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Sam Wilson flirts like it's his goddamn job. Bucky’s not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it, half the time. The other half of the time, of course, he’s absolutely aware that he’s doing it. Sam is more than aware that he’s an attractive guy, he alludes to it often enough, but more than that, he’s quietly confident, sure of himself, of his abilities, he knows what he wants, and people respond to that. Bucky used to be able to do that. He misses being able to do that, being able to walk into a room and know that his smile doesn’t actually make babies cry.
So half the time Sam’s aware of it, half the time it's intentional, but Bucky’s convinced that Sam isn't truly aware of what he’s like to be around, even when he’s just existing, that he’s not truly aware of what that voice of his does to people, that a twist of his lips is enough to send half the population swooning. More than half, more than likely. He hopes to god that Sam isn’t aware of the effect he has on Bucky.
He thinks he probably is.
So the thing of it all, right, is that Bucky didn’t think it meant anything at first. After all, Sam flirts with everyone, it stands to reason that he’d even flirt with the Winter Soldier, if just for the challenge of it. Sam just does that. Natasha tells the story of how they met often enough, of how Sam crouched down to look in the window of her car with that gap-toothed smile and a little up-nod, and Bucky knows for a fact that Sam’s flirted with Steve before, he’s seen it with his own two eyes, and he knows it doesn’t mean anything, even if it does make Steve blush. So when Sam first flirts with Bucky, it’s whatever, right, it's nothing, because no one in their right mind would ever actually flirt with Bucky with any intention behind it, not as he is now, so it doesn’t matter how Bucky responds.
But the thing is, right, Natasha’s kind of been hinting that maybe it’s not nothing? That maybe there’s more intent behind Sam’s words than Bucky thinks there is, and maybe Bucky’s not so opposed to that, actually, maybe it's actually nice, even if the idea of it sends his heartbeat into overdrive, even if Sam should run so, so far away from him before Bucky fucks him up like he fucks up everything in his life-
But his therapist says that’s self-defeating self-talk, or something like that. Bucky’s working on it.
So the big thing, here, is that Sam flirts like it's nothing, even if it's something, and once upon a time Bucky would have been able to match him stride for stride. He thinks, once upon a time, he could have made Sam blush, and he so desperately wants to make Sam blush for a change- but he can’t.
Bucky can’t fucking flirt anymore.
He’s not sure what changed (well, he can guess, he imagines it has something to do with having every aspect of his personality, his autonomy, his very soul stripped away over decades, he thinks that probably had some kind of impact) but he gets tongue tied now. That never used to happen. He stammers over his words and he can’t think on his feet, and all the lines he used to know are outdated or he fucks them up. It’s a nightmare, really. At first he thinks he’s just rusty, but time goes on and it doesn’t improve. He thinks it gets worse, actually.
And it's becoming an obstacle. A big obstacle. Because if Sam’s flirting has even an ounce of intention behind it, and Bucky responds the way he has been, Sam is going to think Bucky hates him. Yeah, Sam’s annoying sometimes and a pain in Bucky’s ass, but he doesn’t hate him. Rather the opposite, unfortunately.
But he just can’t stop messing it up.
ONE
The first time it happens, Bucky can make excuses for himself. He wasn’t really aware that it was happening at all.
He’s sitting in the back of Steve’s little yellow car, Steve and Sharon are outside, and Sam is refusing to move his goddamn seat up. Bucky’s a big guy, he needs a little more legroom, but he’s already on thin ice with Sam, with all of them, after what happened at the UN, so he doesn’t protest it. His head’s a fucking jumble- he’d gone nearly two years without hearing those fucking trigger words, and being thrust back into the Winter Soldier headspace was… jarring is the kindest word for it. Scarring and traumatizing are probably better ones.
So he’s not ok, not really, he won’t be ok for a while, but he’s hanging on. He’s fought hard to get to where he is, to be able to function in the world again, to some extent, and he’ll be damned if he throws that down the drain.
His fingernails dig into the skin of his arm, little red crescents healing over the second he removes his hand.
A sharp sort of inhale from Sam gets his attention, and Bucky looks up, on alert- but Sam’s looking more amused than anything else, and when he looks in the rearview mirror, he sees why.
He has a bit of a different reaction to the sight of Steve and Sharon kissing than Sam does. Sam looks smug, almost, like he’d called this, but Bucky’s insides are churning, swooping around like birds. Still, he manages to school his expression into something more similar to Sam’s.
Sam catches his eye in the rearview mirror, and the corners of his lips quirk up.
“Don’t you go getting any ideas, now,” he says, and his voice holds none of the usual steel that Bucky’s grown used to when Sam addresses him- no, this tone’s all honey, or maybe molasses, like the cookies Steve’s mom used to bake. Bucky used to dip his finger in that molasses jar whenever Sarah would break it out, watching the dark, sticky syrup drip around his finger before popping it in his mouth, and that’s what Sam’s voice sounds like now, all smokey and sweet.
To be fair to Bucky, it's been decades since anyone flirted with him. He doesn’t really think he can be blamed for not realizing what Sam was doing. But still, the way his face wrinkles up in the mirror definitely could have been interpreted as disgust, instead of confusion, and Sam takes it that way, shifting back into his seat, breaking eye contact, crossing his arms over his chest and clearing his throat.
It isn’t until later that Bucky realizes that might have been an olive branch. And Bucky, stupid, clumsy, damaged Bucky, had snapped it in half like a twig.
So that’s the first time. Bucky’s always been taught that one is just an incident. And he figures that’s what it is. An incident, a one-off thing.
He’s wrong.
TWO
Sam Wilson sacrifices himself for Bucky before they’ve even had a civil conversation. He sends himself to a high-security prison, uproots his entire life, and goes on the run for two years, and Bucky can count on one hand the number of kind-well, non-scathing- words that he’s said to the other man.
By all accounts, Sam should probably hate him. All that sacrifice, and for what? For Bucky? For a broken, volatile, traumatized, 100 year old man? If Bucky were in Sam’s position, he wouldn't think he was worth it. Steve might, but Bucky thinks even Steve is sort of… not disappointed, but let down, which is kind of the same thing, by the person Bucky is now. And Steve knows Bucky, he knew what he was risking and who he was risking it for. Bucky’s a stranger to Sam. Sam should hate him.
…except he doesn’t. And that’s fucking weird.
“Barnes!” Sam calls, walking into Bucky’s home in Wakanda like he owns the damn place. Natasha follows after him, her walk nonchalant in a practiced sort of way, but Bucky clocks the way she looks him up and down, too quick for most eyes to follow, but Bucky’s are just fast enough to catch it. She’s wary of him still, and he can’t blame her. He thinks it's a smart thing to be, wary.
Sam’s not. Sam claps him on the shoulder without any fear of retaliation, and flops onto Bucky’s couch with a groan.
“Hi,” Bucky says, deadpan. “Make yourself at home, why don’t you?”
“You know, I think I’ll do just that,” Sam says, stretching his arms over his head. His back pops.
“You’re getting old, Sam,” Natasha says. She opts for a chair, rather than the couch, kicking her feet up on the armrest with her back against the other.
“You literally can’t call me old in front of Rip Van Winkle here.”
Bucky coughs, and realizes halfway through that it’s not a cough, it's a laugh. Sam’s looking at him, a far-too-smug grin spreading across his face.
“That’s good, right? Rip Van Winkle?”
“It’s…new,” Bucky allows.
“He’s been working on it for weeks,” Natasha says in a stage whisper.
“I literally cannot believe you’re giving up my secrets like this, Nat. Where’s your sense of camaraderie? Of loyalty?”
“Bucky and I are Russian,” Natasha says with a shrug. “We’ve got a bond.”
During this exchange, Bucky is shifting around. He’s not sure what to do with himself here. It feels weird to be standing, but would it be weirder to sit down? Natasha’s on the chair, so the only place to sit is next to Sam, and while Sam’s been friendly enough, Bucky knows full well that his proximity can make people uncomfortable.
He’s almost definitely overthinking. It’s his own house, goddamnit, he’ll sit where he likes.
When he does move, it's a little too quick and a little too stiff, and Natasha hides a grin behind her hand. Sam doesn’t really react, not to the quickness of his movements, not to the fact that Bucky’s sitting next to him on the couch.
“Bucky’s literally not Russian. He’s from Brooklyn. And I’m not old,” Sam says. “Compared to you two and Steve, I’m a spry young thing.”
“You’re not looking so spry,” Natasha says. “I’m spryer than you.”
“Yeah, I just bet you are,” Sam says with an over-exaggerated wink. Natasha, who Bucky’s quite certain can and would clock someone for saying something like that to her, just laughs, loud and clear from deep in her chest. But that’s just Sam, isn’t it?
“You got any tips for old bones, Barnes?” she asks Bucky.
“Cryo. Works wonders,” Bucky says, without thinking. Internally, he winces. When he brings stuff up like that around Steve, it doesn’t always go so well. He gets those sad Steve eyes, all big and blue and watery. Natasha stiffens, but Sam laughs, nudging Bucky in the side.
“You know, at this point, I’ll try it,” Sam says. “Not that my bones are old. We’ve just been sleeping on some god awful mattresses. Might as well be back in Afghanistan using a rock as a pillow.”
He looks at Bucky then, eyes gleaming, and his voice slips back into that deeper, smoother register.
“I bet you got a real nice mattress here, yeah?”
Bucky’s brain, and his tongue, immediately tie themselves in knots. This time, he manages to say something. It’s just a fucking weird thing to say.
“I sleep on the ground.”
A line forms between Sam’s eyebrows, and he nods slowly. “Well. To each their own, I guess.”
Natasha’s not even trying to hide the gleeful smile on her face as she watches them.
One time is an incident. Two times, that’s a coincidence. Three times- well, three’s a pattern.
Bucky highly doubts Sam will try to flirt with him a third time.
THREE
Sam flirts with him a third goddamn time. It just takes him five years to do it.
To be fair, for them, it wasn’t five years at all. For them, it was just a split second. Bucky and Sam were lost in the Blip, dusted at the end of one battle and thrust very abruptly back into existence right at the start of a second.
Bucky comes to confused, and he comes to scared. The last thing he remembers is looking at his hand as it began to dissolve, feeling that horrible, sinking pit in his stomach that told him he wasn’t in control of his body, that something was happening and he couldn’t stop it.
He’s lying on his back in the forests of Wakanda, breathing hard. He stares at his hand, but it's solid and real in front of him. There’s others, too. Wanda, with tear tracks on her face, shaking hands hovering over the space where Vision’s body had been only seconds ago- really, it's been years, but Bucky doesn’t know that just yet-, that tree thing that was with the raccoon who kept asking to buy Bucky’s arm. Steve is nowhere to be seen, neither is Natasha, and neither is-
Sam comes staggering out of the trees, wide-eyed and confused. His eyes find Bucky, and he visibly relaxes. Bucky should probably get up, but he can’t manage it just yet. He gets the feeling something big has happened, something he’s not aware of, and that’s fucking terrifying.
Footsteps crunch the leaves around him, and Sam’s face appears, outlined against the sky.
“Come on, Buck,” Sam says, holding out his hand. “I got a feeling we got work to do.”
Bucky nods mutely, and raises his own hand, grasping Sam’s, letting the other man pull him up. He’s standing a bit too close, and he keeps hold of Sam’s hand for just a beat too long, and he’s a little worried he might do something incredibly embarrassing, like hug him, just to make sure that Sam’s real, that Bucky’s real himself.
Sam’s face, still tense and worried and alert, softens, and he reaches out, rubbing something from Bucky’s cheek. The contact is electric, like a static shock, and if Bucky wasn’t so grateful he would have been left reeling with the force of it.
“Dirt,” he says, by way of explanation, but his hand lingers. “Not that you’re not a handsome bastard even banged up, but…”
He trails off.
Bucky should say something. Three times is a pattern. And it’s not an unwelcome pattern, either.
But some weird-ass dude in a robe shows up in a glowing circle of light, with the news that Steve goddamn Rogers is about to do something astronomically dumb, and Bucky has to table that idea.
For now.
FOUR
“You’re staring.”
Natasha’s statement is accompanied by the nudge of her foot against his leg. Bucky pulls himself back into reality, tearing his eyes away from Sam, who’s in deep discussion with Rhodey, Steve’s shield (Sam’s shield now) slung across his back. Pretty much none of the Avenger’s compound had survived Thanos, so they’re gathered in Stark Tower, where a lot of them are staying until they can find new living arrangements. And by “them” Bucky means any remaining Avengers, a group of wizards (?) and aliens. Real aliens, like, not of this world. It’s a bit much to wrap his head around, to be totally honest.
“No I’m not,” he says.
“Sure you are,” Natasha says, a glimmer of mirth entering her eyes.
Bucky still can’t believe she’s here. He can’t believe that Steve goddamn Rogers, stubborn bastard that he is, managed to talk an extradimensional entity into trading Natasha back to them in return for the Soul Stone when he returned the Stones to their original timelines. He’d apparently battered the spirit for hours before it relented, and then Steve had given Natasha the single extra vial of Pym Particles that Banner gave him in case of an emergency, and sent her right back to them.
It's just about enough to let Bucky forgive Steve for staying in the past himself, for coming back to them as an old man. Him giving Sam the shield pushes Bucky over the edge in terms of forgiveness. His heart hasn’t quite caught up yet, still angry and betrayed, but his head is there, so the rest of him will follow.
“I’m not staring,” Bucky insists.
“You literally are. It's fine! I think it’s cute,” Natasha says, all wide-eyed innocence. “You know, I spent five years without you two pining over each other. I didn't know what to do with myself.”
“What do you-”
“What are you two troublemakers talking about?”
Bucky just about leaps out of his skin before turning to see Sam, eyebrows raised nearly off his head at the reaction.
“Jesus, Wilson,” Bucky grumbles. “Give a guy a warning.”
“Oh, I’m sorry ,” Sam says, settling on the armrest of Natasha’s seat, putting a hand on her shoulder and squeezing. “I thought you had supersoldier senses.”
“Yeah, well, I turned them off for the day,” Bucky says. Sam snorts.
“You done with your ultra-important Captain America business?” Natasha asks. “You’re deigning to spend time with us mere mortals?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, laugh it up,” Sam says. “You’re just jealous, the both of you.”
“Nope,” Bucky and Natasha say in unison.
“I hate you. You’re both awful,” Sam says.
“Excuse me.”
Bucky’d been so caught up in the fond quirk of Sam’s mouth that he’d entirely missed Carol Danvers approaching. Man, he was off his game.
“Yeah?” Sam asks, turning.
“Sam Wilson, right? I’m Carol Danvers,” Carol says. She reaches out to shake Sam’s hand, and he obliges.
“Pleasure. I’ve heard good things. Seen good things, too,” Sam says warmly.
“So have I. I’d like to talk with you before I head off-planet. Make sure things are in good hands. I’m sure they are, but we should coordinate, figure out how to keep an eye on threats on and off world.”
“I- uh, yeah, I agree,” Sam says.
“Good. I leave in a week. I’ll be in touch before then.”
Carol strides off with a walk that speaks to military training. Bucky can see Sam reorient himself, shoulders rising and falling in a deep breath. As he turns around, Natasha starts singing under her breath.
“Who’s strong and brave-”
“No-”
“Here to save-”
“Natasha-”
“The American way?”
“Natasha, I am fucking begging you,” Sam says, but he’s laughing, and his eyes are all but glowing. Natasha shrugs.
“Maybe they’ll make you your own theme song,” Bucky suggests.
“Fuck, I hope not,” Sam says with a shudder. “Can you imagine?”
Natasha cranes her neck, watching Carol walk off. “Mmmm. She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Sure is,” Bucky agrees without thinking.
“Ah, so that’s your type, huh? Charming, ex-military superheroes?” Sam asks. He’s shifted a little closer to Bucky, so close their shoulders are almost bumping, and he’s got that half-lift to his lips that tangles Bucky’s stomach all up in knots.
It could not be more obvious that Sam is referring to himself. It could not be more obvious. All Bucky has to do is just lean into it, just wink or say yep or do something that a normal, functioning human would do-
“Nope.”
Foot, meet mouth.
Sam visibly cools, smile dropping from his face, stepping back, eyes clouding over.
“All right, then,” he mumbles, obviously not meaning for Bucky to hear it, and then he’s making some excuse about needing to talk to someone, and he’s gone.
Natasha punches him so hard in the shoulder he thinks he might actually bruise.
“Dumbass,” she hisses.
And she’s sure right. Bucky doesn’t think a term’s ever fit him better.
FIVE
Sam’s sick. Bring him soup.
Bucky squints down at his phone. Even with the brightness all the way down, it’s too much light for having just woken up.
He sleeps weird hours now. He doesn't sleep much at night, ends up passing out in the afternoon or evening more often than not. He rolls his neck, easing out a kink, and props himself up on an elbow. He’d fallen asleep on the couch again.
What?
His phone starts ringing. He groans, considers just not answering, but he’s pretty sure that would get a hit put out on him, so he slides his thumb across the screen.
“Nat, this couldn’t wait until morning?”
“It’s only 7pm, Barnes. You can manage.”
“What do you need?”
“I don’t need anything. Sam’s sick. He’s got a fever and chills, and he kept insisting he was fine all day today at HQ, so I know that means he’s not taking care of himself at home.”
“And you can’t do this because….?”
“Because I gave up the babysitting game when Steve retired,” Natasha says.
“I look like a babysitter to you?”
“More than me. Just bring him some goddamn soup. Maybe some tea. Some Gatorade. Just something,” Natasha says. “Do something nice for the guy. You can do that, yeah?”
“I-”
Bucky sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Things have been kinda weird with us, Natasha. He might not even want to see me.”
“Yeah, he will. And if he doesn’t, just hand him the soup and leave. Or I’ll send my sister after your ass.”
Bucky winces. Yelena is certainly an effective threat. “Fine.”
“Good!” Natasha chirps. “Have fun!”
She hangs up before he has the chance to say good-bye.
Bucky rubs at his eyes. So he’ll go to the store, grab some soup, drop it off at Sam’s door and run off before he even has to see the guy. Right? That’s easy. He can do that.
Then he pauses. Because yeah, things have been weird with him and Sam recently. Sam’s busy as anything as Captain America, and Bucky’s mostly out of the game, seeing a therapist and making amends, but when they do cross paths he gets the feeling that Sam’s pissed at him. Maybe not pissed, but Bucky's pretty sure he hurt his feelings. Sam’s trying not to show it, he’s friendly as he ever is, but it's tense and stilted and it's making Bucky itch. He’s just not sure how to fix it, because he’s not good at fixing things. Never has been.
So maybe Natasha has a point. He could do what he just said, grab some store-bought soup and drop it off- or he could do something nice. Steve’s ma had an old chicken soup recipe that she’d use in the winter, when Steve was basically one walking cold and flu virus. Bucky thinks he could remember it, could whip it up in that Instapot that Yelena had bought him as an apartment warming gift (she’d almost certainly been forced to do so by Nat, but it's one of his most prized possessions). He doesn't think it would even take long, maybe an hour, and he could go to the store while it’s cooking.
Mind make up, he sets to work.
***
He gets three strikes, he’s decided. Three strikes, three weird things to say, and after three strikes, he’s out. He’s out, and he just has to shut up and never speak again for the rest of his life. He thinks that’s pretty reasonable, all things considered, until Sam opens his door.
“Wow. You look like shit.”
Strike one.
He doesn’t mean it in a bad way, really, he swears, it's just that Sam does look obviously sick. His eyes are hazy and he looks flushed and he’s kind of swaying where he stands in the door, which isn’t great. Bucky’s not sure how he didn't get sent home, but then again, he’s been on the receiving end of the patented Sam Wilson Stubbornness. So he kinda gets it.
“Gee, thanks,” Sam says drily. “You come here just to insult me?”
“Uh, no, I mean-” Bucky holds up the paper bag that contains soup, Gatorade, about ten different kinds of tea, and basically whatever cold medicine he could find. He’d had a bit of a crisis at the store, honestly. It started with the tea. He didn't know what kind Sam liked. He’d seen him drink green tea before, but he thought maybe that was just because it was all they had available at the VA, and he’d heard ginger and lemon was good for colds, so he got that, and then he wondered if Sam wanted something caffeinated, so he got that too, and then he kind of just swept a full shelf into his cart and got all of it. Then he couldn’t figure out the cold medicine and it made his head hurt so he got a lot of that too, and it was overall just a disaster. The soup was pretty successful, though. Not exactly the same as Sarah Rogers’, but a close duplicate.
“-I brought soup. It’s, uh, homemade.”
Half a strike for that one. Could be better, could be worse.
Sam blinks at him. “Oh.”
He holds out his hand for the bag. Bucky gives it to him, even though Sam looks like he might keel over at the slightest gust of wind, and he glances in.
He smiles. Sam smiles.
“You know I’m not dying of the plague, right? How much medicine did you get?”
“Well, you know,” Bucky says, shifting in place. “We didn't have all that shit back in the 40’s. And I don’t get sick, so. I didn't know what kind worked.”
Sam’s smile grows. “Well, if you don’t get sick, you might as well keep me company.”
“Yeah. Yeah, ok,'' Bucky says. It's maybe a little too eager, but he doesn't think Sam catches on.
Only one and a half strikes, and he’s through the front door. He can do this. He can be totally fucking normal around Sam. He can.
Bucky manages to get through two full hours without saying anything absolutely off the wall. He has a few slip ups, but Sam’s not exactly in a ‘come hither’ type of state. He’s more in a ‘mouth-breathing while slurping soup’ type of state, so it's easier to not get tongue tied around him.
Its nearing midnight, and the two of them are sitting on the couch in front of the TV, a mindless reality TV drama called Love Island that Bucky doesn’t totally understand. Sam is trying to explain it to him in increasingly disjointed sentences.
“So, see, Maura’s real mad because Tom was telling the guys he was gonna see if she was ‘all mouth’ or not-”
“Right, what in the hell does that mean?”
“Like, big talker, he’s saying like ‘oh she talks a big game, let’s see if she puts out when we go to the Hideaway-”
“-and the Hideaway is…”
“A private room, Barnes, keep up,” Sam says, snapping his fingers. “So she chose him to go to the Hideaway with her cause she won the challenge, and now he’s playing it up to the guys.”
“Oh, he’s being a dick.”
“Yep, that works too,” Sam says, shifting under his ever-growing mound of blankets.
“Jesus, Sam, I can feel you radiating heat from here,” Bucky says. Without thinking, he reaches over with his metal hand, placing it on Sam’s forehead, forgetting, for a moment, that the arm doesn’t have heat sensors.
He realizes his mistake, and tries to pull away, but Sam grabs his wrist.
“Nope, you leave that right there,” Sam says. “That’s nice and cold. “
“I can get you ice or something, you know.”
“Nope. This’ll do me just fine.”
He lets out a satisfied sigh, and yep, there goes Bucky’s brain, fried as surely as if he was the one with the fever, not Sam.
“Anyone ever tell you you have nice hands, Barnes?”
He could quip something back. For once, he actually has an answer, something like “yeah, all the dames back in the day used to tell me that. Fellas, too.” He thinks that’s not a half bad line, but… it doesn't seem like the time.
“You know, I think you’re the first,” he says. It’s not quite a joke, not quite a flirt- his voice is a little too gentle for either of those things. Because, now he thinks of it, Sam probably is the first person to compliment that particular hand. In a real way, anyway, not admiring the technology of it or wanting to steal it off Bucky’s body.
“Damn shame,” Sam mumbles. His eyes are closed, in spite of Maura’s Irish accent screaming from the TV.
Bucky takes a second to just look at him, and it's a little shocking that he still thinks Sam is this beautiful when he’s got his mouth open like a damn whale’s. He’ll snore when he falls asleep, Bucky can just tell, and something tells him he’s not gonna mind that, either.
He tugs his hand away, to Sam’s protest.
“Just getting you some ice, Sammy,” he says. “Be more comfortable than the arm.”
He pretends not to hear Sam’s muttered ‘doubt that’. His face flushes all the same.
Sam falls asleep against his shoulder halfway through the next episode. He does snore. And Bucky doesn’t mind it one bit.
+1
Sam’s cold goes away, and things get a little easier between the two of them. Bucky’s not sure exactly where the shift is, but he does know there’s nothing like a good cold to humanize someone. He thinks that’s why he had such a problem seeing Steve in the same light that the rest of the world seemed to- he’d seen Steve snort out literal buckets of snot before. Hard to reconcile that image with the proud and patriotic beacon of freedom that he became.
Not that Bucky doesn’t still get tongue tied around Sam. He does, and often, but he stops trying quite so hard, and it's easier to get it untangled. He and Sam already have a pretty natural back and forth, even if he’d never admit that out loud, when they aren’t flirting, so Bucky does his best to just fall into that with every conversation they have.
It works pretty decently, but he’s still not on Sam’s level. He still can’t fucking make Sam blush the way Sam makes him blush, and god does he ever want to. He used to be smooth, damnit. People used to fall at his goddamn feet. Not that he wants Sam to do that, exactly (he thinks that he’d fall at Sam’s feet pretty willingly, though, but not without a good amount of griping first) but he wants one goddamn moment where he can tell that he’s getting to Sam.
But Sam is a force of nature. Sam doesn’t even lose it when Natasha flirts with him -jokingly, as she’s reassured Bucky time and time again, despite his protests that he doesn't need that reassurance because he doesn't care who Wilson flirts with (he does). So Bucky stands absolutely no chance.
Or so he thinks.
“Buck, you mind taking a look at this? Nat translated the Russian for me, but there’s a wonky bit here that seems off. Might just be a language barrier, but figured the Ice Man might wanna double check.”
Sam tosses a folder his way, and Bucky catches it without looking, still squinting down at the document he’s poring over himself. They’ve been holed up in Sam’s apartment for two days, trying to puzzle out some Russian coding, only taking breaks to sleep and order takeout. All this to say, Bucky’s brain is fried, so he can’t really be held responsible for what slips out of his mouth.
“Sure thing, doll,” he says absentmindedly. He’s not even aware he’s said anything strange until he hears Sam choke, spluttering around a mouthful of water.
“I’m sorry. What did you just say?” Sam asks, still choking. Bucky thinks back, and he winces- but when he glances over at Sam, he looks-
Holy shit. Sam looks flushed, and not just from the near death-by-sip-of-water he’s just experienced.
Do not fuck this up. Do not fuck this up, Bucky repeats to himself in his head. He turns, propping his elbow up on the table, facing Sam where he’s sitting in an armchair.
“I said sure thing.”
He takes a long beat of a pause before finishing.
“Doll.”
Sam blinks once, blinks twice, blinks again, and stares at Bucky like he’s got a cog stuck in the gears of his brain, and that’s exactly the look Bucky’s been going for, that’s exactly how Sam makes him feel all the goddamn time.
That’s all it took?? That’s it??
“Didn’t know we were breaking out the pet-names just yet, Barnes,” Sam says, clearing his throat.
“Sorry, sweetheart, must have just slipped out,” Bucky says, putting a bit of Brooklyn drawl into his voice. Sam’s face flushes, and Bucky’s very strongly considering throwing a party about it. Would that be weird? That would probably be weird. He might do it anyway.
Sweetheart? Sam mouths to himself, looking just about as confused as he would if the floor gave out under his feet.
“You, uh, you feeling ok, Bucky?” Sam asks.
“Just fine, honey. You ok?”
“Just fine,” Sam echoes. “...sugar.”
It sounds so stilted, so strange, coming from Sam, who’s usually all flow and ease of speech, that Bucky can’t help it. He snorts, ducking his head, and when he looks up, Sam’s smiling at him, all soft and fond and he can just about feel his ribs crack with how fast his heart starts beating.
“Bucky Barnes,” Sam says with a shake of his head. “You know, Steve told me you could be a charming sonofabitch when you put your mind to it. I just about laughed him out the door when he said it. Guess he was right.”
He stands, stretching, and Bucky fully stops breathing when he starts walking over, but he goes past him, refilling his water instead.
“Guess I’m just wondering what I did to deserve all that charm, all of a sudden,” Sam says. He leans up against the island counter across from Bucky. Bucky manages a shrug that he thinks looks fairly nonchalant.
“Guess I got sick of dancing around you, Sammy,” he says.
“Did you now?” Sam asks, eyes squinting at the corners.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I was getting sick of it too,” Sam says. “But don’t start something you aren’t ready to finish.”
“Who says I’m not ready to finish it?” Bucky says automatically, a lazy smile creeping across his face. Sam’s mouth drops open just slightly, and he shakes his head incredulously.
“Who are you?” he asks, waving his hand up and down in Bucky’s direction, and Bucky’s lazy smile turns into a full-blown grin. He’s leaning full across the counter, and he’s not sure when that happened, but Sam’s right there and it would be so easy to just kiss him, and god does he ever want to, but then again… he kind of wants to see how many times he can get Sam to make that face before he finally seals the deal.
Sam seems to be on the same page. He does move in, but it's not for a kiss- he just bumps his forehead against Bucky’s and lets it rest there for a second. It's scarily intimate and more gentle than Bucky expects, a sort of promise, an acknowledgement, a pin in the conversation until they can really figure this out.
“Speaking of finishing things, we gotta get this done,” Sam says, gesturing to the veritable avalanche of documents surrounding them. “But we’re gonna finish this conversation after. Over dinner, maybe?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah, I’d like that.”
“Cool. I’d like it too,” Sam says. Humor glints in those deep brown eyes, and he shifts, leaning in closer, his lips at Bucky’s ear.
“...sweetheart.”
Bucky might as well melt into the fucking floor. He opens his mouth, but he’s got no hope of making any type of response when Sam’s voice sounds like that, all deep and rich and dripping with honey.
Sam chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He’s walking back to the armchair before Bucky can even formulate a thought.
“You play dirty, Wilson,” he manages.
“No one said anything about fair,” Sam shoots back.
Bucky smiles, quiet and private, just to himself, before he turns back to the documents, even though concentrating on those is a near impossibility now. He does his best. And if a few more dolls and sweethearts and sugars and honeys slip out in the process- well, he thinks that’s his god given right.