Work Text:
When Sam arrives home, Alpine immediately vacates Bucky’s lap. She’d been lying there, happy, snuggled down against his thighs, for the past couple of hours while Bucky had been reading. She hadn’t exactly wanted to be petted, had flicked her tail to warn him off when he had run a finger down her back, over her silk-smooth fur, but she had wanted to be with him. Of course, that changes the moment Sam sets foot through the door. She jumps down, abandoning Bucky, and heads straight for him.
To be fair, it’s not all bad, as it allows Bucky to get up too. To go to Sam, as Alpine is rubbing around his ankles, intending to hug him. Sam’s been in D.C. for a few days, so they haven’t seen one another. They have spoken briefly on the phone, exchanged several texts — or rather, Sam has sent a couple and Bucky has done his utmost to do better than one word responses, has mostly sent photos instead: of Alpine sleeping curled up on the end of Sam’s bed, of Fig flat on his back letting Bucky scratch his belly, of the kind of nice-looking lasagna Bucky managed to make for dinner the first day Sam was away and has been living off of since then — but it’s not the same as being together in person. Honestly, Bucky has missed Sam. The apartment has certainly been peaceful without him, and Bucky has read three and a half books and has watched zero bad movies — at least one less than he would have with Sam there — but Bucky prefers it when he is home.
Bucky doesn’t manage to get his arms around Sam, though, because Sam ducks down and gets his around Alpine. He scoops her up, straightens with her, and she cranes her little head to nuzzle against Sam’s cheek. He grins down at her, eyes full of love, and she blinks up at him, a slow closing and reopening of her big baby-blues.
Bucky feels a twinge of jealousy. Alpine is supposed to be his cat and here she is all over Sam. Where is Figaro when you need him to come and be Sam’s actual cat?
Turning around in a circle, looking for him, Bucky spots Fig on the back of the couch, just stretching up from sleep, arching his back and yawning. He jumps down to approach them — the whole welcoming committee turning out for Sam.
“How was the flight?” Bucky asks Sam, and shifts from foot to foot, feeling oddly crestfallen. He’s a little awkward at just standing in front of Sam, not sure what to do now that he can’t get the hug he was aiming for. In Sam’s arms, Alpine has started purring, her surprisingly-loud-for-such-a-small-cat rumble, and is settling down, rubbing her head against his chest.
“It was fine,” Sam says, glances up at him, then drops his eyes back to Alpine’s fluffy body, adjusts her into one arm so he can use the other to scratch under her chin. Her purr deepens. “There was a kid beside me. It was his first time on a plane and he was nervous about flying.” Sam strokes his fingers over Alpine’s soft ears and she nestles down further into his hold. “But he recognized me and asked about the wings, so I told him how cool it was being in the air. And that seemed to help.” Sam smiles.
Bucky can picture it: Sam, ever the hero, even in the littlest and most mundane of ways. He bets the kid’s parent was super grateful and impressed that literal Captain America was taking time on his flight to reassure their kid. That he was talking warm and open and enthusiastic about flying. The kid, with stars in their eyes, probably rapt to every word. And Sam likely didn’t think anything of it, just saw someone in need and did everything in his power to help. Oblivious to the wonder that is himself.
Fig bumps against Bucky’s leg, yowls up at Sam. Bucky crouches down to get him, since Sam’s arms are more than a little occupied. Fig’s not as keen on being held as Alpine, but he will be nosy about whatever is going on, will not want to miss out on their little gathering, so he allows Bucky to pick him up.
“Here,” Sam says, “Swap,” and holds Alpine out towards Bucky. Bucky takes her, passes Fig over. Alpine looks momentarily very unimpressed, her purring ceasing, until Bucky has her properly cradled to his chest and strokes a gentling hand down her back. She resumes purring, content, and nuzzles her face into the crook of Bucky’s elbow.
But, though he’s holding Alpine and she seems equally happy to be in his arms as she did Sam’s, Bucky finds he’s still somewhat resentful, begrudging, watching Sam and Fig. Which is ridiculous. Fig is Sam’s cat, even if the distinction matters less now that Sam and Bucky are housemates. And, despite being technically Sam’s cat, Fig is usually more about Bucky. Typically, he follows Bucky around like a small, feline-looking dog, always on his heels, always after a treat or a scratch behind the ears or just to lie down in Bucky’s vicinity. So Bucky should be able to allow Sam this attention.
Fig sniffs at Sam’s neck, probably smelling strangers and the stale plane stench on him and wondering where his human has been. He bumps his head against Sam’s jaw and then clambers up onto Sam’s shoulder. Sam twists his head around and smiles up at him, but Fig is only there for a moment before he launches himself at Bucky. He perches himself of Bucky’s left shoulder, instead, and Alpine shoots him a scandalized look for the slightest of jostling that occurs as he lands.
“Oh, I see how it is,” Sam says. “I know my place. But just you see what time this grouchy lump feeds you both breakfast if I retract my post-jog services.” He grins, mouth quirked in amusement and teasing, but eyes soft, flicking from Alpine’s curled little body, to Fig kneading his claws into Bucky’s shirt, to Bucky’s face. Bucky can’t help but smile back, despite the dig at his inability to be functional before 8 am — maybe 9 am if he’s being truthful — and the glumness that has come over him.
Sam goes to dump his duffle bag and his backpack in his room, and, though Bucky is left laden down with both cats, neither of them attempting to follow Sam, he still can’t shake the weird gloomy, envious feeling. Even when Alpine looks up at him, forlornly, when he deposits her on a couch cushion, even when he has to physically extract Fig’s claws from the fabric of his henley in order to remove him, the feeling is still there, souring his stomach.
Fig trails Bucky to the kitchen, where Bucky sets about brewing some coffee, figuring Sam will want some. He’s pouring two mugs when Sam reappears, changed out of his jeans and into comfy sweatpants, toting some dirty laundry. Definitely not only his own — Bucky’s sure there’s a sweater of his in the pile. Sam crosses the kitchen to the cupboard where their washer is, opens the door, and shoves the bundle in. Bucky adds milk and sugar to their mugs, as appropriate, while the washer beeps as Sam sets it running.
“Hey,” Sam says, and Bucky looks to him as he approaches. “C’mere.” He stretches out an arm and pulls Bucky into a hug.
It’s only there, wrapped in Sam’s arms, that the discontented, dejected feeling dissipates, replaced by a calm, comfortable warmth. And Bucky understands that he was jealous, but not of Sam. Of the cats.
He saw Sam’s attention on them — the way he looked at them, the way he touched them, bursting with love and care and happiness — and he wanted that attention on him, for himself. And how pathetic is that: to be envious of your pets?
Sam rubs his hands slowly up and down Bucky’s back, and Bucky feels like he could purr from it, tightens his arms around Sam. “It’s good to be home,” Sam remarks and Bucky has to hold himself back from pushing his face against Sam’s neck, from nuzzling into him, reveling in him. And Bucky realizes that he’s not only jealous of the affection Sam shows Alpine and Fig, he’s also envious that they can be openly affectionate in return.
Bucky's envious that they can show Sam how much they love him, but he must keep his feelings for Sam, the depth of them, hidden.