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Something was up with Bucky.
Sam had first noticed it the other day, when they’d planned to spend the whole afternoon practicing with the shield, working to get the trajectory and the physics of it all just right. They’d gotten a decent workout in, until Bucky had come up with some flimsy excuse about why he needed to head out early.
And then, when Sam had come downstairs the next morning, he could hear Bucky and Sarah talking in hushed tones in the kitchen— until the third-to-last step creaked the way it always did, and their voices suddenly stopped. By the time Sam entered the kitchen with a suspicious look on his face, Bucky was stuffing his mouth full of scrambled eggs while Sarah just sat back in her chair, looking smug.
So yeah, Sam knew something was up.
“If you’ve got time to lean, you’ve got time to clean.” Sarah’s voice pulled him out of his own head.
“You know you sound like Granny Wilson when you say that,” he said, pushing himself off the porch rail he’d been leaning against. He picked up the rag he’d been using to scrub dust and grime off the windowsill and folded it so the clean side faced out.
“That a bad thing?”
“Nah.”
They continued cleaning up the porch in companionable silence for a minute or two before Sam decided to broach the subject that had been occupying his mind.
“Hey, uh. Noticed you’ve been hanging with Bucky a lot lately.”
Sarah smirked, spritzing cleaning solution onto a windowpane. “Somebody sounds jealous. Not getting enough QT with him yourself?”
“Ha. No, I just— I don’t know. He’s been acting a little weird lately—”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, Sam, but he’s kind of a weird guy." She glanced sidelong at him. "I think weird looks pretty good on him, though, don’t you?”
Sam rolled his eyes. He was used to Sarah’s always insinuating one thing or another—she’d been like that back in high school and she didn’t seem about to stop now that they were both pushing mid-forties. “I know he’s weird. But lately it’s been a different kinda weird. Has he said anything to you?”
She wiped one last streak from the glass of the window, then looked at him thoughtfully. “Not really. Nothing out of the ordinary. What are you worried about?”
“I didn’t say I was worried—” Then, off Sarah’s look: “Okay, fine. I don’t know. I guess I wondered if maybe he was thinking about heading back to New York, or something like that. He’s been staying with us awhile now, and we never really talked about what happens next. Maybe he’s getting tired of it down here.”
“Sam.”
“Sarah.”
“You know what I’m gonna say.” She crossed the porch and put a hand on his shoulder. “Talk to your boy if you wanna know what’s going on in that head of his. Last I checked, none of us had any kind of mind-reading superpower like some of those other friends of yours. We’ve gotta do things the old fashioned way.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
They went back to cleaning, but Sam’s mind remained elsewhere.
Thing is, Sarah was usually right, and Sam knew it. Annoyingly right, and smug as all hell about it, but right nonetheless.
He thought his first chance to bring it up with Bucky would come later that afternoon, when they were scheduled to spend a couple of hours reviewing Avengers resumes. (Sam hadn’t realized just how much being Captain America involved play-acting Human Resources. It kind of sucked.) At 4 o’clock, though, a text came in.
Something came up, sorry.
Sam frowned down at his phone. Was Bucky actually avoiding him?
He tapped out a response, then sighed as he thumbed through the stack of resumes he’d printed out, alone.
The next day, Bucky was a no-show for their morning run—but hey, Sam thought, it wasn’t like they always went for a run together on Thursday mornings. They’d missed one or two before.
After the third mile, Sam realized he was a lot less motivated when Bucky wasn’t beside him making snarky comments while barely breaking a sweat.
By dinnertime Friday night, Sam had worked himself up into a lather wondering what Bucky was hiding. If he was tired of staying in Delacroix—well, that was okay. They could still be partners long-distance. Maybe Sam could fly up to New York every now and then.
He just needed to know.
He stirred the pot simmering on the stove with a bit more force than necessary.
“Smells good,” came Bucky’s voice from behind him. “Must be Sarah’s recipe.”
“Very funny,” Sam replied, turning to face him. He gestured with the wooden spoon in his hand. “You wanna eat, you better keep the commentary to yourself.”
Bucky held up both hands placatingly, then pulled a couple of beers out of the fridge, cracking one open for Sam first. “My lips are sealed.” He sat at the kitchen table and sipped his beer. “Does smell good though. Is that rosema—?”
“What’s going on with you, man?” Sam set the spoon down and crossed his arms over his chest, unable to keep it in any longer. “I know something’s up. What is it—you’re going back up to Brooklyn?”
He frowned. “I mean, yeah, I gotta go up there once a month. Condition of the pardon and all. You know that.”
Sam huffed. “I meant for good.”
Bucky’s eyes widened. “Uh… I mean. Is that—am I not—is that what you want?”
“Of course not!” Sam cleared his throat, taking in a long breath through his nose as he did his best to stay calm. “We like having you here. I like having you here. But if that’s what you wanna do…”
“It’s not.”
Oh. “Really?”
Bucky shook his head, brow still furrowed. “No. Not unless I’ve overstayed my welcome, or something.”
“Not possible,” Sam replied immediately, and noted the tiny quirk of Bucky’s lips at his words. “But—you’ve been acting strange lately, man. Canceling plans, disappearing on me. Something’s going on.”
The small smile on Bucky’s face grew a smidge. “And you jumped right to assuming I was plotting a cross-country move?”
Sam stared at him for a moment, then chuckled, rubbing his thumb over one eye. “Yeah, I guess I did make a bit of a leap there.”
“If you need to work out some abandonment issues, I can recommend a fairly terrible therapist.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam turned back to the stove, picking the wooden spoon back up. “Something’s up though, right?”
Bucky groaned. “Alright, alright, enough with the interrogation.”
Sam whirled back around. “I knew it! What is it, man?”
“Sarah warned me you’d ruin any kinda surprise. Suspicious streak a mile wide,” Bucky muttered. “Fine. Any idea what next Tuesday might be?”
“Next Tu—” Sam felt his stomach flip. “How do you know what next Tuesday is?”
“Just because you’re Captain America now doesn’t mean finding out your birthday requires Top Secret clearance, Samuel.” Bucky thumbed at the label on his beer bottle. “I may have been doing a little extra work on the boat behind your back. Wanted to surprise you. A mistake, obviously.”
“You’ve been sneaking off to work on the boat?”
Bucky ducked his head down, and from where Sam was standing he couldn’t quite tell if his cheeks were tinged a bit pink.
“Yeah, I dunno. You’d mentioned a few ‘nice-to-haves’ that you said you’d probably never get around to. So… I got around to ‘em. Not a big deal or anything.” He flicked his gaze up to meet Sam’s, and shrugged. “Happy birthday, Sam.”
For a moment, the only sound in the room was dinner simmering on the stove. Then Sam laughed, long and loud and relieved. “Man, I thought you were heading for the hills.”
Bucky chuckled. “You’ll have to chase me outta here, I think. And you’re not that fast.”
“Well, yeah, not when you’re out here skipping our morning runs.”
“Alright, we can get up at the crack of dawn tomorrow and get a few extra miles in if you want. Make up for lost time.”
Sam nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Grab a couple bowls, set the table?”
Bucky stood up and headed for the cabinet—he knew where everything in the house lived at this point—but Sam stopped him with a brush of his hand against Bucky’s arm.
“And thanks. For the birthday gift. Means a lot.”
Yeah, Sam thought, Bucky’s cheeks were definitely turning a little pink.
“Don’t mention it,” he murmured.