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A couple of months after becoming Captain America, Sam quickly noticed how things changed. Namely, that he upgraded from somersaults in the sky to twisting himself like a pretzel in order to meet the demand of a whole country. He had meetings in New York, Washington, the whole shebang. Being good at something was one thing, enjoying it was another. And he was good at it. However, it was far from his favorite part of the gig. So when he was in New York, instead of getting a depressing hotel room, he crashed at Bucky’s apartment. The company always made it slightly better. Always made it worth it, somehow. It allowed him to unwind a bit. Bucky complained, saying he’d have to start charging him for it. Yet, every time he crashed, Sam noticed Bucky’s apartment got a little bit better. Damn, he got a plant now. It was dying, but it was there.
-
That night, after a couple of pizzas, Bucky fell on the sofa with an old-people-“umf”-noise and turned the small TV on (new acquisition). The Eurovision Final was playing. Bucky switched channels, when Sam hurried out of the kitchen with a pack of beers.
“Man, put it back,” he said, “Didn’t know the final was today. Love that shit.” He sat on the edge of the sofa, the way he always did, and ripped the cardboard off the pack.
“You do…?” asked Bucky, very confused when a whole ukulele band danced through pyrotechnic effects. Sam gave him two beers.
“It’s how Europe solves its problems now,” Sam explained. Bucky opened the beers with his metallic arm and gave one to Sam.
-
And so they watched it, song after song, beer after beer.
“If it’s another ballad,” sighed Bucky, “I’m done.” The singer began to belt the lyrics, while a dozen dancers dressed as flowers swirled around the scene.
“Yo, he got dancers though. That's nice. Look at them go.”
“Call that dancing?” shrugged Bucky, slouched in his couch, taking a sip of his beer, the bottle going upside down as he downed it.
“They’re sync as hell.”
Sam gestured for Bucky to open another beer for him and Bucky did. Because apparently he’s a walking bottle opener now, Bucky figured, annoyed. Yet he liked the wordless agreement. Sam took a sip of his new beer. He didn’t remember how many he had by now, but he felt warm and easy. He felt at ease, careless, carefree. Bubbles under his tongue, a quiet shiver on the back of his neck, something like fatality. If they were outside, he’d be watching the stars and smile to himself.
“Ouh… Malta looks fiiine,” whispered Sam with interest when the next song began.
“Yeah? Your type?” asked Bucky, absentmindedly. He was man-spreading hard and looked like some kind of slug. It was his flat. Meanwhile, Sam seemed to be the only one with a working skeleton and he leaned toward the screen, his elbows resting on his knees.
“Yeah. I’d do him,” Sam replied casually, watching the performance. And now, he wished he hadn’t said something so crude, but it was said. And it was a bit of relief, to say it. To let it be known. Bit of a thrill, bit of a danger. All Bucky replied was: “Hm.”
“What?”
Bucky shrugged. “Didn’t know that about you.” He took a sip of his beer.
“Didn’t know what?” Sam asked, glancing at him with a frown. Bucky shrugged again, not bothering to reply. So Sam turned around a bit to face him. “Didn’t know that he’d be my type or that men in general are my type.”
“I don’t know. Both. He has bangs.”
“They’re coming back in fashion.”
“They’ve never been in fashion,” whispered with Bucky with exasperation. Sam chuckled a bit. He leaned back into the sofa, deciding that, after all, being a slug could be kind of nice. The sofa swallowed him down unexpectedly and he felt Bucky’s knocking shoulder against him.
“Man, your sofa--”
“I know.”
“It eats you alive.”
“It feeds on human flesh,” explained Bucky, deadpan. God, these conversations. They made no sense at all. Yet, they filled Sam with a serene joy.
“So I’m guessing it’s real leather,” said Sam, palming the armrest. Bucky smiled. And that’s all one wants, right? To throw a ball, and for someone to catch it. To send it back, with the same strength, the same speed, but a bit of a spin, a bit of a challenge, for you to catch next. Some people don’t catch anything at all, and you felt like you wasted a good ball. And that worked with everything. And Bucky caught on, every time.
“Oh, here comes the points. Now, this is modern political warfare,” Sam said.
“I see that. 0 points for the UK.”
“Yup, it is how it is.”
They listened to the points, making comments there and there. Soon, Sam’s beer was empty again and was too lazy to go get a new one. Bucky noticed and sighed.
“Here, have mine,” he said, giving him the half-full bottle he’s been nursing for ten minutes now.
“Thanks,” and Sam drank a good mouthful of it. “Oh, 10 points for France!”
“They could have bothered to sing in english,” Bucky breathed out.
“See, that’s why. That’s why the Matla guy is my type and you’re not,” teased Sam.
Bucky frowned, his face saying ‘where the hell did that come from?’ at the same time as ‘outch’. But Sam chuckled, easygoing, knocking Bucky’s shoulder with his own, “Come on now, who’d you go for?” he asked finally, when the finalists lined up. “Who’s your favorite?”
“Don’t have any.”
“You can’t not have any, you have to pick one.”
But Bucky simply shook his head, exasperated. Tipsy Sam could be a handful sometimes. A silence. Then, “Did I offend you about the type thing?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Who’s your type?”
Bucky sighed. “Someone quiet.”
“I can be quiet,” argued Sam loudly. “For real? I can be as quiet as a mouse. Is that your only criteria, though? Because that seems a little thin. Plenty of terrible people are quiet, by the way. You’ll need to work on that, narrow it down.” A silence, then, “Is that what you put in your meeting apps? Bucky, 106 years old… looking for someone quiet? Good luck with that.” Bucky raised an eyebrow, deadpan. Sam cleared his throat. “But huh, yeah, I got your point.”
“Sure about that?”
Sam nodded, shutting himself up with a lip bite. Eurovision got back from the ad break and the point kept going. The whole thing lasted forever. Bucky found himself commenting from time to time, saying things like: “Their song was boring,” or “What is Australia doing here?” but faced silence. Sam just nodded. It took Bucky about twenty minutes to realize what he was doing.
“Staying silent, hm?” he asked. “Dreams come true.” A long silence. “Here’s Malta. Your man,” commented Bucky. “Hm, he’s losing. Your type is losers.” Silence. “Oh come on. How am I the chatty one now?”
“Just proving a point,” Sam whispered.
“You began this stupid conversation.” Sam shrugged, not willing to elaborate. Like two stubborn idiots, they stayed silent for the rest of the program. Finally, Sam fell asleep. His head back on the sofa, arms crossed, mouth wide open. Like he was on an airplane or something. Bucky turned off the TV and went to sleep in his own bed.
-
It was frustrating, Sam thought, when you had a great time with someone, and you didn’t know if the other person felt the same so you didn’t want to impose too much. If he could, Sam would stay days and days at Bucky’s apartment, taking in his presence, his dry humour, his grumpy complaints, his dead-pan comments. He’d stay here, just happy to be, and to bask in that presence. Some people were so comfortable, it’s like being by yourself, only without the loneliness. And that’s how Sam felt. He came a long way to feel that. To go from being a bit numb, sorting things out through dissociation, to actually feeling like being here, being aware, occupying something that looked like the present.
-
The next weekend, Sam went to the Smithsonian Institution for the unveiling of the “New” Captain America display. The curator had asked him for childhood pictures, a brief biography, and other items that would give more information to the public about who he was. The main display was, of course, a copy of his current costume, wings attached.
The Museum Director did a speech, presenting him. And Sam stepped on the stage, half-blinded by the camera flashes, and made his first official address. Something he hoped would unite people. Something real, a bit harsh, but hopeful. Something true, something with heart.
After the museum closed for the day, Sam wandered around. He unveiled the whole thing and he didn’t even have time to go see it, he thought. Typical.
The display named “Beginnings” held a copy of his first Falcon wings. Pictures of him and Riley. His old dog tags. Who would have thought? That one day he’d glance at his life through the looking glass.
Footsteps echoed behind him, and Sam recognized them well.
“Did I miss something?” asked Bucky, pretending he didn’t know about the event. Pretending he hadn’t been there, in the back, listening. Sam turned to see him waving a piece of paper. “Bought a ticket.”
“It’s free for seniors, you know that right?”
Bucky shrugged, and threw the paper away, disappointed by its uselessness. He shoved hands in his pockets and joined Sam in front of the display case. A silence.
“How does it feel?”
“Hm.” Sam crossed his arms, uneasy. “Like I’m facing a staged version of my life,” he sighed. “Looks like a memorial. Like this was me… and now, I’m not this person anymore. I’m this guy.” He said, pointing at his Captain America costume replica. “And it just takes a lot of adjusting.” Black people in America were systematically asked to water their identity down, and to navigate many versions of themselves all the damn time. And now, on top of that, Sam had a very public persona. Pictures, speeches... he was true to himself but he wondered if he was himself.
Bucky patted Sam’s shoulder tightly. Nonverbal support was better than clumsy words, and he knew that.
“Are you saying ‘Be yourself, fuck people’s opinion’ but in the form of a shoulder pat? Because that’s what I’m feeling. That’s a great pat.”
Bucky smiled, not saying a word. They walked away, Bucky’s hand staying on his shoulder, before dropping.
“Here’s your part of the expo,” Sam noticed, eager to change the subject somehow. “I hope there’s embarrassing anecdotes. Or maybe really embarrassing letters. Please, tell me you tried some poetry back in the day.”
“Yeah I did,” Bucky replied as they walked toward his part of the exhibit. “It went like: Roses are red, violets are blue, I hate you.”
“Hm. I kind of like it.”
Bucky's window displayed his biography, chronology and even some old personal items that’d been found through time. Bucky was actually okay with the memories spread here. The Winter Soldier didn’t have a display, only Bucky Barnes.
“Shit man,” said Sam, “The biography needs an update. Something like... ‘And then his life changed for the better when he met Sam Wilson’…”
Buckley chuckled. Glancing at his youthful self imprinted in front of him, he winced: “The picture needs an update too.”
“Aw come on, you’re kind of cute here,” Sam replied. “Short hair suits you, man.”
“Watch out, Wilson. Not your type, remember?”
“Uh, you’ll never let me forget that, don’t you?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah well, blue eyes are not everything, pal,” Sam replied. He meant it too. Eyes are not everything, but any other kinds of things… a joke, a pat, a gaze, well that was everything.
They left the museum by the back door a night guard opened for them, and grabbed some french fries in a nearby food truck. The September sky opened wide above them. They walked, talking about a mission they’re waiting details for or going over some previous mission, then breaking it up with some shit-talking, before getting serious again. After a day of grand speech, it felt just right, to unwind, to be human again.
“So, setting me up again?” asked Sam, eyeing a cab to go home.
“Nah, I’ll get a hotel.”
Sam snorted. “No, you’re not.”
“Yeah-” Bucky began.
“I mean, great dorms around, full of backpackers.” A cab stopped in front of them. “I hear they never shower. You should fit right in.” And that should do it, he thought. Bucky will say “If you insist” and he’ll crash. So it took Sam by surprise when all Bucky said was: “Good night, Sam.” And walked away.
-
Bucky had become a bit detached, lately. He replied to calls and texts, but something about him was wary and cautious, in an inscrutable way that Sam wouldn’t have noticed if he didn’t know Bucky that well. But he knew him that well. Sam didn’t have big self-esteem issues, he knew his strength and his limits and was proud to assess himself fairly. No big ego but no crippling self-doubt either. Yet, he now felt like a 15 year old at his first house party, self-aware and full of fear. Many people didn’t like Sam. Especially since he became Captain America. Most of them he never met. But that was fine. He never questioned himself too much about it. So what was it about Bucky? All he wanted was to spend time with him, to get closer. But when he was met with resistance, Sam didn’t think his usual “Oh well, their loss.” He thought: “I like him more than he likes me.” And that hurt. They came such a long way, and maybe it was too fast too soon. But that frustrated Sam like crazy. Two steps forward one step back.
-
Next time Sam was in New York, it wasn’t even for anything truly important. He just wanted to hang out with Bucky, to watch TV and drink beer and say silly things.
“Can’t believe you abandoned me two weeks ago,” Sam said while a soda ad played on TV.
“What are you talking about?” Bucky replied, matter-of-factly and slightly confused.
“I’m talking about how my flat wasn’t good enough for your ass.” He wanted to add ‘And since then, you don’t laugh at my jokes like you used to. And you don’t sound as relaxed as you used to.’ And he figured, maybe he had been too mean with his jokes lately. Bucky rubbed his droopy eyes.
“You know I don’t mean half the shit I’m saying, right?” Sam continued, “I mean, when I’m with you.”
“Right,” said Bucky, without heat and without heart, eyes on the screen. Uncomfortable.
“When I talk about your ugly mug and how blue eyes are overrated, you know I’m shitting you right? I don’t want you going around believing any of that. Just pulling your leg, man.”
“I’m not stupid, Sam. I understand humour.”
“Okay.” Sam scoffed and chuckled and then thought hard about it. “I mean, man, you’re good. You know?”
“Okay.”
“Yeah.” Sam cleared his throat. They watched the rest of the program in an uncomfortable silence. The second half of that ocean documentary came on. They discovered which flatworm won the penis fencing and fertilized the other. After that, they watched the little eggs and the births of little flatworm babies.
“What is it you have tomorrow?” asked Bucky, absentmindedly.
“A meeting.”
“With who?”
Shit, shit. “Some charities. I mean, I’m not up for full-on marketing bullshit but this charity is really cool and--” It’s true, but it could have been an email and I wanted to see you.
“There’s PR now, they can deal with that.”
“I know.”
“We’ve talked about this,” said Bucky, irritated now, sitting up to make his point, “You don’t have to do everything yourself. You’ll stretch yourself thin at this rate and have a burn out in two months flat.”
“It’s like a 20 minute meeting, just to get acquainted,” Sam dismissed.
“You came all the way for a 20 minute meeting?”
Ah, fuck. “Nothing beats meeting people first hand.”
Bucky stayed silent, not willing to say anything unless Sam got more candid. So he did. “Okay, fine. I also wanted to hang out, man. Long time no see.”
Bucky’s eyes froze on the screen full of flatworm babies, before turning towards Sam. His lips stayed still, afraid to open, too dry to close. His tired eyelid covering his hooding eyes.
-
The weird thing was, Sam never believed in types anyway, he never believed in one "sort" of people that'd be the right call for you. So part of him had no idea why he said what he said on Eurovision night. Sure, he had a few beers. Sure, the delivery was playful. But. One part of him knew that, for his heart to admit something, he sometimes needed his brain to express the opposite. To say “Nope”, just for his own soul to jump in his throat and say "Are you sure?” Because saying it didn’t feel right. It didn’t sit right on his tongue, it didn’t feel right as it squeezed itself past his teeth.
What he didn’t expect was for Bucky to react so sullenly. To remember it. To make a play out of reminding him. And now Sam couldn’t say: “Just joking!” couldn’t he?
-
Sam glanced on the TV right side, where a mirror was now hanging. He could see himself in it. And that was such a strange sight, to take a step away from your life and watch it from afar. And he saw himself, and on the same sofa, Bucky. And it did something to him. And he didn’t know what to do with it.
-
A week later, Bucky sent a link to Sam. An article related to the Malta guy from Eurovision, and the drug scandal he was now in.
“it’s your guy from the europe song war program” texted Bucky.
“Yeah I saw that in the paper this morning. Urgh.”
“gonna eat ice cream and cry?”
“Nope I decided having types is shity anyway. I should be more open and let the universe provide and shit”
“Yeah, maybe you should.”
-
They moved into their new headquarters sooner than expected. It was close to the air force base and close to everywhere they needed to be for their missions. This solution was both convenient and cheap. They had a team now, both tech team and more combat trained elements. It was nice, most of all, to have people. Your people, your team. Sam realized he had felt damn lonely these past few months. Except when he was in Louisiana, in New York or in missions, Sam was alone.
Now he could wake up, go to the common room, say hello to Joaquin, to the sleep-deprived tech lady and the rest of the team. It felt good. Maybe because he hoped that, deep down, his feelings for Bucky were due to the fact no-one else was around. He knew himself enough to know it to be possible. So he mingled. He mingled a shit-ton. And what worried him as he did, was that he could hang out with very interesting, very funny people, and still think someone was missing.
-
The tension between them added some spice to their friendship, there was no denying it. It was fun to maintain it, and Sam thrived in it. Every healthy friendship had a side dish of "I would if you would" knowing nobody would take that step, feeling safe in that knowledge while enjoying the "could have been something" glow. That wasn't anything new. What was new to Sam was the feeling that something in him would die a bit if nothing happened. And yet, he didn't say nothing, didn't do anything. Because if there was any confusion, man, was he fucked. So he joked and smiled and died a bit. It shouldn't be so hard, he figured, to not have something. He wasn't a child anymore, he was a grown man.
What was the saying again? You've made your bed, now lie in it. He certainly made the bed alright. The pillow, too soft, the blanket, with some tears stains and not enough weight to it. He did that. Couldn't complain about his lack of sleep or his back pains as he woke up alone, day after day after day. That was his making.
And it would be so easy to break the loop, really. Maybe it was the easiness of it that settled him into doing nothing. Sometimes when they left each other after a mission, they said “Bye,” “Take care,” “Sure,” “Good night” and it could last forever, just hoovering, waiting for someone to say something. Agonizingly.
Maybe Bucky liked him too, but he wouldn’t know.
-
It all changed during one of their training sessions. They trained often in the outdoor training area, but today was different. They both agreed that they needed to answer a “worst case” scenario: Sam without his wings and shield, Bucky without his arm. Close combat where they had nothing. It started quite savagely, fists against ribs, kneecaps against stomach, nails against skin. Fighting was nastier this way, without any tools to hide under. Even without his left arm, Bucky was stronger. However, he often forgot his arm wasn't there, leading to a second of hesitation — which is when Sam struck. Swift. Knowing exactly where to hit. And when he hit, it felt like punching something that didn’t feel anything, no reaction, no swearing, Bucky would just brush it off and continue. This was the moment Sam noticed how often he depended on his flying abilities. On knowing he could just fly out of reach… but now he had to block, and dodge and block. No escape.
Finally, Bucky tried to strike with an arm that wasn’t there, and Sam slid behind him, and locked him tight in a choke-hold.
After ten seconds, Bucky tapped Sam’s arm twice. The younger man let go, relieved. He couldn't have continued anymore. Was it really a win if you wanted to pass out from exhaustion right after?
Sam sat on the grass, his back against a nearby tree trunk. Sweat pearling. Man, that was something. Bucky sat next to him. They agreed he had to work on fighting without his vibranium arm. And Sam agreed he had to up his own defence, too. The conversation died slowly after that. A breeze blew their way and ruffled their clothes, before a deafening whoosh of wind wrapped itself around them, and that was the moment Bucky chose to whisper: “Why don’t you say it? Would it be so bad?”
And it was below a whisper, really. He was looking ahead, at some far away point in space. Chewing his lips. Did he really say something? Or maybe Sam didn’t hear it right. He didn’t think that was within the rules to acknowledge it. And yet, Bucky just did.
“What’s that?”
A silence.
“I’m not saying it again,” Bucky replied sharply, frowning now, annoyed that Sam had pushed him so far into a corner that he had to go and say it. Here he was, the 106 years old man with no dating records in the past few decades, and he had to be the one to call bullshit. His eyes, fixed right ahead, said: ‘You were a literal counselor, talking about feelings for a living and I have to do that shit?’ Oh, Bucky wasn’t happy.
Sam felt it. The strain, the strength, how reluctantly the words left his mouth. The guy was saying ‘I like you like that’ and was pissed about it.
And Sam got that. He got that. And he was thinking about what to say when, all of the sudden, Bucky got up and left. Shit.
-
Bucky was in the locker rooms, sitting on a bench and struggling to put his arm back on. Obviously he had wanted to do it quickly and leave before Sam caught up with him. Obviously, he had failed and it upsetted him even more.
“Let me help, come on,” Sam said, sitting next to him.
“I’m fine.”
“Come on, hey, let’s talk.”
“ Now you want to talk.”
“Would do other stuff as well, but it’s not the place.”
Bucky scoffed in disbelief, not amused in the least. The flirting made him sad, now. Because it was always a joke, wasn’t it?
“You’re always teasing,” he mumbled, holding the loose vibranium arm against him with his flesh one, “Always half-joking. It’s fun for you, hm? You’re having a laugh.” Frustrated, he put the metallic arm down.
“No, you know I’m not.” A silence. Sam cleared his throat and sat by his side,, “I joke when I’m scared.” He took the arm in his hands and held it up. Ready to be of help.
“You’re scared?” asked Bucky in confusion, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. Sam sucked his breath in, eyes on the ground, before mustering the strength to raise them.
“All the damn time,” he replied. He was terrified by everything he encountered, and always soldiered on. Only fools wouldn’t have been scared, then. Now, the weight of a country on his shoulders, and the weight of Bucky’s eyes on his lips. Of course he was petrified. It was, he thought, the only healthy reaction to everything that had happened to him. And like Bruce Banner’s anger, fear was Sam’s superpower. It grounded him. But sometimes, especially in non-combat situations, it made him a bit of a dick.
“Can you take your t-shirt off?” he asked, only to be met by a murder gaze. “Can’t see shit with your sleeve like that.” With an apologetic smile, he showed the metal arm. The connecting outlet on Bucky was hidden by loose fabric. Bucky sighed and used his right hand to shirt off. It was, maybe, not the best situation for that kind of conversation.
“To answer your previous question…” Sam angled the arm toward the vibranium joint, “No. It wouldn’t be so bad.”
Bucky shook his head dismissively: “Do you even know what I was talking about?” What he really wanted to know was: I’m giving out an out, are you going to be a coward and take it?
The arm got into place. A clipping sound, a clamping motion, a bit of a shift. The vibranium got hot and its various parts slid into place. Bucky moved his hand, looking at his fingers uncurling.
“I think so,” Sam answered. Bucky’s eyes looked up and met his eye, his lips parting, breath stopping half-way into his throat, and Sam kissed him then. Bucky released his breath in his mouth. A hand on the back of the neck and Sam kissed him fully. He knew he couldn’t be soft and playful and teasing now. It had to be one of these kisses he’d seen at the end of black and white movies. All the tension Bucky had built melted in his arms, getting slack, getting soft and he kissed back, mouth open, taking bites out of Sam’s lips — close to eating him alive.
When the kiss broke, Bucky looked at him from beneath his eyelashes, cleared his throat quietly, nudged Sam’s nose with his own, and kissed him again.
Fuck. Just the sight of something real was enough to turn Sam into jelly.
“Sorry I had my head so far up my ass,” Sam whispered against his lips.
“That would explain so many things about your ass.”
A laugh exploded in Sam’s throat and on Bucky’s lips. Gee, he didn’t expect that. Always catching the ball.