second—if he wasn’t spying on them from his office already—and if Steve wasn’t going to stop staring at the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the pool and help Sam fix this mess, Sam had to take the co out of co-captain and do it his damn self.
“Rhodey’s right.” Sam snapped his fingers in front of Steve’s nose. “We do have a problem, and we have to fix it today. I know you’ve all heard Fury’s idea, so we just need to agree—”
“The problem is Devin fucked us!”
Brock stepped into Sam’s personal space like he was two inches taller—instead of two inches shorter—than Sam’s five foot eleven.
And that pathetic attempt at intimidation? Sam swallowed. Quite frankly, it pissed him off almost as much as the pussy comment.
“Fury’s idea is bullshit," Brock said, curling his upper lip. "We don’t need a fuckin’ outsider to prop up this team. And even if we did, there’s gotta be somebody besides that freak.”
Brock might be looking at Sam, but he wasn’t talking to Sam. It was a familiar tactic. Get loud. Rile people up. Make them agree, even when they don't.
“To be clear"—Sam forced Brock backward with one easy step—"Devin didn’t fuck us. His dad got transferred to Oregon. Big difference.”
Crossing his arms, Sam put his biceps to work as he made eye contact with each and every member of the team. Well, each and every member except Steve because Steve was too busy staring at the water fountain to appreciate Sam's gains from his recent foray into fifty pound hammer curls.
“If we don’t want a repeat of last night's fiasco, we have to replace Devin with someone that can keep pace with me and Steve. And I’m sorry”—Sam flexed twice as hard—“but that’s not anybody currently standing here in a Speedo.”
Brock scoffed because Brock always scoffed. Then he checked to see if Frank and Jack scoffed, which, of course, they did. In the past, the mobster mentality had never really bothered Sam, but lately? Watching Jack whisper something into Brock’s ear, Sam was definitely—
“Hey, guys,” Scott said, jumping between Brock and Sam like they were holding the ends of a jump rope. “Not to interrupt— I mean, I am interrupting. Duh. But I’ve got some questions about this whole sitch. And by sitch, I mean situation.”
Sam loved Scott almost as much as he loved Tony, but the guy was clueless. Facial cues. Context clues. Body language. None of it made a difference to Scott Lang. The running joke was that Scott would be so hyperfocused on collecting coins in Mario Kart that he’d burn alive if his house ever caught fire... or so distracted by a lightning bug that he'd fall into an open manhole... or so captivated by a girl with pretty hair that he'd step into a pit of snakes. You get the picture.
And now he was standing too close to Brock.
It wasn’t that Brock was bigger than Scott—they were both on the small side, with lean, muscular frames—it was that Scott was as ditsy as Brock was ruthless. And in this particular “sitch,” Brock was scowling so hard that his thick Italian eyebrows were touching in the middle.
“So, I’ve been listening to this whole convo,” Scott said, rocking back and forth like the spikes in Brock’s overly gelled hair weren’t sharp enough to use as weapons, “and I don’t get it. I mean, it’s definitely possible that I missed something”—Scott laughed—“or missed a lot of somethings ‘cause I just chugged, like, two and a half Red Bulls in the locker room and I really have to pee.”
Sam checked to see if his ‘trusty’ co-captain had sensed the danger, but unless Brock was about to throat punch Scott by the kickboards, Steve was oblivious.
“Did you know that for some people with ADHD, caffeine works like a chill pill?” Spinning around, Scott gave Sam a thumbs-up. “Red Bull, espresso, Mountain Dew, Rockstar, 5-hour ENERGY, Kickstart—which is kinda like Mountain Dew but different. But the caffeine trick's never really worked for me. I’m more of a—”
“Scott!”
Everybody jumped because Jack had shouted loud enough to explode Sam's eardrums.
Actually, no.
Everybody but Steve jumped because Steve was too busy staring at the pennants that hung above the pool.
“Whoopsie. Guess I got a little off track there, huh?" Scott rubbed his hair until it turned into a big brown poof. "I ate three bags of Peanut M&Ms with the Red Bulls, which, you know… squirrel. Anyways, is Bucky, like, good and stuff? I know he’s great at handstands ‘cause I always see him walking around the halls.”
“On his hands?”
Sam didn’t know who’d asked, and he didn’t care.
“Yeah, bro. It’s a handstand, not a footstand.” Scott made a sound with his mouth that Sam could only describe as a mixture between a fart and a motorboat. “This one time, I saw him skateboarding with that stoner guy—you know, the one with the mohawk that looks like a rake—and he only fell on his face once. It was rad. Even with all the blood and stuff, he managed to pull off a pretty sweet kickflip.”
“Was there a question in there?”
At some point Frank had wandered over to the bleachers and sat down—not that Sam cared. It was only relevant because Scott tripped over Sam’s feet when he ran over to answer the question.
“Right. Question.” Scott went in for a fist bump—which Frank totally denied. “Who told Coach Fury that Bucky can swim?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Brock said, rubbing his hand across his stubble like he was trying to coax out his beard. “It was his fuckin’ dad.”
Between Steve staring at whatever the hell he was staring at, Tony snoring like a professional alcoholic, and Brock’s particular brand of bullshit, the holes in Sam’s stomach were gonna double in size before he even got into the pool.
Sighing, Sam said, “I’m sure his dad put in a good word,” because how else would Fury have known when and where Barnes practiced? “But it doesn’t matter what his dad says, Coach Fury thinks he might be faster than Devin.”
“Yeah, right.” Brock pushed Kuba, who fell into Harry, who fell into his brother Charlie. “He obviously heard that shit from the creep’s dad.”
It was like talking to a wall.
Sam just wanted to go home, crawl into bed, and snuggle with his sisters’ horny cat. But thanks to Steve, he was stuck refereeing the Super Bowl of superiority complexes.
“No,” Sam said as Charlie pushed Harry, who fell into Timo, who fell into Ichiro. “Coach Fury went to the Brooklyn YMCA before the meet to watch him swim, and—”
"I’m sure he did.” Jack cracked his knuckles. “If Fury wants to keep his job, he has to do whatever Mr. Barnes says. That’s how it works when daddy is the principal.”
Between losing Devin, losing the meet, and losing his sanity from dealing with sixteen jackasses and a nonexistent co-captain, God was clearly sending Sam a message about skipping church on Sunday. Sam needed God’s help to sort this shit out, and God—despite Sam’s prayers being desperate and plentiful—was nowhere to be found.
Whispering under his breath, Sam said, “I’ll volunteer at the soup kitchen. I'll help with the can drive. I'll do double duty with Sylvie’s Sunday School class. Just please… make it stop.”
Unfortunately for Sam, God really didn't like it when he skipped church.
A hand popped up in the very back of the circle, followed by a high-pitched voice that asked, “Is this really up to the team? I mean, it seems pretty high stakes for Coach Fury to leave it up to us.”
Sam could only see his forehead, but there was no doubt that Peter Parker was the one doing the talking. As the only sophomore who’d been good enough to move up to varsity—not that he’d been good enough last night—Parker was the only guy on the team whose voice still cracked. Usually, Parker was hesitant to speak up around the team, but Sam knew for a fact that the kid had a big mouth when it came to his tenth grade buddies.
And Sam knew how to hold a grudge.
Fury's unfaltering philosophy about the importance of“team unification outside of the pool” had inspired Steve and Sam to organize a tubing trip down the Delaware River over the summer. But the only thing Peter had unified was the entire sophomore class with the knowledge—video included—that Sam had gotten his swim trunks stuck on a tree branch and ripped a hole in the ass.
In other words, Peter Parker might look like the Upper East Side’s version of Harry Potter—minus the glasses—but the kid couldn’t be trusted.
"Great question," Sam said in the spirit of 'team unity.' “Coach Fury wants everybody”—he glared at Steve—“and I mean everybody, to be on board.”
“This is a democracy.”
Sam could deal with Peter. He was annoying, but—
Actually, no.
Peter was annoying, period.
But Sam could not—in this life or the next—deal with Ezra’s nasally, I’m-better-than-everybody-and-their-mothers interjections.
Claiming a solid eight feet of the bleachers next to Frank, Ezra stretched out into one of his new age yoga poses. “Sam’s trying to be diplomatic, but let’s get real. Competitive swimmers don’t just fall into your lap. It’s a miracle that this guy even exists.”
“Should we thank God or Allah?”
It was a ‘joke’ Brock had made a million times in a million different ways, and every time, without fail, it made Sam want to break at least two of the Ten Commandments.
But Ezra wasn’t fazed. He just fanned out the curly black hair that had earned him cult leader status with the Coachella crowd and said, “Allah is God,” because Ezra was the most confident motherfucker Sam had ever met.
Not only did he stand to inherit one of the biggest real estate fortunes in the Middle East, all his father expected in return was for Ezra to embrace American decadence as a means of making solid connections with the city's one percent. And embrace it he had. American women. American drugs. American yoga. And the American tradition of spending hundreds of thousands of dollars to sleep in a dusty tent at Coachella.
“And besides"—Ezra pulled a pair of sunglasses out of nowhere—“we need some fresh energy around here. Ever since last year’s seniors bailed, this team has lacked... shall we say… a certain amount of spice.”
“Nobody but you likes curry,” Brock said, because, sure. Why not add some thinly veiled racism to Sam's list of problems?
"I'm Lebanese, not Indian. Plus, your mom ate curry off my dick last night."
“Enough,” Sam said when he heard Fury’s keys rattle by the office door. “Fury didn’t just say that Barnes was faster than Devin. He said he might be as fast as Steve.”
Fury had waited until Steve had left the office this morning to drop that juicy tidbit into Sam’s lap. Maybe to give Sam some extra incentive without bruising Steve’s ego. Maybe because he’d anticipated certain team members getting their panties in a twist about Barnes. Either way, Sam had been saving it for an emergency.
But nothing happened.
Steve just stood there like a deer in headlights, or—in New York City terms—a pedestrian about to get hit by a bus.
"Looks like Cap’s afraid of a little competition." Brock snapped the back of Steve's knee with a towel. "Is that the problem, buddy? Worried about losing clout?”
The chuckles were back, which was the equivalent of a bunch of kindergarteners laughing at an astrophysicist. Sam was a great swimmer, but Steve Motherfucking Rogers? He was a Goddamn legend! Built like Poseidon—or peak Ryan Murphy—Steve dominated every stroke. Freestyle? He was the fastest. Backstroke? He was the fastest. Breaststroke. He was the fastest. Butterfly? Don’t even get Sam started. Even if Barnes could keep up with Steve—which Sam highly doubted—there was no way he could compete in all four strokes.
Sam groaned because Fury had just flipped on the light in his office.
“Coach Fury made it perfectly clear that we need Barnes, so that’s what we—”
“Need him my ass,” Jack said, matching Frank’s scowl, which—not surprisingly—was a carbon copy of Brock’s. The only real difference between the three self-proclaimed "Italian Stallions" was that Brock was short, Jack was tall, and Frank was built like a bulldozer. “If Barnes is so great, why the fuck isn’t he already swimming for us?”
“‘Cause he’s a fuckin’ twink.” Brock laughed like he’d told the funniest joke in the history of homophobic comedy. But that shit wasn’t funny on any level. Not in 1952. Not in 1985. Not in 1999. And definitely not in 2016.
"Maybe it’s because assholes like you say shit like that!”
Steve didn’t need a megaphone to get everybody’s attention. He just had to stand up straight, flare his nostrils, and drop a dose of righteous anger like a grenade.
If this were any other situation, Sam would've tossed some confetti into the air to celebrate Steve’s sudden resurrection, but unless Steve had a sleeping bag and pillow stashed beneath all that bravado, Sam wasn’t in a confetti kind of mood.
“Would you look at that, the man can speak,” Sam said, forgetting all about Fury and Barnes, because, really? Now Steve was gonna jump in and save the day? “You’re the best, man. A real lifesaver.”
“He is the best!” Scott put his arm around Sam’s shoulders—or as much of Sam’s shoulders he could reach. “You too, Sam. You’re great. But seriously, guys. Why the heck would Bucky wanna swim at the Y instead of with us? I mean, the actual reason. Not, like, Brock being a dick.”
“Seriously,” Steve said, making everybody aware that he’d shot past six foot two over the summer. “I think the actual reason Bucky doesn’t want to swim with us is that he actually thinks we’re all assholes.”
If Sam weren’t so annoyed, he’d be proud.
“I don’t care what Barnes thinks,” Frank said. “That loser makes me mad just looking at him. Always has, always will.”
“Oh, c’mon, Frank." Scott tried for another fist bump. "Didn’t you see that cool Bob Ross shirt he had on the other day? It was amazing! It had the ’70s afro and the happy little trees.”
Sam could deal with Steve’s sarcasm, Ezra’s snark, and Frank’s constant negativity, but he could not—and would not—deal with Scott rubbing his nipples to show Frank the location of said “happy little trees.”
“People!” Sam clapped his hands together just as the light went off in Fury’s office. “You're missing the point.”
“Redirect us then, Mace Windu!”
Great. Steve had pulled off a double resurrection. Himself... and the drunk seventeen-year-old without any shoes.
"Did you just call me Mace Windu because I’m Black?”
Stumbling to his feet, Tony swung his empty bottle like a lightsaber. “No way, Jules. I called you Mace Windex because you're a beautiful Black Jedi who loves a good Royale with Cheese.”
That was it. The final straw. The straw that broke the camel’s back. The straw that Sam, under any circumstances, wasn't going to pull out of Tony’s nose. Even if Tony fell off the bleachers and broke his tailbone, Sam wasn’t gonna carry him anywhere. Not to the nurse’s office. Not to the hospital. And definitely not to Steve’s truck to sleep it off like he had last week.
“I see you rolling your eyes, Mr. Glass.” Tony snorted. “Get it? ‘Cause Jules is eating his Royale with Cheese in a wheelchair.”
“Listen,” Sam said because Fury had just walked out of his office with his mouth already on the whistle. “His dad says he’s good, his sister says he’s good, and—”
“Yo, Mace! Have you had it up to here with the motherfucking snakes on the motherfucking plane?”
Closing his eyes, Sam promised to pick up an entire week of shifts at the soup kitchen if God fast-tracked a miracle.
“Fine,” Steve said. “You win.”
Miracle granted.
“But I’m not asking him.”
Miracle partially granted.
Fury might be twenty feet away and closing, but there was no way in hell Sam was gonna let that slide.
“No. You don’t get to stare at the diving boards, the rafters, the water fountain, and whatever the hell else you’ve been staring at for the past fifteen minutes, then pawn off the job. You’re the motherfucking co-captain—”
“Of the motherfucking plane!”
It was inevitable. Tony was going to turn Sam into a gray-haired, ulcer-ridden version of his father whose “beautiful Black skin” was full of wrinkles from raising too many damn kids!
“I know, Sam. I just—” Steve rubbed the back of his neck like he was trying to exfoliate an entire layer of skin. “But he doesn't like me… like… at all. He always looks at me weird and—”
“I told you he’s been looking at us weird!” Jack pointed at Sam like he'd won the lottery, and Sam—
“Maybe he loooves you,” Tony said, dragging his tongue the full length of his ‘lightsaber.’ “Loves you looong time.”
Sam could feel the gray hairs sprouting from his temples.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said like he wasn’t sorry at all. “I just… I think it will go better if you’re the one who asks him. Everybody likes you, and—”
“God, Rogers.” Brock had the nerve to throw his towel at Steve's chest. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a fuckin’ homo.”
“Shut up!”
Steve and Sam had yelled the exact same thing at the exact same time. And more than that, they’d taken a collective step in Brock’s direction.
It was the first time they’d acted like co-captains all day.
“Listen,” Sam said just as Fury blew his whistle. “I’m gonna take one for the team—this time—but you owe me. You’re gonna help me study for my chemistry retake, be a top-tier wingman at Ezra’s party, and score us two tickets to Kanye’s sold-out show in December. And that’s only the beginning.”
Sam looked Steve dead in the eye.
“‘Cause, man. Right now, you suck.”
*
And that’s how Sam ended up on the roof of the school, standing in front of Bucky Barnes like a Goddamn fool while Clint Barton—and his towering mohawk—smoked a joint and gave Sam the stank eye.
Up until twenty minutes ago, Sam had been thrilled to get out of practice. But now? He held his breath as another puff of smoke blew across his face. Not so much.
Steve had talked Sam into a lot of stupid things with his rousing “It’ll-be-fine” speeches and puppy dog eyes, several of which had left permanent scars. Three guesses whose idea it had been to challenge the wrestling team to a game of tackle football in a gravel lot. Sam rubbed the pebble embedded in the skin just above his ass. And three more to figure out whose idea it had been to play shirts vs skins, calling skins like he’d wanted his friends to get road rash.
The answer was Steve and Steve.
And don’t even get Sam started about the time they’d been jogging around the reservoir in Central Park and Steve had convinced him to catch a squirrel that had gotten a bottle stuck on its head. Sam shivered. It had been two years since he'd saved that stupid squirrel’s life, and he could still feel those tiny little claws digging into the meat of his thigh.
But this—whatever this was—was worse.
It was bad enough that Barnes had made Sam squeeze past the mops and brooms in a fourth-floor janitor’s closet, climb a rickety old ladder, and weave his way across a roof that had more patches than the JFK Expressway. Now he had Sam standing here like a deadbeat dad on an episode of Dr. Phil.
If Steve didn’t come through on Kanye, Sam was never gonna forgive him.
Barnes had made himself comfortable in a green plastic chair, putting his feet up on a concrete block like he was chillin’ in his crib with a bowl of popcorn. But this was about as far away from a living room as you could get. Not only was Barnes sitting in front of a brick chimney that was the size of two refrigerators, the damn thing was covered with soot stains that looked like they’d been there since 1892.
But this wasn’t about the chimney.
As soon as he’d sat down, Barnes had unhooked a pair of pink Ray-Ban knockoffs from the collar of his t-shirt and slipped them on with a level of smoothness that made Sam think he’d been taking lessons from Ezra—or vice versa. And those ’80s shades—combined with the way Barnes kept tipping the chair back on two legs—made it impossible for Sam to get a read on things.
Menacing? Mysterious? A major asshole?
Sam had no idea.
Barton, on the other hand, was as easy to read as one of Sylvie’s library books. After parkouring his way to the top of the chimney, Barton had hung his legs over the side like he lived there. Combat boots. Eyeliner. Black nail polish. A skull t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Everything you needed to know about Barton was plastered on the outside, just like the blond mohawk he'd plastered into a series of spikes. But the thing that really drove Barton’s feelings home was the way he was slowly and deliberately scratching his eyebrow piercing with his middle finger.
“Leather pants, huh?” Sam crossed his arms. “It's, like, ninety-five degrees today, man.”
Barton’s pants had more zippers than Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video. Zippers on the thighs. Zippers on the shins. Zippers on the knees. And a zipper on the fly that was reflecting the sun into Sam’s eyes.
“Thanks for the weather report,” Barton said, scratching his piercing and his balls at the same damn time. And it wasn’t a quick scratch. No... Barton was taking his sweet ass time, scratching them with—you guessed it—two middle fingers.
Shielding his eyes, Sam tried a different approach.
“Who waters that plant?”
The plant next to Barnes’ chair was in a yellow pot, and it wasn’t scraggly or overgrown like Sam would have expected from a random rooftop plant. The thing looked healthy, like somebody climbed up here with a watering can twice a week and fed it Miracle-Gro.
Barton took a hit off his joint, blowing the smoke at Barnes, who—instead of answering—made himself busy unraveling a yellow thread from the smiley face patch on his knee. And Sam—whose brand-new Air Jordans had tar all over the bottoms—was at a loss.
“What do you want?” Barnes asked, wrapping the thread around his middle finger until the smile was gone. “You said it was important.”
“It is. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have climbed—”
“‘Cause we’ve already broken the number one rule of the Sanctuary:”—Barnes snapped off the string—"Don’t talk about the Sanctuary.”
Everything told Sam to shout, “You didn’t have to drag me up here! We could’ve handled this downstairs when I found you in the office!” But instead, he asked, “Sanctuary?” because, sure, why not?
The tip of Barnes’ finger looked like a grape, but that didn’t stop him from using it to push his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose.
“Yes, Sanctuary,” Barnes said, hitting menacing right on the nose. “And since you’ve never spoken to me directly until, let’s see”—Barnes looked at an imaginary watch—“seven and a half minutes ago, I’m just dyin' to hear what you could have to say to little ol’ me.”
Grunting like a caveman, Barton took a rip off his joint, which would’ve been a halfway decent intimidation tactic—or at least a step up from Brock—if he hadn’t started coughing like he’d wrapped his mouth around an exhaust pipe. But Barnes didn’t notice—or care—that his friend had asphyxiated himself with marijuana smoke. He was too busy staring into the depths of Sam’s soul like a serial killer.
If Sam made it out of here alive, Kanye wasn’t gonna cut it. Steve was gonna have to score Drake tickets, Future tickets, Big Sean tickets, and VIP tickets to the NBA Finals—including transportation via his stepdad's private jet—because Bucky Barnes was downright scary.
“C’mon, Wilson." Barnes licked his lips. "Out with it.”
Suddenly the squirrel didn’t seem so bad.
Taking a deep breath, Sam puffed up his chest like Steve. “I'm here representing the swim team.”
Barton snorted. And Sam—
Sam ignored him because the faster he got this out, the faster he could get off this Goddamn roof.
“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but our second fastest swimmer moved to Oregon—like, here on Tuesday, gone on Wednesday—and we need to fill his spot. There's a lot of talent on the team, but none of them have the right combination of speed and power to anchor the relays like Devin could. Word on the street is that you’re good—like, really good—and Coach Fury wants us to recruit you.” Sam widened his stance. “So here I am, recruiting you.”
Relaxing his shoulders, Sam gave himself props. That had been a damn good speech. Authoritative but cool. A hint of flattery without kissing ass. Steve had sent the right man.
“No.”
“What? What do you mean 'no'?”
“Easy. I mean no.” Unraveling the string, Barnes pushed the sunglasses back into place. “No way, José. Nope. Nada. Nyet. Nein. Not happening. Never in a million years, fuck you very much.”
Barton laughed so hard that the joint fell out of his mouth.
It didn’t matter how many rings Barton had sticking out of his eyebrow, it was impossible to look tough when you were digging a lit joint out of your crotch. And—apologies to Jesus—Sam was enjoying the hell out of watching Barton flail around on top of that chimney.
“Fucking hell, dude! You made me burn a hole in my favorite pants!”
Sam was about to laugh in Barton’s face, but before he could open his mouth, Barnes tipped back his chair and said, “If it’s so fucking important, why didn’t the King of the Jocks ask me himself?”
It was clear that Sam should just leave—cut his losses, climb down the ladder, and rush home to play UNO with Breonna and Sylvie—but curiosity was a bitch.
“King of the Jocks, huh? That's cute. You come up with that on the spot?”
“No.”
If Sam were to give somebody a visual description of the word deadpan, he’d hand them a picture of Bucky Barnes and his potted plant staring at Sam with matching expressions.
“Whatever, man. I’m starting to understand Steve’s decision to sit this one out.”
Barnes raised an eyebrow, which was the first genuine reaction Sam had seen since he'd found these jerks stealing candy in the main office.
“Listen,” Sam said in a last ditch effort to sound open and inviting. “Steve thinks you hate him. He’s been acting like a big baby ever since this whole thing came up. And I didn’t get it. In fact, I gave him a really hard time. But after dealing with you two, I understand completely. You guys are assholes.”
“No, you’re the asshole.” Barton wasn’t looking for his joint anymore, he was looking for a fight. “You and Steve Rogers.”
“Okay, I’m done,” Sam said, backing out of the situation as fast as he could. “The sooner I tell Coach Fury we’re screwed, the sooner I can collect my Kanye tickets and pet Snuggles.”
Sam made it halfway to the ladder before—
“Wait.”
There wasn't a bone in Sam's body that wanted to wait, but then he pictured Harry destroying their leads... and Brock throwing a temper tantrum... and Steve staring at the Goddamn pennants above the pool.
Trying to convince himself to turn back, Sam said, “For the team.” And when that didn’t work, he followed Tony’s lead—minus the megaphone—and said, “For the motherfucking team.”
Sam was full prepared for another round of bullshit, but when turned around, what he saw was completely unexpected.
The chair was on four legs, and Barnes' feet were firmly on the ground. But that wasn’t it. He’d taken off his sunglasses, and the way he was untangling a chunk of hair from the hinges was—
Sam squinted at him to be sure.
He seemed... quieter, like somebody had power washed the asshole right off of him.
Bending over to pick up the plant, Barnes said, “I don't hate him."
"Sure seems like you do. I mean, with all the middle fingers flying around, I’m sure as hell not feeling the love.”
“What do you expect?” Barton stood up, and, for a second, it looked like he was going to launch himself off the top of the chimney. “Your dick friends have been fucking with Bucky for years. Rollins. Castle. That cunt Rumlow. And those are the names that stand out. Your buddy Steve might not be the one calling Bucky a faggot and spitting on him in the hall, but he sure as fuck hasn’t done shit to stop it.”
“Come to think of it”—standing up, Barnes kicked over his chair—“neither have you.”
Until this very moment, Sam had been under the impression that he and Barnes were about the same size—give or take an inch—but as soon as Barnes stomped across the roof with his plant, it became frighteningly clear that he was almost as tall as Steve.
“So tell me, Sam.” Barnes shook the plant in Sam’s face. “Why the fuck would I want to join a team full of homophobic, homogenized, spoiled jock dicks who get off on making my life a living hell?”
“Good question, cupcake.”
The metallic bang when Barton kicked the bird spikes around the top of the chimney made Sam long for the slurping sounds of Tony licking his ‘lightsaber.’
Gritting his teeth, Sam said, “Not helping, man.”
“Not trying to.”
There was sideways, and there was sideways, and if Sam didn’t get this conversation back on track, there’d be no salvaging the situation.
He tried to relax his posture.
“You should join the team because Coach Fury says you’re wasting your talent at the Y. I know some of the guys can be dicks—believe me, I was this close to punching Brock before I came up here—but they’re also a good team. We win. And, deep down, I'm sure you'd like to win too.”
The instant the words came out of his mouth, Sam realized that he had no idea if Barnes gave a shit about winning. For all he knew, watering plants and smoking weed were the guy's top priorities in life.
“I know it sounds like a cop out”—Sam relaxed his muscles until he was pretty much a puddle—“but I didn’t know the guys were giving you so much shit. Trust me, if Steve and I had known, we would’ve put a stop to it a long time ago.”
“Bullshit.”
Barton kicked the spikes hard enough to make a brick fall off the chimney. And the look in Barnes’ eyes—
Sam swallowed.
The look in Barnes’ eyes made it perfectly clear that Sam had fucked up.
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, reaching around the leaves to rest his hand on Barnes’ shoulder.
Then he waited, making sure Barnes believed him before he said the rest.
“I promise, I’ll do whatever it takes to make it right. Steve too. Because, bottom line”—Sam squeezed just enough to let Barnes know he was serious—“we need you.”
***
Looking up at the big blue sky, Bucky took a minute to let those three little words sink in.
We. Need. You.
What a weird concept.
Then he pushed Sam Wilson’s grubby mitt off his super sweet t-shirt (shout out, Twilight Sparkle) ‘cause Steve Rogers’ right-hand man might be chillin’ on the good side of bad, but he was still a fuckin’ jock.
“The clouds are mega puffy today, don’t you think?” Bucky slipped on his shades 'cause afternoons in the Sanctuary were hella bright. “Like a bunch of Stay Puft Marshmallow Men floatin’ around in a bright-blue swimming pool.”
Hangin' out on puffy little clouds with his little group of non-puffy friends was Bucky’s favorite thing in the whole wide world. Clint puffed up the clouds with secondhand smoke. Daisy scented the edges with Little Debbie Zebra Cakes. And Skinner, with his brown bag lunches, kept the rain away with a steady supply of scrumptious salami sandwiches. Without his friends, Bucky’s puffy little cloud would be three times less puffy.
“Did you hear what I said?”
Sam had a gap between his front teeth. Not a big one. Just enough to give him some extra personality in the dental department. And it was hot as fuck. Bucky’d never seen it up close and personal until…Bam!...Sam had stormed into the office and shouted, “Where the fuck is Bucky Barnes?” He’d also never noticed how ultrabright Sam’s teeth were. Swear to god, they were brighter than the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man’s ultrabright belly.
“I heard you,” Bucky said, squinting so Sam’s teeth didn’t blind him. “Clint’s the one who’s deaf, not me.”
Clint threw something at Bucky’s back. Maybe it was a rock, maybe it was a pile of petrified pigeon shit. Either way, when Clint said, “I heard that,” it was Triple H hilarious.
And Sam (with his preppy-ass polo, preppy-ass khakis, and preppy-ass fade) looked like he wanted to spread his preppy-ass wings and fly off the roof.
Bucky did a lil’ hop, skip, jump back to the base of the chimney, and Clint did a lil’ squat, plop, bend to hold a freshly lit joint up to Bucky’s lips.
“So,” Bucky said, taking an itty-bitty hit so his dad didn’t ground him for 547 years, “lemme give you a weather forecast, live from the Sanctuary.” He blew the smoke at Mr. Plant to give his buddy a lil' bud for his buds. “Joining your stupid swim team would be like throwing my puffy little clouds into a Category 5 hurricane. And I don’t know about you, Sam, but I happen to like the sunshine.”
“You lost me at the clouds, man.”
Sam was cute. A little dumb. A little grumpy. But cute. And maybe that’s why Bucky took another puff and…Whoosh!...blew it straight up Sam’s ass.
“I’m making an analogy. The superstar swimmer with boulders for biceps—that’s you—and his dickwad friends—no translation needed—are the hurricane, and my life is a tranquil Caribbean island. Palm trees. Seashells. Parrots. Paradise. And lemme tell ya, I’m not down for waterspouts and two hundred mile-per-hour winds. And not just ‘cause it’ll fuck up my hair.” Bucky tapped the toe of Clint’s boot. “Me and my bestie love the shit out of our puffy little cloud, don’t we?”
“Sure do, cupcake.”
“And Daisy and Skinner love the shit out of their puffy little clouds, don’t they?”
“You know they do.”
Bucky probably (definitely) shouldn’t tip his head back so Clint could give him another hit, but smoke added authenticity to the clouds.
Blowing a perfect smoke ring at his bestie’s face, Bucky said, “I don’t give a flying fuck if your team finishes last in your division. You’re not fucking up my cloud.”
Real talk: Bucky was putting up a good front, but, flying coconuts aside, he’d kill for a chance to find out what was lurking beneath Steve Rogers’ all-American persona. And more than that, he’d love, love, love to spend long stretches of time (key word: long) staring at Steve Rogers’ all-American dong.
“And that co-captain of yours…” Bucky tried to hide his chub with his t-shirt before he remembered that Twilight Sparkle barely covered his happy trail. “That motherfucker’s more than a hurricane. He’s the tres leches superstorm in The Day After Tomorrow. You know, the one where Jake Gyllenhaal's about to freeze to death inside the New York Public Library and his dad, aka Dennis Quaid, is the only man in the Northern Hemisphere with the balls—and the snowshoes—to trek through the most dangerous storm in human history to ‘rescue’ his son.”
“Steve is a snowstorm?”
Sam was lucky he had a bubble butt straight out outta Sir Mix-a-Lot video ‘cause he sure as fuck wasn’t ample in the brains department.
“I mean, if you want to simplify the shit out of my Jake Gyllenhaal analogy, sure. Steve is a fucking snowstorm.”
Bucky had a lot of top-secret ninja skills. Walking on his hands. Hanging spoons off the end of his nose. Swimming really fast. Sucking dick. But his ability to read people like a New Jersey medium was the only one that applied in this particular life-or-death situation.
In the thirty-six months, two weeks, and four days (last night included) that Bucky had jerked off while fantasizing about Steve Rogers fucking his brains out, Bucky'd come to the come-covered conclusion that there was a hell of a lot more to Mr. Popularity than a gazillion dollar truck, dick friends, and a package that looked bigger than a porn star’s in a swimsuit.
Unlike Sam and Stark, who (for the most part) acted like Bucky was invisible, Steve—
Well, Steve ignored him too. But every once in a while, Bucky would catch Mr. All-American staring at him in the hall, or the library, or the cafeteria, or in front of the school by the bushes. And it wasn’t a hot-jock-with-an-attitude kind of thing or a "I'm-gonna-gay-bash-the-shit-out-of-you" kind of thing. Steve always looked sad, like his pet goldfish had died or he’d accidentally run over a penguin with his pimped-out truck.
But Mr. All-American staring at Bucky like a dead goldfish wasn’t the reason he thought Steve might have more going for him than great hair and a big dick. A couple of times last spring, when Brock and his Merry Band of Pricks had been shoving merriment (cough, homophobic slurs) down Bucky’s throat, Steve had distracted the homo-hating fuckfaces with hockey stats to get the homo-haters to shut their homo-hating mouths.
Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.
“The jury’s still out,” Bucky said, shooting Sam a look that said he didn’t appreciate Sam’s lack of appreciation for Jake Gyllenhaal. “Is the King of the Jocks a knight in shining armor who rides up on his white horse and…Kapow!...beheads the homophobes with his really big sword? Or is he one of those mead-swilling assholes who only pulls out his weapon when he wants the castle wench to clean his sheath?”
Rubbing his temples like he was D.O.N.E., Sam asked, “Are we still talking about swimming?” which was fair. At Camelot, the only in-ground pool was a shit-filled moat.
“Yeah.” Clint kicked Bucky’s shoulder. "Are we?”
“I’m talking about a lot of things,” Bucky said, shoving Lancelot’s boot away from his ear. “Swimming. Survival. Swords. I mean, homo-hating dragons and dick-sucking whores aside, I have to consider the temperature of the pool, the grueling practice schedule, and Steve Rogers’ stance on conversion therapy. Fun fact: I like sleeping in until my bladder’s about to explode, especially on Saturday.”
“Pizza Saturdays are holy.”
Clint was right. The destruction of Pizza Saturdays would be a deal-breaker.
Inhaling the scent of hot, gooey cheese, Bucky said, “Saturdays without pepperoni pizza and porn would be a fuckin’ travesty. Not to mention, Coach Fury’s probably gonna make me shave my chest hair.” Bucky pulled down the collar of his t-shirt. “It’s finally starting to come in around my nipples, and—”
“No it’s not.”
Was Clint a homo-hater? Obviously not (duh). But he was an asshole with a capital A.
“Fine, it’s not. But I still don’t wanna shave the rest.”
Ignoring Bucky’s critical question about his Hasselhoffian chest hair, Sam said, "I don’t know what else you want me to say, man. I can't ask any nicer."
There were 879 zillion cloud-killing cons in Captain Wilson’s proposal, but when you factored in the intensity of Bucky’s blue balls, there were also a fuckton of pros.
Bucky could spot Steve in the weight room, adding plate after plate to make him sweat. And once they were both dripping wet, they could strip off their salty clothes and share a protein shake (one cup, two straws). At first, it would be the muscle-building kind (with pasteurized egg whites and whey protein), but if Bucky pulled out all the stops, aka worked his fuckboy magic, they could (maybe) work their way up to the dirty kind. You know, where they relaxed their throats and swallowed.
“I’m leaving.”
“Hold on,” Bucky said, adjusting his sunglasses for maximum shade. “I’m almost there.”
There was a question on the table. A big one. And there was a hell of a lot more at stake than Jake Gyllenhaal’s frozen Popsicle.
Did Bucky want to hurl himself into The Perfect Storm for the chance to ogle Steve Rogers’ perfect ass at close range?
Yes.
Bucky snorted. Then, trying really, really, really hard to get his hormones under control, he backed that shit up and tried again.
Did Bucky want to hurl himself into The Perfect Storm for the chance to ogle Steve Rogers’ perfect ass at close range?
No. It would be emotional suicide. Everybody knows what happens to Batman and Marky Mark at the end of that movie. Spoiler alert: They die.
Flipping his hair behind his shoulder for the ultimate ’90s Pitt effect, Bucky dredged up his Russian accent to say, “So I’m just supposed to ignore three years of bullying, judgment, and suffering because you suddenly need me?” Pausing, he switched to an accent more fitting for Louis de Pointe Du Lac. “What if all I have is my suffering… my regret?”
Handing Mr. Plant to his Cajun bestie, Bucky sauntered towards their guest. One, because he wanted to be nice and close for the grand finale, and two, because the most terrifying vampires always spoke in a whisper.
“And you claim that you didn’t know?” Bucky brushed his fingers across Sam’s chest. “Ah, Sam… but I know you did. I know. And as much as your invitation may appeal to me, I must regretfully decline.”
Ending with the fanciest vampire bow he could pull off in these jeans, Bucky knew in his undead heart that Brad and Claudia would be so fucking proud.
“Hell yeah!” Clint jumped up and down like Bucky’d won an Oscar. “I fucking love it when you do Louis! It's so damn sexy!” He pointed at Sam like he was the lamest vampire in Paris (which, duh, he totally was). “Dude, you just got Armanded!”
Sam mumbled something about Kanye West, but Bucky was too busy basking in the moonlit glow of his Oscar-winning performance to give a shit about Yeezy (or Yeezy in Paris).
“I mean, look at his face,” Clint said, takin' the world's fattest hit of his fatty. “His big brown eyes are practically oozing with Armand’s unexpected rejection.”
“It’s like you’re talking in code.” Sam squinted at Clint like— Well, like he was talking in code.
“Interview with a Vampire?” Clint asked.
Blank stare.
Lifting Twilight Sparkle to show Sam his sparkling abs (#TeamEdward), Bucky said, “Brad Pitt at his sexiest and most gay?”
Blank stare.
Clint set down Mr. Plant. “A horribly miscast Antonio Banderas crying like a little bitch after Louis rejects him?”
Blank stare.
If Bucky knew Clint (which he most definitely did), Señor Sam was about to get one hell of an undead education.
“Have you been living under a rock?" Clint popped a squat like New Orleans' hottest punk-rock professor. “Interview with a Vampire is a must-watch piece of cinematic history. Get out your phone—I mean it, get out your phone right now—and google 'Tom Cruise and Antonio Banderas are gay for Louis.’ I swear, when you see Antonio’s tears, you’re gonna think he’s your gay vampire twin.”
"Yeah," Bucky said, "your gay white vampire twin from Spain."
“Thanks for your time.”
Sam (who from this moment forward would be known as the Vampire Armand) took his boulder biceps and bootylicious butt (#BabyGotBack) back to the ladder.
“Don’t forget to water your plant.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Bucky assessed Mr. Plant’s hydration. Sure, Clint had set him dangerously close to the edge of the chimney, but he didn’t look thirsty (for water or dick).
“I’m gonna kill Steve,” Sam said as he stepped onto rung número uno. “Makin' me lose sleep for this shit. Gay vampire, my ass.”
“Hey.”
The only thing left was the tippity-top of Sam’s head.
“Tell the king I'll do it.”
Kapow! Clint jumped off the chimney in a single bound, shouting, “What the fuck are you doing?” directly into Bucky’s ear.
“Fucking up our puffy little cloud. What does it look like?”
Bucky half expected Clint to tackle him and get him into a headlock so he could shake some sense into him they were on WWE SmackDown! But instead, he stumbled backwards like Bucky’d already punched him in the nuts.
“But I want some guarantees,” Bucky said when Sam’s head popped up like a gopher popping out of a hole. “Steve keeps those assholes under control. And I’m not just talking about the homophobic pricks. I’m talking about the cybernetic twins that give Clint shit about his scholarship—their Caesar haircuts are the worst of the ’90s—and that snobby motherfucker who keeps hitting on Daisy. I don’t give a flying fuck that he wears killer shades and has hair like Zayn's when he went shaggy. She’s told him to fuck off 987 times, and he still comes up to her and brags about his daddy’s superyacht on the Mesopotamian Sea.”
“Mediterranean. But, sure. No problem.”
“And he keeps a muzzle on Brock.”
“Difficult, but whatever. We'll figure it out.”
Shaking his head, Clint signed “Don’t do this,” which was worse than a piledriver (or a sharpshooter, or a backbreaker, or a figure four leglock). Like, way, way, way worse. And when his fingers made the sign for “please,” Bucky had to look away.
Clint was the only person who knew every last detail of what the homo-haters had done. Natasha knew some of it. Skinner and Daisy too. But Clint— Bucky closed his eyes. Clint knew it all.
Freshman year: Frank Castle had made it his mission to slam into Bucky like a fucking freight train every time they’d crossed paths in the hall. And Clint had been there, cursing Frank’s name as he’d iced Bucky’s bruises with frozen corn.
Sophomore year: Jack Rollins had snapped a picture of Bucky kissing TJ Campbell underneath the bleachers during a pep rally, posting it on Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat, Discord, and fucking Facebook for everyone from Eaton (parents and teachers included) to enjoy. And Clint had been there, spoon-feeding Bucky Superman ice cream as he’d wiped the snot off Bucky’s nose.
Bucky dragged his hand across his face. Two days. Two months. Two motherfucking years. It didn’t matter how much time had passed, thinking about that picture fucking sucked. One flash. That’s all it had taken to ruin Bucky’s first relationship (not that they’d made it past grabbing each other’s butts), out TJ, and…Gay Denial!...get TJ’s parents to inform him that he “wasn’t gay,” “wasn’t allowed within five hundred feet of that degenerate homosexual," aka Bucky, and that his twink ass would get sent straight to military school if he didn’t “straighten up.”
The excitement of holding someone’s hand. Of sneaking a first kiss behind a yellow school bus. Of feeling wanted. All of it had been stolen by Jack Rollins and his fucking iPhone. Not to mention the absolute nightmare Picturegate had been for Bucky’s dad.
Cue Deep Voice Guy:
The principal of prestigious Upper East Side school Eaton Academy faced heavy criticism today after his queer son stuck his tongue down the throat of notorious right-wing senator Thomas Campbell’s son on school property. Sources say Principal Barnes will be lucky to keep his job.
It was a stupid idea to look at what Clint was signing, but when it came to Clint’s hands, Bucky was stupid.
Case in point...
Junior year: Brock Rumlow had upped his game, accosting Bucky with a never-ending stream of homophobic fuckery from the moment Bucky walked into school to the moment he left. And Clint had been there, making everything better with a hell of a lot more than ice cream.
Bucky had PTSD from all the shit Brock had pulled. And worse, he had PTSD from all the shit Clint had done to make it better.
“Are you still coming up with demands, or can I go now?”
Clint signed "Stop, Bucky," which—
“Fuck off, Clint! I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t!” Clint had gone from silence to shouting in the blink of an eye. “You’re blinded by Steve Rogers’ ass.”
“Of course I am! It’s beautiful! And Sam’s right. I am sick of losing.”
"No, you're sick of being single. And I can guarantee that Steve Rogers isn't gonna switch teams for you, if that's what you're thinking."
Sam cleared his throat, but Bucky didn’t care if Sam fell off the side of the fucking building.
“It’s time to make some changes,” Bucky said, making the universal sign for "fuck you." “Reach for the stars. Wear a varsity jacket in my senior pictures. Make—"
"A play for a straight guy."
“Oh, that’s fucking rich. Believe me, pal, I learned my lesson the last time.”
Bucky wanted to kick Clint in the nuts, spit on his face, and tell him to shove a metal stop sign up his ass. But Bucky chose the 'high road,' making a move that would make a much bigger mark.
“I choose my events,” Bucky said to Sam. “No seniority bullshit. If I'm the fastest, I get the spot.”
“Fury’s the one who makes that call.”
“No exceptions. If I'm the best, the spot’s mine.”
Bucky’d spent too many meets sitting on the sidelines so his coach could give shitty swimmers a “learning experience.” If he was gonna cannonball into a motherfucking hurricane with Marky Mark, he wasn’t gonna lounge around on the fucking bench.
“Fine,” Sam said, moving down a rung. “Anything else?”
Bucky had one more request, and Clint had pissed him off just enough to ask for it.
“Yeah. I want him to ask me himself.”
***
The plant. The chimney. The lawn chair. The tar. Sam had warned Steve about all of it. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of standing in front of Bucky Fucking Barnes on the edge of a four-story building.
Vertigo had set in the second Steve had stepped off the ladder, but the spinning had nothing to do with the height. It was the way Bucky Fucking Barnes was commanding the space from his faded green lawn chair, twirling the ends of his long, wavy hair around his finger.
The longer Steve stared at the never-ending spiral, the dizzier he got. And the dizzier he got, the closer he was to puking up the carton of Muscle Milk he’d chugged after Coach Fury had let him out of practice early.
Steve could handle the nausea. It was par for the course when he was stressed. And he could handle the blur of the surrounding buildings as they spun counterclockwise around Eaton’s footprint. But there wasn’t a cell in Steve’s body that could handle the way Clint Barton was leaning against an industrial-size air conditioner, leering at him as he tossed a tennis ball up... and down... up… and down.
Sam’s call had come when Steve had been halfway to the penthouse. Halfway between Hell and the vertigo-inducing anxiety that was Bucky Fucking Barnes. Even without Sam’s impassioned plea, it had been an easy choice to turn the steering wheel right, then right again. Not because recruiting Bucky was what was best for the team, but because avoiding the penthouse was what was best for Steve.
Sam had been right about the plant. It did look like somebody climbed up here twice a week to water it with a mixture of Miracle-Gro and love. There were new leaves peeking out between the older ones—lime green against rich emerald hues—and there wasn’t a bug in sight. Steve smiled because the late afternoon sun was hitting the leaves just right, making them shine like wax-coated jewels.
It belonged in a painting.
In sharp contrast, Bucky’s boots looked like he’d spent his day shoveling horse shit instead of sitting in a classroom. The leather was covered with something that looked like dirt, but could just as easily have been cocoa powder, and there was silver duct tape wrapped around the toes. It was impossible to tell whether the loops of tape were a fashion statement or purely utilitarian. Either way, Bucky’s boots were the opposite of shiny.
And the funny thing? They belonged in a painting too.
A bead of sweat dripped down Steve’s temple when Bucky leaned back in his chair, and his entire face turned into a furnace when Bucky spread his legs like an invitation.
Up… and down. Up… and down.
Steve had no idea why the juxtaposition of shiny green leaves and dirty black boots was making him so nervous, and even less of a clue why it made him say something as stupid as, “Nice plant.”
Up… and down. Up… and down. Clint was rubbing the back of his mohawk against the metal, bending the spikes like the tips of freshly sharpened fencing blades. And the way he was tossing that ball—
Steve cringed.
It was worse than waiting for Bucky to react to him saying “nice plant.”
“You like my plant?” Bucky gestured at the leaves like they were his most prized possession.
“I mean… plants are nice.”
Clint snorted, but he never stopped flicking the tennis ball up… and down... up… and down in a perfectly timed rhythm.
“Jesus Christ,” Steve said as he bit the inside of his cheek. Clint Barton was just a guy with a ball. And Bucky Barnes was just a guy with a plant. There was no reason Steve's fingers should be going numb. No reason his stomach should be regurgitating Muscle Milk. And no reason a swan dive off the edge of the building should be looking like a viable option.
Whispering under his breath, Steve said, “You’re just a dude with a plant,” but when Bucky Fucking Barnes raised his eyebrows, he suddenly looked like something more.
After meeting Sam in the parking garage, and getting a serious lecture about being a shitty co-captain and an even shittier friend, Steve had heard all about the “King of the Jocks.” Steve knew it was supposed to be an insult—he was nervous, not stupid—but as he marveled at the way the gentle arch of Bucky’s eyebrows framed his cerulean-blue eyes, Steve couldn’t help but see a golden crown with pink and purple jewels materialize on the top of Bucky’s head.
“Plants are good for the soul,” Bucky decreed, tickling the edges of the emerald leaves with his silver rings.
The King of the Plants? No, that was stupid. The King of Weed? Steve looked at the guy with the ball. No, that title belonged to Bucky's court jester, who, in accordance with the king’s wishes, was still tossing the ball up… and down... up… and down. The King of Making Steve Nervous? Steve shoved his sweaty hands into the pockets of his jeans. Yeah, that one fit.
Steve had always been impressed by Bucky’s ability to throw a mishmash of colors and patterns into an outfit and never clash. Blue boots with red-and-pink plaid pants. Lumberjack flannels over striped shirts. Dozens of leather cuffs encircling his left arm with no rhyme or reason. No matter the combination, the colors and patterns always mingled with the wild waves of Bucky’s hair to make sense as a whole.
Today was no different. Bucky’s lavender t-shirt had a cartoon pony on the front, his bright-pink sunglasses were tangled in his hair, and his ripped jeans had more patches than denim. Steve didn’t recognize all the bands, but the red-and-black Daft Punk patch on Bucky’s thigh was impossible to miss. And the Nirvana patch? That was no-brainer, even without the smile. But the thing that stood out the most, the thing that made Steve’s armpits sweat even more than his palms, was the rainbow flag stitched just below Bucky’s left knee.
God, he'd make a beautiful painting. Bucky Barnes and his much-loved plant, ruling the canvas with an unexpected mash-up of High Renaissance majesty and candy-colored punk.
“Has my plant mesmerized you, Captain Rogers?”
“What?”
Looking at Bucky’s smirk, it was clear that Steve had been analyzing his outfit for a minute. Maybe two.
Up… and down. Up… and down. If only Clint would stop tossing that fucking ball.
Steve took his hands out of his pockets, realized he had no idea what to do with them, and quickly shoved them back in.
Ignore the periphery. Get his imagination under control. Focus.
Taking a deep breath, Steve gazed at Bucky Fucking Barnes and instantly knew his name.
Whispering the title with reverence, Steve said, “The King of the Misfits,” because Bucky was patches and pins, color and questions, and a candy-colored prism, all rolled into one.
There was a pause. A beat where the jester stopped tossing his ball, the roof stopped spinning, and Steve felt something other than nothing on a Friday afternoon.
At least until Clint shouted, “Think fast!” and blasted the tennis ball at Steve’s head.
Normally, Steve would have caught it, no problem. But since his hands were jammed into the very bottom of his pockets, his only option was to duck.
Anger. That’s what Steve felt when the ball smashed into the ledge next to the ladder. And when it ricocheted, kicking up a considerable amount of dust before rolling to a stop within arm’s reach, Steve picked it up with every intention of knocking the jester off his high horse with a well-placed throw.
But before Steve could do any damage, Bucky said, "I believe you're here to ask me a question.
Right. Steve wasn’t here to kick Clint Barton’s ass—and he wasn’t here to talk about plants, assign royal titles, or muse about Michelangelo adding Bucky to the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel—he was here to get the King of the Misfits to join the stupid swim team.
Steve did his best not to stutter when he said, “Will you… um… fuck.”
“That’s mighty forward of you, Captain." Bucky spread his legs even wider. "Usually guys spring for dinner and a movie—or, if they’re a cheap motherfucker, a scoop of ice cream—before bringing up penetration.”
If Steve, in any way, acknowledged what had just come out of Bucky's mouth, he'd have to do a hell of a lot more than take a swan dive off the edge of the building.
“Right. Um… What I meant to say is”—Steve cleared his throat—“swim team. Will you join the swim team?”
If Clint had another ball, Steve was positive that he wouldn’t miss a second time. In fact, judging by the way Clint’s fists were clenched, he might even take it a step further and decapitate Steve with a brick.
But Bucky just sat there.
And Steve just stood there.
And the Rooftop Kingdom went silent, respectfully waiting for the judgment of its king.
It took forever for Bucky to say something, but when he did, he spoke with authority.
“Yes.”
Steve almost tripped over his own feet. “Yes?”
“Yes.” Bucky chuckled as he tapped his heel on the edge of a concrete block.
“Really?"
Jesus Christ. Why did Bucky Fucking Barnes always turn Steve into a nervous schoolgirl with curly blonde pigtails and an oversize lollipop? The guy was wearing a t-shirt with a cartoon pony, for Christ’s sake!
“Sam told you my conditions?”
Trying not to count the holes in Bucky’s jeans, Steve said, “Yes, I'll do my best.”
There were eight. And that was just the right leg.
“No,” Bucky said before Steve could count the ones on the left, “not your best. I can't deal with that shit all the time. And neither can my friends.”
The tick in Bucky’s cheeks as he set his jaw. The way his breath shifted to the top of his chest. The tension in his shoulders. This close, Steve could see it all.
And just like that, the throne dissolved into a garage sale reject, the crown disappeared, and the kaleidoscope of color faded away until all that was left was a broken boy on a rooftop, asking if he could trust Steve to do the right thing.
Steve was a good guy, wasn’t he?
Bucky rubbed his temples like he had a migraine.
God, maybe he wasn’t.
Steve’s mother had raised him to take a stand, to do what was right even when it was hard. But just the other day, Jack had thrown a bottle of water across the cafeteria and hit Bucky’s back. And what had Steve done? He’d sat there like an asshole, eating grilled chicken and broccoli while Sharon had rambled on and on about her new cheerleading routine.
If Steve's mother were here, she’d take the ball out of Steve’s hand and toss it to Clint, inviting the jester to shatter Steve’s nose with his perfect aim. Or if she was looking for real justice, she'd toss it to Bucky and invite him to do the same.
“I’m sorry,” Steve said, digging his fingernails into the meat of his palms.
Leaning forward, Bucky rested his elbows on his knees. “Sorry for what?”
The spinning stopped. Not slowly, but fast, and everything that wasn’t tied down launched itself into oblivion from the inertia.
Steve had always felt weird around Bucky Barnes. The tingly fingertips. The sweaty palms. The overwhelming desire to run in the opposite direction. All of it had started on the very first day of ninth grade, when Steve had seen Bucky run up the main staircase wearing skintight jeans and rainbow suspenders.
Nothing subtle about that.
Steve didn’t care that Bucky was gay, and unlike most kids at Eaton, he didn’t give a shit that Bucky and Clint—and Bucky's sister Natasha—were only there because Mr. Barnes was the principal. Wealthy parents shelling out fifty thousand dollars a year for tuition didn’t make a kid special. It made them lucky.
Staring at Bucky’s duct tape boots, Steve had an urge to drag his white Nikes through the sticky black tar.
Lucky? Who the fuck was Steve kidding. It made them spoiled.
Once upon a time, Steve had known exactly what it was like to survive on ramen noodles and Campbell's Cream of Mushroom Soup. Bucky's beat-up boots were just another reminder that Steve had been a better person before he'd stuck a monogrammed fork into a fucking filet mignon.
Taking his hands out of his pockets, Steve said, “I’m sorry for doing nothing.”
"You didn't do nothing.” Bucky pushed his hair behind his ears. “You did something… sometimes."
There were tiny wrinkles in the corners of Bucky’s eyes, and, this close, Steve could see the sadness between the laugh lines.
“Don't give me credit for that," Steve said. "I should have done more. And even if you decide not to join the team, I promise... I’ll do more from now on.”
Promises had weight. Heft. And when Bucky closed his eyes, the building began to shake. Brick, mortar, glass, and stone. The imperceptible vibration rattled Steve to his core. It was only a matter of time before Bucky’s rooftop sanctuary collapsed beneath his feet.
But just as the roof began to buckle, Bucky leapt to his feet and extended his hand.
“Then we have a deal,” he said with a flourish. “I’ll swim for your team, and you’ll do more.”
Steve was so startled that he gave himself the hiccups. And when the crown reappeared on Bucky’s head, bathing the rooftop with its pink-and-purple glow, Steve got lost in the Misfit King’s smile.
God, it was pretty.
The glow and his smile.
Grasping the king’s hand to seal their deal, Steve hiccuped as they shook on their brand-new alliance. And when Bucky laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling with nothing but happiness, Steve had the feeling that he'd just done a hell of a lot more than recruit Bucky Fucking Barnes for the swim team.