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It takes about three weeks, but Sam finally, finally convinces Bucky that a dog is a damn fine idea.
“It'll put a barrier between you and strangers on the street,” is the argument that wins him over, although Sam's pretty sure that “You can train it to growl whenever someone says Nazis” was probably the second-best contender.
Really, for a guy who was so resistant to the idea, Bucky is a bundle of energy on the way to the rescue centre, tapping his fingers on the car window and humming along to the radio.
“Got any idea what you'll pick?” Steve asks.
Bucky shrugs. “Whatever catches my eye, I guess.”
They let Bucky go in on his own so he doesn't feel pressured. Sam beats Steve in four successive games of Bejeweled, and then Steve wipes the floor with Sam at chess.
“Ten bucks says he comes out with a Pomeranian,” Sam says.
“I dunno,” Steve deadpans. “I picture him as more a Yorkie-with-a-bow kind of guy.”
Steve's still laughing at Sam's noble defence of the qualities of the Yorkshire terrier when the door suddenly opens. Bucky comes out first, and then holds the door for...well.
Sam chokes.
“Uh, Buck,” says Steve.
“Yeah, Stevie?”
“I think that's a pony.”
“Nope,” Bucky says, grinning like the Fourth of July, happier than Sam's ever seen him. “She's perfect.”
Which is how Diana the St. Bernard comes to live at Avengers Tower.
★
To be fair to Diana, she's an exemplary canine specimen. Sam's never met a dog as careful, or polite, or well-mannered as their new ladyfriend. When she meets kids in Central Park, she flops right down so that she doesn't scare them, and so she's the perfect height for snuggles. She learns fast – within a week, she's already positioning herself between Bucky and oncoming human traffic. She never begs. She's kind of a drool factory, but Sam won't hold that against her.
It's just that she's 217 pounds of dog. She comes up to Bucky's waist. And, hell, Bucky's not a little guy.
That's gonna take some getting used to.
Sam's a lot more okay with it when he walks in on Bucky, asleep on top of the covers in the middle of the afternoon. He's sprawled on his back, taking up most of the bed. That's surprising enough – Bucky's never been one for leaving his squishy human midsection exposed when he's unconscious – but the window's also wide open, and so is the door.
Diana's draped over Bucky like the world's hairiest blanket, paws on either side of his head, her massive noggin on his metal shoulder. She gives Sam a big mournful stare and grunts at him.
Sam gives her a thumbs-up with both hands, and backs right out of the room.
★
They're all mildly fretful when Natasha comes by to meet Diana. She'd confessed to Sam and Steve one night, over some exceptionally mediocre beers, that she was a little bit phobic of big dogs. Because it's Nat, it's less a scary childhood experience with an over-enthusiastic Great Dane and more a problem with things that look like bears, courtesy of a really awful rescue mission in Sibera.
Sam doesn't blame her. He still has nightmares about camel spiders, and the worst thing that happened with those assholes was waking up to find one monopolizing his empty helmet. He's still not totally chill with his niece's pet tarantula, all things considered.
When Nat walks in, Bucky's peering over the back of the couch like a kid, wearing an expression that screams, please please please approve of my ridiculous hairmonster.
Diana trots out of the kitchen.
Natasha looks at the dog.
The dog looks at Natasha.
Natasha kneels down in front of the dog.
The dog sniffs Natasha's knee.
Natasha slowly turns to look at Bucky and says flatly, “I'm going to need some time alone.”
Fifteen minutes later, they peek into the living room.
One paw is in Natasha's hand, and the other one is on her shoulder. Diana is standing up, big doggy grin plastered on her face, her and Natasha making slow circles between the couch and the wall.
Steve makes a very high-pitched noise.
“Did you just teach my dog to waltz?” Bucky demands.
“She is very smart,” Nat says solemnly, and thus begins the household campaign to teach the dog every stupid trick the internet can supply.
★
Friday, it's the same old, same old. Bucky repaints the kitchen, Sam plays air-taxi for the Assassin Twins, and Steve gets his ass handed to him by a collapsing building.
Steve gets out of the hospital two days later, and immediately decides that super soldiers don't need bed rest.
“Steve,” Sam says.
“The hell are you doing up?” Bucky says.
“You nearly died,” Sam says.
“The doc said no exertion for at least a week,” Bucky says.
“I feel fine,” says Steve, and all of a sudden Sam is buried in sympathy overload for James Buchanan Barnes, who's probably heard every iteration of this shit since like 1926.
Bucky narrows his eyes.
Sam tries not to laugh as Bucky bullies Steve into his bedroom like a total mom. He can't see them, but he hears Steve's “Aw, Buck,” and Bucky's “Jesus Christ, Rogers,” and Diana's claws on the hardwood.
“Hey, Diana,” says Steve.
“Hey girl,” Bucky says brightly, and then: “Yeah, hey, Diana – pin.”
There's this ominous oof sort of noise, and then Bucky walks out of the room.
“Did you just,” says Sam.
“Uh huh.”
“Is she...”
“Yup.”
“Is he gonna be able to—”
“You ever try sitting up while someone's got a finger on your forehead?”
Sam grins.
“Wanna go for a run?”
When they get back, Steve's snoring with his mouth open, and Diana's spooning him, one leg around his waist, another pinning his ankles. There's about a quart of drool in his hair. Bucky slides down the wall and laughs until he cries.
Sam just takes eight hundred blackmail photos.
What are friends for?
★
“So,” Sam says, while they're tag-team grooming the hairball, “You glad I convinced you to get a dog?”
Sam expects a cocky come-back, but Bucky just smiles kind of shyly, like he's embarrassed he held out so long.
“Yeah,” he says. “Thanks, Sam.”
Sam clears his throat and cleans fur out of his brush. Diana makes a grumpy noise at the halved attention.
“Do you think she needs a cape?” Bucky says. “I think she needs a cape.”
They tie a sheet around her shoulders and a domino mask over her face, and send her down to R&D to prank Tony. It sort of backfires, because Tony has infinitely greater power in the troll department. He locks them out of the elevators and pipes William Shatner's entire musical career through the intercom.
Bruce brings Diana back up around dinnertime, domino mask gone, with her cape bundled up in her mouth.
“Sorry if she bothered you,” Sam says.
“No problem. It was nice to have her around.” Bruce pats her on the head. “She's a good girl.”
“Nah.” Bucky grins. “She's a superhero.”