Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

“Jesus, Buck, can’t a guy call his friend?”

A beat. Then, sullen: “Not without warning.”

“What’s wrong is that old people are notoriously horrible at responding to texts, and you are no exception.”

Another beat. “You’re hallucinating, Samuel. My phone claims there are no new messages from ‘annoying bird man.’

“Funny. Maybe I just wanted to hear your voice.”

“Listen, I’m sort of at a thing, so…”

“Sorry, I forgot future Congressman James Barnes can’t have any free time anymore. Aren’t primaries over? Don’t tell me your daily events are for something happening in November .”

“Not all of us do photoshoots for a living.”

“I’m going to ignore you saying that so we can make this quick. I’m getting you a plane ticket to come down to Texas next weekend. You aren’t allowed to say no unless someone is literally dying.”

Sam could practically hear his friend’s brain buffering. It went on for a second, and jeez , these silences are starting to make him nervous. They hadn’t had an actual, legitimate conversation for a month, and he was itching to sink back into their usual banter to confirm nothing was amiss.

Finally, a response: “Texas?”

“Yeah, so, as part of my very real job doing photoshoot — which was more Steve’s job, anyway, and I know you know that — the suits have decided a good morale booster would be to have Torres and I visit a few training spots for a week at a time, show off the Falcon suit to the new recruits, give inspirational speeches, et cetera et cetera.”

“Sounds very real. Very legitimate job. How much are they paying you again?”

“I hate you. Anyway, the weekend after next is Fort Cavazos. And since I have taken it upon myself to culture you in the ways of the American South—”

“Since when?”

“Since you embarrassed me in front of all my friends by not knowing how to eat crawfish. Anyway, this place is in Texas Hill Country, very nature-y, you like nature stuff don’t you? I got us a nice place in a little town near Cavazos, you’ll love it.”

“You’re acting like I agreed to go.”

“You are agreeing to go. I just said you have no choice.”

“I have campaign stuff.”

“This is campaigning. You’re connecting with the little guys. You might even get a Captain America endorsement out of it.”

A long-suffering sigh emanated from the phone. “Sam. I am running as a Democrat in Brooklyn. As in New York City . What possible help is it to go to middle-of-nowhere Texas? Also, how have you not endorsed me yet?”

“Ah, but you see, I actually recorded this phone call and will release it when you inevitably run for president. Good luck getting any Bible belt votes when I reveal that Congressman Barnes hates poor people.”

“Hates—” Another sigh. Sam grinned. “Look, it’s just really not a good time. Why next weekend? And are you never going to Sumter or anywhere even remotely closer?”

“Because…” Sam hesitated. Because I haven’t seen you since the hospital and I miss you , would be one truth. Because I really need to be with someone next weekend and I would rather that person be you , would be another. Both were far too raw and made his stomach turn just thinking about it. He settled for a gentler truth — one that was still strangely terrifying to say out loud but would not make Bucky’s head explode. “Look, so, Riley’s family lives a couple hours from there, and I try to visit them every once in a while. We’re coming up on the anniversary here in a bit, and it would really mean a lot to, uh, to them if we showed up. Just a quick Sunday brunch, okay? I want you to meet them.”

“Oh.” He could hear Bucky buffering again. “Why…why didn’t you just lead with that?”

Something loosened in Sam’s chest, and he sank down to the floor. “I try to make our lives as difficult as possible.”

“Okay, well, I have to go for real, but text me the details.” The line dropped as Bucky hung up without waiting for a response.

Sam set his phone down, palms inexplicably sweaty. He couldn’t decide if his physiological reaction was more akin to when he asked a girl out to prom in high school or one of the many times he’s gotten shot at since then. Neither made sense. “Goddamnit, Wilson,” he muttered, wiping his hands on his jeans. “He’s your friend . You asked your friend to go on a little road trip. You don’t need a Xanax to do it.” 

He was cool. He was normal . This was going to go great.

Because he was normal, he definitely did not make sure that his flight from Reagan to DFW was hours earlier than Bucky’s flight from JFK to DFW so that he could make sure he had the car rental ready and the route mapped out. They were just two guys, meeting at an airport, and it was a happy accident that Sam happened to be outside of the right terminal in their little rental Kia when Bucky’s plane landed (which Sam was not tracking). The Kia wasn’t his first choice, but it was available and economical, and any humiliation was worth it to see the horrified look on Bucky’s face when he stepped outside and saw it.

“Isn’t she a beaut?” Sam grinned, rolling down the window and pressing the button to pop the trunk. His smile quickly faded, though, when Bucky unloaded his luggage and he saw what he was wearing. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head and rolling the window up. “No, I am not being seen with you like this.”

“What?” Bucky asked innocently, rolling up his navy sleeves. “We’re in Texas, aren’t we? What else was I supposed to get?”

“You know damn well.”

“Google said they were America’s team,” Bucky said, crossing his arms over the Dallas Cowboys star emblazoned on his chest. “And you wanted me to be cultured.”

This was revenge. Bucky was getting revenge on him for dragging him here. And he couldn’t even properly fight back, because the Saints sucked this year.

“If I have to be seen in a Kia Soul, you have to be seen with a Cowboys fan,” Bucky declared. “And why the fuck is it so hot?”

“It’s May,” he snapped, pulling out of the airport pickup lane and pointedly not turning the AC up. “It’s just as hot in New York.”

Bucky muttered something else snarky under his breath, but Sam was busy trying to navigate the airport. They finally reached the interstate. It was backed up, but at least he could breathe .

“Explain to me,” Bucky said, seemingly having looked at the itinerary, “the concept of a Sunday brunch on a Saturday afternoon.”

“The concept is that I may have said we have shit to do on Sunday so we can avoid the Southern Baptists.”

“Oh, that’s not part of my culture tour?”

“You can hear about your fire and brimstone future if you want. I will be sleeping peacefully.”

“I think we have those in Brooklyn,” Bucky said dryly.

Sam bit back a grin at the familiar tone. See? Everything was fine . Nothing had changed. They could hang out for a few days, have their deepest discussion be, wow, your dead best friend’s family is a little crazy, aren’t they? and, yeah, that’s west Texas for you, bunch of rednecks, they mean well, though , and go their separate ways.

Everything was not fine. The poor receptionist at Aunt M’s bed and breakfast was close to tears.

They pulled into San Saba as the sun was starting to get low and bathe everything in a golden light. Sam was proud of the place he found for them to stay the weekend — it wasn’t their usual generic motel room, it was locally owned , and the decor was cute!

Until, of course, this high school girl who had just turned sixteen and was so excited to start working for some beer money (Sam had extracted the story while she tearfully searched for their booking) apparently double booked one of the only rooms with two beds. The others were already booked for some corporate retreat, which he couldn’t help but feel bad about, because some poor accountants were probably being forced to hike Colorado Bend for some team building right about now.

“We do have an open room. And I will add breakfast for free,” the girl added. He decided not to mention that he had already paid for breakfast online. “I am so sorry. One bed is okay, right? It’s king-sized.” Her eyes flickered between the two men, clearly worried they were the type to flip out over this kind of slight. She got nothing. Bucky looked like a deer in headlights, and Sam was the one buffering, for once. “I mean — okay, there’s something else down the street, I think it’s called Hill Country Inn, maybe? There’s definitely a few cottages you can rent, too. I can help you find something?”

“It’s fine,” Sam said quickly, before she could continue. “Is there some sort of pullout couch, by chance?”

Her face was completely blank, which in turn brought the tears back.

“Nevermind. It’s fine. Totally fine. We’ll take the room.”

She visibly relaxed. “Oh my god. I mean, great! Thank you! I am so, so sorry. I have no idea…I’m still kind of new, you know, and there’s not enough people to have two on a shift…”

He assured her it was totally okay, and was she looking at any schools yet? (Texas State for sure, San Marcos was so pretty, and Texas A&M maybe, and did he think she could get into UT for engineering, because she heard it had gotten more selective lately, or maybe she should just leave everything behind and go full Crimson Tide hundreds of miles away), and he nodded like he totally knew how to get into state schools when he just jumped ship with the first recruiter he could find once he graduated. Finally, she gave him the keys, and he and a still-silent Bucky dragged their luggage down the hallway and around the corner until he was sure she couldn’t see them.

“That was…a lot,” he sighed.

“What did she call this? The bluebonnet room?” Bucky asked with a ghost of a smile on his face.

“I believe the word she used was suite ,” he said haughtily. “I…okay, so I have no idea what just happened, but I think I saw a Marriott some miles back, if you want to get, like, a normal room with two queens, or separate rooms, or…”

“I vote,” he said slowly, “we just see what the hell you booked us, first.”

What the hell Sam booked them was, in fact, simply a bluebonnet-themed room. It actually just looked like a regular master bedroom with an overbearingly blue motif. When he pictured his mother’s room growing up, it looked just like this. There was even an old above-ground clawfoot bathtub with, of course, bluebonnets and butterflies painted on it.

Bucky still had the stupidly-adorable half smile on his face when he looked around the room. “And she didn’t know if there was a pullout couch. Look at that! There’s a perfectly good…um…bed couch? What’s that even called?”

It was one of those weird cushion things at the foot of a bed that served no purpose. “Ottoman?” Sam guessed.

“No, I don’t think so…” his brows were furrowed, and Sam forced himself to look away.

“Well, you’re not sleeping on the bed couch thing, anyway.”

“What? Why not?”

“It looks awful .”

“Sam, come on. It’s fine .”

“I will seriously drive over to that stupid military base hotel they have me staying at on Monday before you sleep on the ottoman.”

“It’s not an ottoman. It’s a bed couch. A perfectly acceptable bed couch. Do you know how much sleep super soldiers need anyway?”

“Don’t play with me. We are both getting our eight hours like reasonable adults.”

“And I am getting mine on the bed couch,” Bucky said stubbornly.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Me?”

“Just awful. I will sleep on the floor out of protest.”

“After everything I’ve sacrificed? I’m sleeping on the bed couch for you, Samuel, and this is how you repay me.”

“So you agree the ottoman is a terrible choice.”

Bucky’s mouth opened. Closed. “Ottoman,” he repeated. “I will not kill you because I believe that would be bad for my political career.”

Sam made the executive decision that this was not the hill to die on when he was sweaty, tired, and painfully sober. “We will talk about this later,” he promised, “but first, let’s find the liquor store.”

“Your first stop is the liquor store,” he said flatly. “That’s what you took me to the sticks for.”

“Okay, here me out. Tomorrow is no good. We will be tired of socializing and will just want to sit on our ottoman. Sunday we’ll thank our past selves, because we’ll be out reconnecting with nature, and you know we can’t do that without alcohol.”

“So let’s venture out on Sunday.”

“That’s illegal.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s the Lord’s day, Buck,” he said with a grin. “No liquor purchases. State law.”

(For the record, Delacroix was more civilized. It was only some parts of Louisiana that couldn’t get whiskey on Sunday as God intended).

“This is you culturing me. Teaching me the regional liquor laws.”

“Gotta know it if you’re going to be in the government.”

“When I’m elected,” Bucky declared, “I will make it so that anyone can buy liquor at any time.”

“Amen,” Sam agreed, raising an imaginary glass.

“Do you think it’s going to rain?” Bucky asked, squinting at the sky, which had turned from golden-sunset to an oddly muggy yellow-green. The wind had started to pick up, blowing warm air from the south.

“Of course not,” Sam lied.

The fact was that you don’t grow up on the Gulf without getting a sense for these types of things. It was almost certainly about to pour. The devil is beating his wife , his mother would say nonsensically as the sky cracked open. But they were already half a mile deep into some sort of San Saba side road and three arguments into deciding where the main street was. A normal person would consult Google maps at this point, but of course AT&T may be the shittest cell service out there and was giving Sam nothing, and Bucky had left his cell phone behind like the grandpa he was.

You’d think that two guys who grew up without technology would be able to cross a town no more than a square mile large without technological assistance and find the one liquor store. You’d be wrong. They’d been wandering some residential neighborhood for what felt like ages.

The sky opened up. The world abruptly darkened. The wind reached a feverish pitch. And, following true Sam and Bucky luck, that was when the tornado sirens went off.

Chapter Text

“That siren doesn’t necessarily mean tornado,” Sam said. “We could just be getting nuked. Maybe there’s an alien invasion. Maybe some crazy supervillain escaped prison nearby.”

All of which would be preferable , he thought, already thoroughly soaked. It was as if a bucket of water was dropped above their heads, the rain was coming down so hard. He had risked a glance at his friend to see that his thin pullover was hugging his body in all of the right places, and now his racing heart had nothing to do with the wind whistling past them. Worse, he could feel those intense gray eyes pinning him down. What was he even looking at?

“Next,” Bucky snapped, “I am giving you a tour of the better   part of the country. And I will make sure there is a blizzard coming when I schedule it.”

“We aren’t even in tornado alley! It was just sunny, like, an hour ago!”

“Well, what the fuck are we supposed to do? I feel like I could survive a trip to Oz because of, you know, my superhuman abilities. You , on the other hand, will be leaving me to plan your funeral. And I won’t have anything nice to say in the eulogy.”

“I doubt there’s actually a tornado about to touch down right in front of us,” Sam said confidently, as if he knew anything about twisters other than that 90’s movie. But he was there for the high winds of Katrina, Rita, Laura, and Ida. It couldn’t be too different. They just needed to find someplace to wait it out, in case any trees decided to come down.

Bucky was clearly thinking the same thing. “We could go door to door, see if we can’t find a little Southern hospitality.”

He hesitated, looking around. They had been wandering through your basic lower-middle class neighborhood — rows of one-story houses, chain-link fences, and inexplicably always some run-down Chevy truck getting worked on in the front yard. As much as he ragged on Buck for stereotyping the people down here, he wasn’t dumb. A Black stranger showing up on the porch in the darkness could go wrong fast when everyone had their daddy’s rifle and their Stand Your Ground laws memorized.

“I have a metal arm,” Bucky added helpfully, as if reading his mind.

“We aren’t—” Sam started

“Howdy!” a voice interrupted. “You folks out here to see the twister?”

Again, some stereotypes were there for a reason.

Bucky and Sam shared a glance ( eyes up, Wilson, eyes on the face ) and changed course to the source of the voice, who turned out to be a dark-haired butch woman sitting on her porch. Her house was one of those with the Chevy in the front yard, which immediately raised her in Sam’s estimations. The fact that she had a glass of iced tea in one hand and was pulling aside the mosquito net on the porch to wave them in with the other was also helping.

“Haven’t seen you boys around here before,” the woman said when they were finally out of the rain, dark eyes flickering over them appraisingly. “I’m Shay.” She abruptly raised her voice, and Bucky winced. “Laila, hun, come out here, we have guests!”

“I’m Sam,” he said, putting on his most charming smile. “And this is my…” his brain suddenly short-circuited for some reason. He blamed the damn Cowboys pullover. Coworker, he tried to say, while simultaneously thinking, friend? Buddy? Love you, buddy, he had said. “Partner,” came out instead, for some reason. “Bucky,” he added belatedly, his voice strangled.

Partners was a normal thing to say. They were partners, on the Avengers together. It was just another word for coworkers. Never mind the fact that the woman across from him, almost certainly a lesbian (though there he goes stereotyping again) and who had almost certainly spent her whole life finding other gay people in hostile environments, using coded language and outfits and references, almost certainly took it as another meaning, from the way her eyes lit up.

A brunette — Laila, probably — appeared at the screen door with a couple more glasses. “Hey,” she said with the same searching look, a little wariness in her eyes. “I like your shirt,” she told Bucky.

“Oh, really?” Bucky said, a smile lacing his tone. Sam was surprised he wasn’t immediately crowing with victory at having his awful merch choices acknowledged. “You a fan?”

She shrugged. “Unfortunately. I grew up watching them with my dad, and I can’t seem to escape.” She cast a worried look out in the yard as something creaked alarmingly. “Can we go inside? Brady is saying to take cover.”

“She trusts the meteorologist more than she trusts me,” Shay informed them, but she was already getting up. “Babe, the handsome one with the hair is Bucky, and this is his partner Sam.”

Yup, they were in too deep now. They were officially a couple in these women’s eyes. This was fine.

“Pleasure,” Laila said brightly, a little bit of the wariness already fading. “Please, come on in — sorry about the mess, I wasn’t expecting guests, but I did already pour you some sweet tea and I was just about to make some sandwiches. Maybe you can find them some clothes to change into, Shay?”

“We don’t want to intrude,” Sam said, because it was the thing to say, but he was quickly waved off.

She led them inside, which of course was not at all a mess. Sure enough, the weatherman on the little TV in the corner was imploring people to stay inside as the names of counties under a tornado warning scrolled at the bottom of the screen.

Bucky was scanning the room with military efficiency, grimacing a little as he took a sip of the tea that was definitely 90% sugar. Sam’s eyes wandering down of their own accord, the traitors, and, yup, the wet shirt was just as distracting in the light of the living room, if not more so. 

“What brings y’all to town?” Laila asked, snapping him back to reality.

“I have to be at Fort Cavazos on Monday for a work thing, but we’re visiting family over near San Angelo tomorrow, so we’re just staying here this weekend for some sightseeing.”

“Oh! What part? I’m from a little community east of there — called Wall.”

Of course she was from this place that had a population of 200 people, max. Resigned, he said, “That’s the one.”

The set down the butter knife she was using to make the sandwiches. “Oh my god. I knew you looked familiar! There’s where I know you from!”

“And here I thought it was that he was Captain America,” Bucky muttered. 

“Oh my god, of course, which is, like, crazy, and you must be the Mr. Barnes, the guy running for Congress, right? I was just reading about you. I don’t know why it took me so long to recognize you, sorry.”

She was running at a hundred miles an hour, sandwiches forgotten, and for the life of him Sam could not think of how they could possibly know each other. 

She must’ve noticed his blank expression. “I saw you at the funeral. Riley’s funeral. I mean, I remember hearing you speak. It was really good. And then we talked at the lunch afterwards.”

“I don’t really remember anything from that day, honestly,” Sam heard himself say. It was the truth. He could feel Bucky beside him, tense as a bowstring; at some point, they had moved close enough where they were practically pressing together. 

“Of course. I’m sorry. Such a sweet family. I actually babysat his, um, his sister’s son. I just saw on Facebook he got his Aggie ring this year, isn’t that crazy?”

“Small world,” Bucky said coldly. That effectively ended the conversation as Laila’s cheeks colored and she returned to the pimento cheese spread with a vengeance.

“I got t-shirts!” Shay declared, seemingly oblivious to any lingering tension in the room. “I didn’t know what sizes to get, so I just got the biggest ones I could find so you’re, you know, comfy.”

Sam thanked her and followed her direction to the spare room, Bucky trailing like a shadow. The clothes their host had found for them ended up being an Austin pride parade t-shirt and a Chappell Roan concert shirt. What the hell, sure. His day could not get any stranger. 

When the door closed, Bucky snorted. “What the fuck? Oh my god, yes, I know you! From a funeral 15 years ago! Not because, you know, you were on national news the other week fighting the president.”

He shook his head, tossing him the Chappell shirt, because the thought of a hundred-year-old straight guy wearing a huge picture of a drag queen was too funny to pass up. “I swear I’ve never seen her in my life. There’s no way we actually talked.”

“Clearly you should’ve made a point to seek out your friend’s nephew’s babysitter last time you visited,” Bucky said dryly. “For shame.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam said, turning around and peeling his shirt off right as the lights flickered and went out, plunging them into pitch black. “Well, that’s lovely.”

“Oh, did we lose power? I can still see. Your shirt’s on backwards, by the way.”

He turned to the sound of Bucky’s voice. He could maybe make out a dim silhouette, but that was it. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

Sam sighed and blindly moved his shirt around. “There. Better?”

“I lied. Now it’s actually on backwards.”

“I hate you.”

“I’m in a tornado for you, Sam. Please be nice.”

He tried to take a step towards him but somehow missed that there was an entire dresser in the way, stumbling forward until hands caught him, steadying him. Bucky’s chuckle brushed his ear, far too close, and he shivered. “How did you not remember where that was?”

“I cannot emphasize enough how entirely blind I am,” Sam snapped. He knew exactly where Bucky was, though. His left hand on his waist, cold metal bleeding through the cotton of his shirt. His right hand on his bare forearm, sending goosebumps up his arm. His face, close enough to feel his breath. “If we go back to the kitchen to see if they have any flashlights, do you promise not to run me into any walls?” he managed to say.

“You know I can’t promise anything.” He repositioned himself to be beside Sam instead of in front of him, and just left the hand on the forearm. “This way, m’lady.”

“When you are tragically blinded by an explosion when we’re investigating an abandoned warehouse left behind by neo-nazis and I’m fine on account of the vibranium wings, I will remember this moment.”

“That’s oddly specific. I’ll watch my back around any abandoned warehouses. Besides, I’d be fine. I could just use my other superior senses to get around. I’d be like that guy in Hell’s Kitchen.”

“What guy?”

“You know, the guy. The one with the mask over his eyes?”

“You’re making that up.”

“You need to pay more attention to your country, Captain America.”

They miraculously made it back to the kitchen, where Laila handed them a flashlight and some pimento cheese sandwiches. A ring on her left hand glinted in the dim light.

“How long have you been married?” Sam asked, mostly just to make conversation.

“Five years in August!” she beamed.

“Oh, is your husband out of town?” Bucky asked.

Silence. The two women looked at each other. Sam choked on his sandwich. “No…” Shay said slowly.

Poor Bucky looked like he knew he said something wrong but couldn’t pinpoint what. Sam was desperately trying to make eye contact and signal him somehow. “Did he pass away?” he tried again.

Laila shook her head, looking mortified.

Her wife came to the rescue. “You know what I just thought of?” she said suddenly. “Mr. Mennell. Do you think he has batteries for his oxygen thing he uses?”

Laila’s expression quickly morphed to concern. “Oh no, what if he doesn’t? Do you think he has anyone to call? He’s our next door neighbor,” she added for their benefit. “Sweet old man. We bring him cookies and listen to stories about Vietnam. He has one of those oxygen concentrators that plug into the wall.”

Shay sighed. “I think he has a landline still, and I don’t exactly see any visitors over there. Let’s take some batteries real quick, babe. Just in case.”

They made a hasty retreat before Sam could offer to help, leaving their guests with their sandwiches.

He turned on his friend as soon as the house was empty. “What the fuck was that?”

Bucky still looked lost. “What was what?”

“Okay, Mr. Nineteen-forties, ‘where’s your husband?’ They’re lesbians .”

He blinked once. Twice. “Oh. Oh .”

“Yes, ‘oh.’ They’re married to each other, idiot.”

“They could get married? Here?”

Sam actually could not believe what he was hearing. “Yes, here. For, like, twelve years, now. Times have changed, Buck. I can vote, now, you know.”

Bucky scowled. “I know that .”

“Women can vote too, if you didn’t get the memo. What else do we need to catch you up on?”

“Okay, asshole, that I was actually around for.”

“Alright, alright. Seriously, though. You had no idea?”

“That they were lesbians?” He snorted. “I mean, I had some idea. But I thought it was rude to ask. Gay people did exist in the forties, you know. I’ve been to some gay bars in my time.”

Sam tried to picture it. “Sure, okay. Bucky Barnes, circa, what, late nineteen-thirties? Checking out a gay bar. I guess I didn’t realize they were around back then.”

“You know Sands Street, over by Navy Yard? I’ll show you sometime. There were a couple places there where the off-duty sailors would go looking for a fun time with the local guys.”

Sam realized his friend was blushing a little, and decided to lay off him. For now. He was burning with curiosity. “I guess the next step on your cultural tour is pimento cheese sandwiches. Thoughts?”

“Tornadoes, nosy lesbians, pimento cheese. I feel more cultured already. I was actually wondering what this was. My ma would buy pimento cheese spread when meat got expensive, but it tasted a little different.”

“Huh,” Sam took another bite. “This one’s pretty good. I wonder if it’s homemade.”

Outside, the rain was starting to quiet, and he realized at some point the sirens had turned off. It was another couple minutes of comfortable silence before the women came back.

“He was not, in fact, prepared for a power outage,” Shay said, shaking off her umbrella. “Never mind the fact that he was without it for days back in 2021. All the neighbors had to pool their stash of triple-a’s together. The good news is that the tornado warning is gone! Apparently a small one touched down a few miles away in an empty field.”

“We can get out of your hair, then.” Sam said, stacking their plates. “Thanks so much.”

“Of course. Here, take the umbrella and flashlight. You can bring them back with the shirts tomorrow? I’m guessing we’ll have some work to do with the volunteer firefighters — we spotted a fallen tree down the road when we walked next door.”

They managed to escape before Bucky could apologize for the misunderstanding; Sam could see him working himself up for it. That was a tomorrow issue. There was a bluebonnet-patterned tonight issue to worry about.

Fact 1: It was getting harder to ignore the physical reactions to Bucky’s touches, to Bucky’s laughs, to Bucky’s appearance, to Bucky . Seriously, he felt like he was in combat several times tonight. And the whole people-thinking-they-were-dating thing was giving him ideas that he should really not have about his best friend.

Fact 2: Bucky knew 1930’s Brooklyn gay subculture. That was something to unpack tonight, when sleep inevitably eludes him.

Fact 3: They were sharing a bed. Which was normal, sure. He knew Sarah did it with her friends all the time. The whole stigma around guys doing it was stupid. Still, though. He was sharing a bed with Bucky Barnes .

Cataloguing these facts did nothing for his nerves, and Bucky kept stealing glances at him as if he sensed something was wrong.

And then, of course, there was San Angelo tomorrow. Riley’s family. And if Bucky thought these women were nosy, he was in for a hell of a ride.

Chapter Text

The receptionist had claimed this was a king-sized bed. Sam had his doubts.

Getting ready for bed was an old, familiar dance from their days sharing motel rooms, taking turns in the shower and at the sink and changing in the main room. The power was still out, so he opened the window to let the rain-scented breeze in.

Apparently the ottoman/bed-couch debate was over, because Bucky crawled into his side of the bed with minimal complaints and promptly turned the lamp off.

Just as he thought, Sam couldn’t sleep. He was acutely aware of the weight next to him and tried to limit his tossing and turning, to be as still and quiet as possible.

After what could’ve been a few minutes or a few hours, Bucky groaned. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?” Sam repeated incredulously.

“Seriously, do you need an Ambien or something? I can practically hear you counting sheep over there.”

“You did not just offer me your drugs. They probably give you, like, fist-sized super-soldier dose pills. I want to wake up in the morning, thank you very much.”

That, and he remembered taking it nightly for about five years after returning home from the war in a desperate bid to get at least a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. He had managed to sleep unaided since then, and he was not about to start again because he was overthinking interactions with his best friend.

Bucky snorted. “I don’t get my pills special-made. They just give me more.”

“Okay, well, if you’ve already had your handful of sleeping pills, why are you bitching at me? And how did you even know I was awake?”

There was a pause. “It’s going to sound creepy.”

Well, now he was really curious. He flipped over to face Bucky, though of course he couldn’t see anything. “Spill.”

“So, it’s really, really quiet tonight, right? Everyone’s asleep, there’s no AC running since the power’s out everywhere. And I have, you know, super-hearing.” He heard him shrug. “So I can hear you.”

“Hear me,” Sam said flatly.

“Your breathing. Your heartbeat. Only if it’s really quiet,” he added hastily. “Or, I guess, if it’s pretty quiet and we’re close.”

He took that in for a second.

“You’re creeped out,” Bucky said.

“No, no, I’m thinking. So you’re basically a human lie detector.”

“Is that how lie detectors work?”

“Pretty sure.”

They lay in silence for a minute, and then Bucky abruptly shifted forward, so close that they were nearly touching.

“You trying to cuddle, Barnes?” Sam somehow managed to say, though his brain was suddenly refusing to work.

“Just testing a hypothesis,” Bucky said, moving back as quickly as he came.

“A hypothesis,” he repeated.

“Theory? Whatever,” he said, getting out of bed. “I’m going for a walk to cool off real quick. Testing another theory.”

“And you’re not going to tell me what sort of experiment I was subjected to?” Sam was mildly alarmed at this.

“Nope,” Bucky said flatly, giving away absolutely nothing. “See you in the morning.”

Another spike of alarm. “You’re coming back, aren’t you?”

“Obviously, but you better be asleep by then. I refuse to hear you think all night.”

“Okay…don’t get shot.”

Bucky paused in the door. “Who would shoot me?”

“People like their guns here,” he muttered into the pillow. He felt he was missing some important context. Or maybe Bucky was just being weird. “Never mind. Just don’t die.”

Bucky didn’t dignify that with a response, just shut the door silently.

“What the fuck?” Sam whispered, trying to parse what the hell he could’ve missed about their conversation.

If the theory Bucky was testing was that Sam was attracted to him, he was fucked, because his heart rate had definitely sped up when Bucky got closer. But if that really was what he was testing, he was being an asshole about it. And Bucky was a lot of things, but he was never cruel.

He resolved to stay awake to interrogate Bucky when he returned. But, of course, now that he wasn’t trying to fall asleep, as soon as he closed his eyes, that was that.

No matter how many years he was a civilian, Sam never got the hang of deep sleep. So he wasn’t surprised when Bucky jolting awake next to him woke him up, too. He was a little surprised that he had apparently managed to slip back in completely silently in the middle of the night. Of course he had already found all the creaky spots in the floor and managed to avoid them.

He was also a little surprised, but extremely glad, that he didn’t wake up spooning him or something. Maybe that didn’t happen in real life. Or maybe it was just too goddamn hot.

He was aware of Bucky laying there for a moment, breathing heavily. Pre-dawn light filtered through the window, and he wondered how much sleep Bucky actually got after the weird hypothesis thing.

“You good?” he dared to ask.

Bucky grunted in response, getting up, throwing on a new shirt, and stalking out the door.

It was one of those mornings, then. The bright side was that the power had come back on at some point in the night, so they wouldn’t be hot and grumpy.

Sam hastily splashed water on his face and found his friend pouring himself a coffee in the common kitchen area downstairs. “Do you want to talk about it?” he pressed.

“Therapy talk before coffee, Sam? Really?” was his response, short and snappish.

“I wish you wouldn’t call it that.”

Bucky eyed him over the mug. Sighed. “Talk about what?” An olive branch.

“Whatever’s got you so wound up.” Probably whatever he dreamed about that made him wake up so suddenly and violently, but he found with most people it was best to let them say it. Okay, maybe he was going therapy-mode a little bit.

He made a show of thinking about it. “No.” Then, gentler: “But thanks.”

Sam nodded, grabbing a mug and pouring some creamer from the pitcher that was set out. “I’m surprised they brewed a pot this early.”

Bucky looked slightly abashed. “I may have had to ask the girl working. She just got here a few minutes ago.”

“So that’s what woke you up. Your caffeine-addicted brain sensed a source was near.”

He did one of his half smiles that always made Sam feel like the wind was knocked out of him. “You know me.”

By unspoken agreement, they took their coffee out to the couch on the front porch. Sam had to admit, he could see why people spent money to come here. The world around them was green from the rain, the storm had brought a cool, comfortable breeze, and the birds were already starting to come out.

“How was your walk?”

“Uneventful. You were snoring when I came back.”

“I don’t snore.”

“I’ll record it next time.”

“So, are you going to tell me how your little science project went last night?”

Another wry smile. “Maybe later.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, somehow you still manage to suffer me.”

“Barely.” Sam smiled into his coffee.

By the time they were adequately caffeinated, the town was starting to wake up. Luckily it didn’t seem like there was too much damage; no houses were flattened like he’d see on the news after a big twister. There were a couple felled trees, though, and some houses had shattered windows.

“It’s an hour-forty to San Angelo,” Sam explained as they put up their coffee mugs and plates from their complimentary-apology-breakfast. “So we can leave at one — and it’s, what, nine-ish now? What do you want to do?”

Bucky frowned. “This is a test.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“First of all, Captain America is asking the guy with super-strength what he wants to do while people are moving trees and shit outside. That part’s definitely a test. Second of all, I know you secretly want to help the group of guys with pickup trucks that are out there right now deciding the best way to tow a tree.”

“Doesn’t that sound so fun, though?”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “Maybe they’ll even let you drive it if you ask nicely,” he teased. “Just don’t show up with the Kia. Or if you do, make sure I’m far away.”

“You could totally tow a tree with that arm. We don’t even need a truck.”

“And let you miss all the fun?”

Granted, being a dumbass with access to a pickup truck was one of life’s simplest pleasures. Sam spent the morning with a group of guys clearing debris out of the roads. They were probably doing it in the most roundabout way possible, but it was a lot of fun towing shit around.

Bucky, in the meantime, used his talents to charm an old lady by helping her find her cat and board up the shattered window it escaped out of. Sam had to take a break from clean-up to sneak a picture of the little cat purring contentedly in his arms. It may be the most adorable thing on his phone.

By one o’clock, San Saba no longer looked like it narrowly avoided a tornado, at least if you ignored the intermittent boarded-up windows. They were freshly showered and in their Sunday best in the little Kia Soul right on time.

“Okay, so what do I need to know?” Bucky asked as they pulled out onto Highway 190.

“Like…?”

“Like, is there any topic to avoid? I know politics are a no. And is it actually still polite to say ‘yes ma’am’ and ‘no ma’am?’ Because I was told it makes people feel old. And you need to go ahead and tell me who everyone is, or I will one hundred percent forget right after I’m introduced.” 

“You’re overthinking this.” He even had a little notebook out to take notes, bless him.

“I’m thinking this the exact correct amount,” Bucky insisted. “It’s important.”

“You do have some stiff competition,” Sam admitted. “They met Torres at Christmas and fell in love.”

He sighed. “Of course they did.”

“I think he’s already practically best friends with Will. And Shirley bought the whole family tickets to the Texas A&M - Miami game later this year to see it with him. They didn’t even invite me!”

Furious scribbles from the passenger seat. “Names, Sam.”

“Sorry. Shirley is Riley’s mom. Will is his nephew — so Shirley’s grandson. He’s a…junior? I think? At A&M. And apparently the girl we met last night was his babysitter when he was younger.”

He could see Bucky nodding out of the corner of his eye. “Got it. Shirley. Will.”

“It’s seriously going to be fine.”

“I know.” He was radiating nervous energy, though, clicking his pen. “How is he?”

“Torres?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s…” Sam searched for the words. “It’s been hard. I mean, you know how it is. He wants to get back into action right away. Bored out of his mind but physically exhausted still. And of course we’ve had physical therapy nonstop since it happened.”

Bucky’s tone turned teasing. “We, is it?”

“Shut up.”

“It’s cute. You acquired a little mentee-slash-sidekick. I’m pretty sure it’s a requirement for superheroes these days.”

“It’s stressful, is what it is. You know I was his only emergency contact listed? I asked the hospital if there was anyone he could call, if they had his mom’s number or something. Nope, just me. I can barely handle being responsible for my nephews.”

Bucky was quiet for a moment. Sam appreciated that about him; how careful he could be with his words when it mattered, how he meticulously processed everything he was given. Finally, he said, “I get it. It’s…hard. I’ll swing by this summer, okay? Show the kid a thing or too. See if I can’t work my way onto his emergency contact list eventually.”

Sam blinked. “That’s…thanks, Buck.”

He grunted. Clicked his pen again. “Give me more names.”

Bucky fastidiously wrote down everything he said and studied the rest of the drive. Sam told him about Jo, Riley’s sister and Will’s mom, smart as a whip and the first in the family to make it to college, even if it was only about ten miles from home. Her husband, George, and her daughter, Macy. Macy was still in high school and last he checked was dead set on going to art school across the country, which was a point of constant tension that hopefully would not come up over lunch.

And then, of course Riley’s parents, Shirley and Larry. And finally, Larry’s mother Nana. Sam didn’t actually know Nana’s first name, which made Bucky sigh at his unfinished notes, but he assured him that everyone would insist on Bucky calling them by their first names except Nana, who would probably just introduce herself as Nana.

“She’s wheelchair bound and can barely hear, but she makes the best cookies,” he explained. “Well, these days she just watches Shirley like a hawk while she makes the cookies and criticizes every step. Drives her crazy, but they’re worth it.”

Bucky sighed at his notes again. “This is so much.”

“Hey, most people would just show up blindly. You’re putting in the work.”

“Well, I’m getting an invite to that damn football game, even if you never do.”

Sam just grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “They’ll love you.”

And they did, as soon as Bucky pulled out his full smile and his “sir’s” and “ma’am’s” (Sam had assured him that they would not consider it rude) and complimented the house and the smell of the cooking. Jo flashed him a thumbs-up behind her husband’s back as Nana told him how handsome he was.

Bucky even offered to say grace, which was a masterful move Sam didn’t even coach him on.

He complimented Shirley’s cooking and asked how she got her mashed potatoes so smooth. He listened as Will got excited about his upcoming Lockheed Martin engineering internship in Fort Worth while his mother beamed with pride. He even got Macy, who was trying her best to play the sullen teenager at the edge of the table, to open up about her history project she was working on.

It was official. Sam was in love.

Of course, since it was an extended family event, something had to go wrong. He would have put money on it being another art school yelling match like it was over Christmas.

He should’ve known, though. This time of year it was only ever about one thing. The ghost in their halls, felt in the empty chair next to Jo, the kept-closed bedroom door across the living room.

Sam saw Riley’s mom work her way up to saying something. She had been sitting on it all day, he could tell in the way she kept working at her bottom lip, mentally checking out whenever the conversation wasn’t on her. Finally, during a break in the talking, she took the chance. “We were watching the news,” she said, picking at her plate, “when you were at Celestial Island.”

“Mama.” Jo’s voice was sharpened in warning.

“What?” she snapped.

“I just don’t think,” Riley’s sister said pointedly, “whatever you’re about to say is appropriate dinner conversation.”

The room was dead silent now. Sam thought he knew where this was going. Best to get it out there. “Say what you need to say,” he said softly.

“It’s just…” Shirely’s voice was shaking. “It was just…so awful. Seeing him fall like that. Is that…is that what it looked like? When…?”

Jo’s silverware clattered. “What the fuck do you want him to say to that?”

“It’s okay,” Sam heard himself say, but he was no longer at the kitchen table, he was in the air, above the dark water, above the sands, watching him fall.

Of course it looked the same , he tried to say, there are only so many ways you can fall to a fiery death.

“Excuse us,” Bucky was saying, and the next thing he knew, they were sitting in the little bathroom across the kitchen, door closed and Bucky coaching him to breathe, Sam, with me .

Eventually he forced his body to comply, to match his friend’s slow breathing even if it made his lungs feel like they were burning.

Bucky gave a tentative smile. “See? All good.” 

They were sitting pressed up against the wall, shoulder’s touching. Sam felt the last vestiges of panic holding on and closed his eyes, focusing on the warmth of the body next to him. “It’s been a long time,” he said, once he felt like he could talk. “I…I forgot it could feel like that.”

Bucky nodded. “It sneaks up on you. You think you’re going to be fine, and then it’s just…”

He thought back to the first year after Afghanistan. To wandering like a ghost, reliving the scene every time he closed his eyes, wondering how everyone else kept living and the world kept turning. He couldn’t go back to that.

A hand squeezing his, startling him back to reality. “Hey,” Bucky said sharply. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Whatever you’re thinking about.”

“What…” Realization dawned on him. “Oh my God. You are so full of shit. You said your human lie detector thing was only when the power was out!”

“That literally makes no sense. I said it was when it was quiet . It’s not a superpower triggered by a power outage.” He paused. “Are you feeling any better?”

“You tell me. You’re the walking heart monitor.”

That earned him an eye roll. “Humor me.”

Sam shrugged.

“Well…” Bucky said slowly. “I feel that she shouldn’t have asked that. I don’t know what she expected to hear.”

He sighed. “We all grieve differently. Some people just need to keep picking at the scab until it bleeds. Let it heal and then do it all again.”

“Still,” he said stubbornly.

“And,” Sam added. “I haven’t had a reaction like that in years. I don’t know what’s up with me now, but it’s not usually like that.”

Bucky shook his head. “It doesn’t just go away.”

“No, Buck, it’s been years . I’ve spent more time with him gone than the time I spent knowing him.”

“It doesn’t just go away, Sam,” he repeated.

“Well, I’m sure as hell not letting it come back! I’m not living like that again, I won’t.”

“You can’t just will away PTSD.”

“I’m not—” Sam broke off with a sigh. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just trying to say it’s okay. It’s normal. And you know that. You would say it to any other person, anybody you worked with at the VA. It doesn’t mean you’re about to go back to how it was in the beginning.”

He was right. Of course he was right. That didn’t mean he had to say it, though.

“Thank you,” he said instead. “Seriously. I know I dragged you into this. But I’m really, really glad you’re here.”

Bucky looked away. “The food’s good,” he said with a shrug. “The company’s decent, even if he’s got an awful taste in rental cars.”

“Oh, fuck off. You know damn well I didn’t choose it.”

“I don’t know. It kind of suits you.”

That damn smile was tugging on the corner of his lips again, and that’s the only explanation for what Sam said next. “I love you too,” he blurted.

Bucky whipped his head around. His mouth opened. Closed.

“I mean,” Sam said hurriedly, to fill in the silence, “I know it was, like, over a month ago, at the hospital, you probably don’t remember, but…I wanted to say it back. You’re my best friend.”

Bucky’s cheeks colored. He let go of Sam’s hand; with a start, Sam realized he had forgotten he was still holding on. “Oh. Right. Yes. I…I had forgotten I said that.”

“What, you’re not going to say I’m your best friend?”

“I don’t want you getting comfortable. There’s lots of competition.”

Sam grinned. As emotionally exhausted as he was, anxiety lingering in his stomach, it somehow still didn’t feel forced. He held out a hand for Bucky to grab. “Come on. What do you say we try some of that peach cobbler?”

Bucky eyed him from the ground. “And you’re sure you’re okay? We can stay if you need more time.”

“Really, Buck? Therapy talk before dessert?”

Bucky glared at him. Clearly he didn’t appreciate a good callback.

“I promise,” he said sincerely. “I’m not going to say I’m feeling great. But I do want to hang out with them some more.”

“Okay,” he said, finally grabbing his hand. “Let’s go.”

Chapter Text

Say one thing for Bucky Barnes, say he’s an avoidant asshole.

He’s a self-aware avoidant asshole, though.

After a near-miss with the whole love-confession-in-the-hospital moment (the word “buddy” was doing a lot of legwork there making sure the sentence stayed strictly platonic), he did what he did best: he bolted. Threw himself into his work even though it was a hell of a long time before anybody in Brooklyn would have to decide if they wanted to vote for a previously-brainwashed mass murderer. It was a lot better than thinking about his last conversation with Sam. 

He knew it was normal now for friends to be affectionate, say things like “I love you” before hanging up the phone or going their separate ways.

However.

He and Sam didn’t have that kind of relationship. And even if he wanted to confess something, which he didn’t , in a hospital room where Sam’s friend was fighting for his life was not the place for it. Bucky might’ve been new at this 21st-century-dating thing, but he knew that much.

All of that was to say that it was far easier to be busy. He’d had crushes on friends before, of course. This one was lingering for way longer than usual, but that was fine. He could keep his distance for a bit and, with luck, it would be gone the next time they saw each other.

Any pretense of that working, however, vanished when he heard Sam’s voice.

His first instinct was panic, as it so often was. Nobody called each other without warning these days unless someone was dead or dying, right? But of course Sam was Sam, and he knew him far too well, and he knew Bucky would have a way easier time avoiding the invitation over text.

For the record, Bucky was responding to his texts. He hadn’t gone completely radio silent since that period of time after Steve left. Maybe his responses were a little dryer than usual, but that was just because he was busy.

After he gained his footing and realized that nobody was in imminent danger, his second instinct was to blow him off. He couldn’t even say why — completely on autopilot, he said something about being busy, all the while having no idea what he really had going on.

Okay, whatever, so he was an asshole. Felt like even more of one when Sam admitted why he actually needed him there. A good friend would’ve shown up before the other person had to pull the dead-best-friend card. He could make up for it by being a completely normal, supportive friend for a weekend. No baggage, no weird feelings. He could do that.

Say one thing for Bucky Barnes, say he knows how to reign in his temper.

It wasn’t easy, of course. When the insipid brunette girl mentioned the funeral and Sam started stumbling over his words, his first thought was I will kill you .

That was unrealistic. He had no taste for killing people, no matter how rude they were. But he still fantasized about saying whatever cruel thing he could come up with, something like “Your house is ugly and and you have the personality of a moldy log and unless you miraculously gain any semblance of cleverness or intelligence overnight you will never make anything of yourself.”

He would regret it later, but he was an old hand at being disappointed in himself. He wasn’t quite used to handling Sam’s disappointment, though, so he held his tongue.

And then again, during lunch the next day, he was pissed again, not quite at Riley’s ma, though he certainly felt he shared Jo’s sentiment when she snapped what the fuck do you want him to say to that? The anger burning inside was more directed to the world in general, the world that let mothers bury their children with no rhyme or reason.

Jean, was her name. His baby sister. She had the biggest blue eyes you’d ever seen. His little sisters were obsessed. He remembered Mary got the paddle for shredding their warmest blanket to sew a little dress for her. She acted all teary and contrite, but Bucky knew she was secretly pleased with her handiwork.

She was tiny, though. So tiny the little dress swallowed her whole. And it was a cold winter, and hungry, too, deep in the throes of the Depression. She died two days after her baptism. Nothing to be done about it. At least, nothing to be done about it in ‘37.

He thought about her as he made their swift exit from the dinner table, Sam trembling under his hand. Thought about Mary selling the little dress to get enough cash for the baby coffin and then pretending like she misplaced the outfit and miraculously found the money in her sock drawer. Thought about how his ma was practically catatonic for weeks afterwards, and never smiled the same; almost exactly four years later, when he heard the news about Pearl Harbor, his first thought was, selfishly, that he hoped they would join the war in time for him to join up and get shipped out before family Christmas, which had turned strained and quiet.

He hadn’t told Sam that, when he asked why he signed up for the war. It was, oh, maybe last summer, in Delacroix, and Sam was delightfully drunk (he was a lightweight, though he’d never admit it). Bucky was actually on his way to getting there too, a feat rarely accomplished with his metabolism and only possible because of the neighbor’s moonshine.

The amount of moonshine in his glass, however, was not nearly enough to get him to talk about his sisters, so he said some bullshit about patriotism and getting back at the Japanese and Sam’s eyes were sparkling like he knew he had just pulled that out of his ass. He didn’t call him out on it, just inched closer and grabbed his arm to point out something in the distance (he was so touchy when he had a few drinks in him, though, again, not that he would admit it).

Bucky had felt a swoop in his stomach that had nothing to do with his getting tipsy, and this was around the time he first thought, with the sinking feeling universal to anyone who had ever realized they had romantic feelings for their friend, oh, fuck .

He didn’t get the chance to think about what all that feeling entailed when the mood turned somber.

“I don’t know what we were doing there,” Sam had said suddenly, looking out over the water.

The sentence threw Bucky off, though he instinctively knew what the “we” was referring to. It was the kind of ubiquitous “we” of rare friendships where everyone knew you were a package deal. A lifetime ago, in New York, if Bucky said “we”, it was always referring to Steve. “Where? The war?”

Sam nodded. “I think…I think we were scared of dying in the town we grew up in. Wanted to make something of ourselves but didn’t have the time and money to figure out what. So when the recruiter comes, offering a salary and a career path? A direction?” He shrugged. “At least half the guys I met had the same story. Had nothing to do with wanting to serve the country or whatever the hell I told people.”

All of that was to say that he was a bit upset, but he managed to push the image of grief-stricken mothers out of his mind and stop himself from slamming the bathroom door closed. Sam still twitched at the sound, and Bucky focused on the rabbit-fast sound of his heartbeat and how to slow it down.

Sam’s heart was usually racing anytime he was close enough to hear it. He wasn’t sure if it had always been the case, but once he had noticed, it was hard to un-notice. It was getting to the point where if Sam was ever put on medication for high blood pressure, Bucky was pretty sure he would have to assume some responsibility and pay for part of it, seeing as he would probably be the cause.

Not that Bucky was the reason for it in this specific situation, but it did make him wonder, just for a second, if his presence was actually helping.

The first time he noticed it was earlier in the year. It was early January, which Bucky wholeheartedly believed was the worst part of the year where the holidays still lingered and you started to forget what a warm sunny day felt like.

He was noticing a lot about Sam after that terrifying realization he had in the summer. How he was always fiddling with something, shredding his straw wrapper every time they went out to eat and then stealing Bucky’s to shred his, too. How he always looked at Bucky first after making a joke to a group, like his was the only opinion that mattered. How he insisted on getting a picture every time they hung out because his desk was “too empty”, though he knew full well every inch of space was already covered.

Trouble was, all that thinking of Sam made it to where those thoughts tended to follow him home. That January night, he went to bed early — his sleep schedule was so bad it looped back around to being good, and he crashed at nine — and Sam invaded his dreams. The Winter Soldier did, too, and he alternated between being the Soldier and watching the scene from the outside, in that nonsensical way dreams sometimes went. 

Besides that, though, everything felt too real. He could feel the cold wind biting through his clothes. Too cold, Siberia-cold, but he was in DC in the dream, silently scaling the wall of Sam’s apartment building until he got to the living room window, sliding it open.

How did I know that was unlocked? Bucky thought dimly. He was pretty sure windows were more secure these days. He didn’t have much time to think about it before Sam appeared in his bedroom doorway, clearly having just woken up, pistol in hand.

Bucky felt a brief flare of hope. Please, please be able to tell something is wrong.

Sam immediately relaxed, though, and Bucky heard the small click of the safety turning back on. “Jesus, Buck, is the front door not good enough for you?” He frowned as he took in his appearance. “Hey, is—”

One small mercy was that the Soldier never took his time unless explicitly told to. The sound of the gunshot released Bucky from the dream, and it was all he could do to make it to the bathroom in time to empty the contents of his stomach.

When he felt confident he could stand, he stumbled back to the bedroom and picked up his phone with trembling hands. That felt real. Too real. But his phone said it was just before midnight, the same day. It was impossible to drive to DC and back in three hours.

Of course it was just a dream. The Winter Soldier was long gone. Except he wasn’t, was he? He was still there, deep inside. Lurking in his thoughts, his dreams, waiting to be reawakened.

He had to call Sam. Just to be sure. Tell him to check the windows, just in case.

Straight to voicemail.

Bucky forced himself to stop and think. Sam was probably the kind of guy to turn his phone off at night, right? Read one study on screen time before bed and went back to a digital alarm clock.

No, he wasn’t. He always had it on, in case somebody needed him. He was so damn reachable, what he really needed was for someone to force him to put it on “do not disturb” for a few hours.

Fuck it. He was done thinking. He was navigating the dark, icy roads of I-95 before he could think better of it, turning the radio up to try to drown out the nightmare fresh on his mind.

The front door was good enough for him, thank you very much. At least, it would be unless Sam decided not to answer. It was an agonizing minute before the door finally opened, revealing a disheveled, very-much alive Sam Wilson.

Bucky was so relieved he could kiss him. And then so angry he could hit him. “I could be anybody,” he snapped. “You in the habit of opening the door to random people in the middle of the night? Are you trying to get killed?”

Sam, for his part, took it in stride, standing to the side to let him in. “Hello to you too. There’s a thing, you know, actually pretty common on doors. It lets you see who’s there.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s me! You’re always going on about wizards. What if it was just something wearing my face? Or what if it’s me, just…” he trailed off when his eye caught on the gun on the counter. The same one as in the dream, he realized with a sickening lurch of deja vu. Sam must have brought it with him and then set it on the counter when he realized it was Bucky at the door. He was closer to it, now. The Winter Soldier could grab it, turn off the safety, and use it before Sam so much as got a word out. 

Sam said, gently, “Is everything okay? What are you doing here?”

He would be okay, he knew, but he had to be sure. He stalked across the living room to the window.

It slid open easily, just as it did in the dream. He spun around to face Sam, who was following at a wary distance. “Why the hell do you keep your windows unlocked?”

He could immediately tell he burned through what little patience Sam possessed at 4 in the morning. “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or are you just here to pick a fight?”

Bucky hadn’t been planning on it, but the anger was familiar and felt a hell of a lot better than the breathtaking fear that had possessed him the entire drive. “What’s wrong is that you seemingly have zero sense of self-preservation. You leave the window unlocked, you answer the door in the middle of the night, you tried to give me your house keys earlier! You wanted a brainwashed assassin to have your house keys, do you know how insane that is?”

“Okay, I don’t know if it was different back in your day, but nowadays, friends — you know friends, the people who like you? — friends can get access to your house to water your houseplants while you’re gone or come make sure the stove is off. It’s not a crazy concept, though from your reaction at the time, I thought I’d given you a cockroach instead of a key.”

“It may as well have been! You’re impossible, you know that? How many people can get in here? The sweet old lady next door? The pretty blonde downstairs you told me about?”

Sam opened his mouth to speak, and then visibly stopped himself from taking the bait. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Something’s clearly bothering you, and you’d rather us yell at each other than talk about it.”

Bucky bristled. “I don’t need the psychoanalysis.”

“No psychoanalysis needed, Buck, you’re an open book. Close the damn window and sit down.”

Say one thing for Bucky Barnes, say he’s a petty bitch. He pointedly did not go back to the window, instead sitting right down on the couch and letting the cold wind run up the electricity bill.

And say one thing for Sam Wilson, say he could match his energy. He glared at the goosebumps on Bucky’s bare arms but sat down right where he was, too. It brought to mind their staring contest in therapy.

When it became sufficiently clear that Bucky was keen on silently shivering on the couch, Sam went first. “I didn’t try to give a brainwashed assassin my house keys. I tried to give my friend my house keys.”

Time to draw the line in the sand. “Friends, Sam? We work together.”

Genuine hurt flashed across his face, and Bucky had to physically stop himself from taking it back right there, from tracking down the time stone to go back and shake some sense into his one-minute-ago-self. But he remembered how trusting Sam had looked in the dream, how he immediately relaxed when he saw Bucky. He knew that nobody should be that relaxed around him. Selfishly, he had enjoyed sitting under the stars in Delacroix last summer, enjoyed the feeling of someone being his home again, but it couldn’t last.

Finally, Sam said, “You’re that desperate to get out of Mardi Gras in a couple weeks?”

“Maybe I am,” Bucky sniped.

“Okay, co-worker, so what are you doing here?”

“I had…a gut feeling I guess. I knew that window would be unlocked.” The offending window let in another gust of freezing air.

Last May, in a rare bad mood, Sam had snapped that half of Bucky’s “gut feelings” were just clinical anxiety. He had apparently decided not to bring that up again. “So, what, your instincts were telling you someone was coming through the window, and you’re in town, so you swing by instead of calling?”

“I did call. It went to voicemail.” He couldn’t help but add, “Which you’re always bitching about me doing.”

Sam looked thrown for a second, then winced. “Okay, fine, that one’s on me. My charger’s busted and I turned it off to save battery so I didn’t have to go out tonight.”

“Oh.” That was…surprisingly logical. More logical than the idea that something awful happened in the few hours Bucky was asleep.

“Yes, oh . But if we’re strictly 9-5 work buddies, I don’t see why you should be able to reach me in the middle of the night, anyway.” The hurt was back on his face, lacing his words, and Bucky couldn’t stand it. He had lasted all of one minute trying to push Sam away.

“Okay, fine, I’m sorry! You’re right; I’m being a dick on purpose.”

Sam didn’t offer forgiveness right away, just studied him for a moment. Then: “You drove here from New York, didn’t you?”

“So?”

“So, what the hell, Buck? On these roads? Four and a half hours in the middle of the night?” Apparently it was Bucky’s turn to get chewed out.

“It was less than four.”

“That doesn’t help! That makes it worse! You understand that, right?” He finally stormed over to the window, slamming it shut and latching it. “You’re in a t-shirt, it’s far below freezing outside, and you drove half the night on the iced-over interstate because of a ‘gut feeling’? Barging into my apartment and talking about us being ‘co-workers’, like we didn’t move past that the tenth time I saved your life.”

Ten was generous. And Sam was always talking about a little ice on the roads like it was certain death, which he was pretty sure just stemmed from his hometown school district cancelling if there was so much as a snowflake in the weather forecast, but it didn’t seem wise to mention that in the moment. “I said I was sorry.”

“Not good enough. You need to tell me what the hell happened.”

Bucky hesitated. He clearly wasn’t strong enough to do the boundary-setting thing, not in person and certainly not here in the middle of the night where all of Sam’s emotions were written clear across his face. And it wasn’t fair to him, anyway, to pretend like their relationship was strictly professional, when they were so far beyond that Bucky thinks they might have spent more time together outside of missions than in them at this point. Finally, he settled on, “I had a nightmare.”

“Okay.” Sam minutely relaxed. This was familiar territory for them. “What about?”

Bucky forced himself to detach, to speak of it clinically. “It was very vivid. It was an ice storm like tonight. I — well, he was scaling the wall outside your apartment. He opened that window, came inside. It must’ve woken you up, because you were over there with the gun. But when you saw it was me, you relaxed so, so quickly, Sam. Just dropped the gun and started teasing me just like tonight. And that was when I — he — did it.” There was a tremble in his voice at the end, so he plowed on. “I know it’s normal. I dream of him all the time, you know? But it was so real, and I woke up and realized I lost time, and…”

“You lost time because you were asleep,” Sam said, voice gentle again.

“I know, I know that, but…how did I know about the window?”

Sam bit his lip, thinking. Finally, he got up and disappeared in his bedroom, coming back with a large, fuzzy quilt. He was reminded, sharply, of home, of a blanket patched together with his old clothes. “I thought you were actually coming up with an answer.”

“I am! Or at least, I was, but someone let all the warm air out, and I can’t think when it’s cold. Not all of us grew up in these harsh conditions.” He stood there a moment. “Could I sit next to you?”

“Only if you share.”

“Oh, so he does feel the cold.” Sam situated himself next to him. “Well, I’ll have you know I was thinking about it. Remember, early on last summer, when I went down to Texas for a couple weeks? I had you keep an eye on the plants and Redfin?” (That would be Sam’s ill-fated beta fish. The house plants were long gone, too. He knew Sam tried, he really did, to keep everything alive. It wasn’t his fault he was a lot better at saving people than ferns). “Well, like the overachiever you were, I came back to find the whole place smelling like cleaning supplies. Maybe you left the windows open while you were cleaning? You forgot to lock it, and your subconscious remembered?”

That actually made sense, enough sense that he felt himself relax a little bit. “You really think that was it?”

“Yeah, well, it’s my best guess, at least. I never actually thanked you for that. I was…embarrassed, I guess. I had no energy when I left. I think I even left the sink full. So…thank you.”

Bucky found he had no idea how to react to the vulnerability, so he just shrugged. He remembered he had sensed something was wrong, but it had seemed far easier to spend time doing a deep clean than it was to bring it up. And he did remember letting the summer air in after he went overboard on the bleach in the kitchen (there were way too many cleaning products, when his ma had always said some vinegar and lemon was just fine, and he was worried for a moment that he had accidentally created mustard gas in the sink). 

“So,” Sam sighed, “you think he’s still in there, don’t you?”

Bucky frowned. “I know he is.”

“Think you’re smarter than the Wakandans, do you?”

“No. But I think I know my own head better than they do.”

“Yes. You, Bucky Barnes. Famous for knowing your own brain.”

Bucky’s mouth dropped. “That was uncharacteristically rude.”

“Hey, don’t dish it if you can’t take it. You were plenty mean tonight. ‘We work together,’ Buck? Really?”

“Look, I really am sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Yes, you do. As scary as it seems, I know you. I know what it looks like when you’re trying to push someone away. Why?”

It took Bucky a second to find the words. He needed to say this right, needed Sam to understand. “I guess tonight I sort of realized how comfortable we were together. And that doesn’t seem like a good idea when I’m…me.”

“When you think you can go back to the Winter Soldier at any moment.”

He was trying to humor him, he could tell. “You’re not getting it.”

“No, but I’m trying. So this,” Sam gestured between them. “You’re saying this is a bad idea. Us being this close.” They were close. Under the same blanket, shifted to face each other on the couch.

“Yes! Yes, exactly.”

“Because if you were still brainwashed and were ordered to kill me, you could do it right now. How?”

“How…?”

“How would he do it? Humor me. I don’t trust the Winter Soldier in your dream to be the sharpest tool. He literally climbed a wall ten stories in an ice storm when I have a front door.”

“Okay, pause. That’s perfectly logical. There are cameras in the halls.”

“Please. Like he ever cared about cameras.”

“You—” Bucky broke off. “We’re getting off track.”

“As usual. So tell me.”

Bucky considered. It was too easy, slipping back into the mind of a killer. They were sitting so close, and Sam was so relaxed, that he knew instinctively what he would do.

Telling was fine. Showing was better. He grabbed the knife from his thigh with his right hand, used his left to push Sam up against the back of the couch, and held the knife to his throat.

Quick. Relatively clean. No chance to let him get his hands on a weapon, get his bearings. That’s how he would do it.

If he focused past the sounds of the wind outside, he could hear a hitch in his friend’s breath, hear his pulse climb. They sat like that for a moment. Sam’s eyes flickered down, back up. Bucky focused on counting the heartbeats. Maybe about 140 a minute. Good; he was getting it.

Sam broke the silence first. “Have you considered,” he murmured, “that it might help your anxiety if you weren’t armed while sitting on your friend’s couch?”

Bucky blinked, thrown. He sat back, sheathing the knife. “Well…no. I might need it.”

Sam studied him for a moment, expression unreadable. “It really would make you feel better? If I try to be more…I don’t know. Aware? Less relaxed?”

Bucky’s shoulders sagged. “Yeah. Yeah, pretty much.”

“Okay, then. I’ll try.”

It had seemed a little silly, in the light of the day. What, he had a nightmare about his best friend trusting him — crazy concept, Bucky, someone trusting you — and the only way he felt better was for said friend to say he would try to be a little nervous around him?

He was still grateful for Sam at least trying to understand.

Maybe the demonstration was a little too far, though, Bucky considered as they stood in the dark in the womens’ guest room, tornado siren still wailing outside. Sam’s heart was pounding when he caught him, body as tense as before a fight.

That could be because of anything, though. The eeriness of the siren, maybe, or just getting startled by tripping over something.

But then, later, they were inches apart in bed, and Sam would not stop tossing and turning.

Say one thing for Bucky Barnes, say he’s methodical.

Yeah, he made an A in science. It may have been nearly a century ago, but he remembered the scientific method. Observation, hypothesis, experiment, conclusion. Ignore any confounding variables, correlation equals causation, et cetera.

Observation: now that he was noticing every little thing about his friend, he noticed how nervous the man could get around him.

Hypothesis: an ex-HYDRA assassin barging in in the middle of the night and showing him how he would kill him knocked some sense into him. For once, Sam was having a normal, sane reaction and was a little more cautious around him.

Experiment one: after bickering about sleeping pills, Bucky inched closer.

In the dead silence of the room, it was easy to hear the evidence; a skyrocketing pulse.

He was torn. Yes, it really sucked to see Sam’s trusting face in almost all of his nightmares. Yes, he had asked him to keep his guard up. Yes, he was so terrified of hurting him that his first instinct was to break off the friendship completely. But this didn’t feel right, either.

So, again, he bolted. That could be experiment two: seeing if his being gone actually let Sam get a few hours of sleep. He said he would be back, and he would , but he still eyed the rental car in the little parking lot.

He vaguely knew where they were on a map. He could find an interstate, find a way to Austin or Dallas or wherever the closest city was, get on the next flight out.

But that was avoidant asshole Bucky talking.

He blamed the lesbians for his messed up state of mind. An annoying lingering crush on your best friend was not helped by realizing that, oh, you know all the domestic parts of your friendship that you’re always thinking about? The coffee in the morning, doing the crossword together, how did you sleep, buying groceries, bickering about how to load the dishwasher? Yeah, so, turns out, you could do that. Forever. Legally .

Say one thing for Bucky Barnes, and one thing only, say he liked Sam Wilson. Really liked him. Liked how a hint of his Southern accent came out when he was trying to relate to the receptionist girl, liked how he rolled the windows down and turned the radio up when they hit the country roads outside of Dallas, liked his shitty sense of direction when he wasn’t in the air because, really, the liquor store was just down the street, how did they not find it?

And that was exactly the problem.

Chapter Text

Sam’s plan for therapy-cobbler was foiled when they were intercepted by Riley’s sister on their way back to the table. She didn’t give him a chance to escape, just looped her arm in his. “Walk with me, Sammy.”

Sam physically saw Bucky bite back a smile at the nickname. Damn it, he was never going to recover from this trip. “But dessert,” he tried to protest.

“Don’t get greedy. There’s already a Tupperware full of cobbler with your name on it.”

Sam let himself get dragged outside, abandoning Bucky with the half-baked assurance from him of I promise I won’t tell them too many embarrassing stories about you, Sammy.

Jo had a mission, it seemed. She promptly pulled a pack of Marlboro reds out of her purse as they set down a well-worn path, offering one to him as they walked.

He waved her off. “Thought you quit.”

“I did,” she said dryly as she lit it. “This is my ‘family event’ pack.”

“That bad? I wondered if you and your mama were going at it after I left the table.”

“We took it outside like respectable adults, actually.”

“I thought it seemed quiet. My ears are still ringing from you and Macy’s argument at Christmas.”

Joe slapped his arm. “That girl has a set of lungs on her.”

“She gets it honestly,” he ventured, ducking away from the next slap.

“And don’t get me started on Will. That boy disappears for an hour after Christmas dinner, and you know what he was doing? Sneaking out here to smoke pot.”

Sam grinned. The kid had sworn up and down that his mother had no idea. “Where did he even get it?”

“It’s those damn college friends of his. My boy, a stoner. Probably skipping those fancy-ass engineering classes to do it.”

“He’s a good kid.”

She sighed, shaking the ash off the cigarette. “Yeah, well, that’s all from his daddy. Or his uncle, maybe. You think it’s possible for your son to inherit all his good traits from your baby brother?”

“I’m no geneticist, but I think you aren’t giving yourself enough credit.” He nudged her. “Hey. He would be proud. You got a good thing going.”

Jo looked away. “Don’t get sentimental on me, Wilson.” When she looked back at him, her eyes were alight with mischief. “So. This friend you brought.”

“Oh, God.”

“I like him.”

“I’m glad.”

“Sarah really likes him,” she said pointedly. “She said he’s been good for you.”

“Since when have you been talking to my sister?”

“We’ve been scheming up a New Orleans trip.”

“Sounds like that’s not the only thing you’ve been scheming,” Sam said warily.

“Who, me?” she said innocently. “We were just talking about how you should bring him along. It’ll be fun.”

“Alright, Jo-jo, spit it out already. I know you’re just dying to say it.”

“Okay, okay, sorry. I’m not teasing, I swear. Are you two…?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Nope. No. No way. I don’t know what poison Sarah’s been pouring into your ear.”

“She didn’t say anything! I have eyes, you know. Like those pretty blue ones that are always on you.”

“Okay, so he has a bit of a staring problem.”

“Only for you.”

Sam stopped short and looked at her. For the life of him, he had no idea if she was joking. It felt like a prank. He would know if Bucky felt that way, right? He would flirt, do something to express his interest. Isn’t that what people did?

That was a bit hypocritical, he supposed. All he did to show interest was think about him and overthink every interaction and hope that he picked up on his longing from afar. Openly flirting with your friend when you don’t actually know if he feels the same way is a no-go. Sam would rather stay friends with him than risk having nothing at all.

Jo frowned at him. “What?”

“Thinking.”

“Okay, well…do you like him?”

“Yes,” tumbled out before he could think about it. It felt…weirdly relieving to admit. He wasn’t even sure how long ago he admitted it to himself for the first time.

“Okay,” she said, without missing a beat. “Let’s talk through this, then. We know that you, Sam Wilson, have a crush on Bucky Barnes.”

Sam’s cheeks warmed. “Macy has a crush on her math teacher. I am an adult.”

“Crush is a perfectly fine word to use. Work with me here. We know that he likes you enough to come to middle-of-nowhere Texas with you. Granted, so did Joaquín — that’s just being a good friend. We’ll still note it.” She was counting the facts on her fingers. “What else do we know? We know that he’s always staring at you. We know…I guess an important question is do we know if he’s homophobic? I mean, he doesn’t seem like he would be, but he’s technically older than Nana, and I love her to death but she won’t exactly be showing up at a pride parade, you know?”

“Actually, he kind of just found out that gay marriage was legal last night? But, also, then he started talking about the gay scene in Brooklyn growing up, like where they would go, so…”

She grinned. “Oh my God, Sam, he’s gay.”

“That seems like a leap.”

“It’s not a leap. More of a perfectly reasonable step. For someone with long legs. Look, we’ve catalogued the evidence. I say we throw out the ‘not knowing it was legal’ part as misleading, because, you know, he’s had a lot of news to catch up on.”

It…still seemed like a leap. But it was a leap he was happy to take for the moment. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. What then?”

Jo shrugged. “You tell him, I guess.”

“What, just…sit him down, give him a speech?”

“I’m not telling you how to profess your love. I know you’ve dated before. It’s like that, just a million times scarier since you’re already friends. You’ll be fine. Just do it before New Orleans.”

“When even is this trip?”

“I don’t know, but I know you will be there and Bucky will be there and it’ll be great. And you’ll have gotten all the feelings stuff out of the way so Sarah and I don’t have to watch you dance around it the whole time.”

“That’s extremely optimistic.”

“Alright, fine,” she huffed. “I can do a pep talk. I went through the same thing in college. I guess you weren’t there — you were probably just the kid my brother wouldn’t shut up about when he called home, at that point. Anyway, I met George my freshman year, in some beginners math class. I swear we did the will they-won’t they shit for all four years. Dated different people, flirted, drunk kissed and pretended like we were blacked out. Don’t ask me why. I just remember that I wanted him to confess, and of course I was too scared to.”

“Well, I guess he did?”

She huffed. “Get this. Last year of college, and he’s about to fly off to some fancy science job in Los Alamos. I swear his ass was about to just leave me forever without a word on the subject. So the day before graduation I finally sat him down and told him how I felt. Nothing fancy, mind you. No need for speeches. But it worked. I wasn’t going to keep him from going to New Mexico, obviously, but we kept in touch while I stayed in town to finish my accounting shit.”

That tracked with the Jo that he first met, unbelievably burnt out juggling jobs and studying for the CPA exam but still managing to work her Los Alamos boy into every conversation. Riley had rolled his eyes and kept track of the number of times she mentioned him.

“There’s a few differences,” Sam felt the need to point out. “I am 99% certain we have never drunk kissed.”

“To be fair, you aren’t in college. We were young and dumb. My point is that I had success with suddenly confessing my feelings to my friend, and I vote you do the same.”

He couldn’t believe he was actually considering it. “You really think so?”

“When have I ever led you astray?”

Sam could think of several times, ever since Riley brought him home for the first time and she seemingly decided she needed a second little brother to torment. This was sincere, though. “If — if — I end up doing this, I am personally blaming you for anything that goes wrong.”

She pulled him closer. “Deal. Let’s go check on him; it’s fucking hot out here.”

Bucky was fine on his own, of course. He was debating with the guys about who should’ve won the Heisman trophy last year. Sam didn’t even know he followed college football, but apparently he had strong opinions about the Bama quarterback and the transfer portal and whatever else. He guessed he really was serious about getting those tickets.

Shirley’s apology was in the form of a squeeze on his arm and an extra scoop of cobbler in his Tupperware. All the leftovers were labeled with their names and little hearts, which was adorable until he realized that Torres’s portion was twice the size of his.

“He’s too skinny,” she said at his pointed look. Never mind that she said that about everybody. She really did play favorites.

They made their escape with promises to come back to visit soon. Jo winked at him, which made Bucky shoot him a questioning glance, so thanks for that, Jo.

Thinking about that conversation, anxiety-inducing as it was, was still better than thinking about Celestial Island and the memories that had dredged up, so Sam was content to let his mind wander on the subject as he pulled out onto the dirt road that served as the long, meandering driveway.

Say he did want to confess. It wouldn’t be on this trip, that was for sure. He was still feeling hollowed out from the whole panic-attack-in-the-bathroom ordeal, raw like he was a frayed edge and someone could pull at a loose string and completely unravel him.

Maybe Labor Day. Labor Day could be nice. They could take the boat out in the evening. They would be pleasantly buzzed and a little drowsy from spending the day in the sun. Basically, Sam would not be a bundle of nerves. He could choose the exact right moment, and say something like, no pressure, but would you ever want to hang out, just the two of us, and Bucky would say something like isn’t that what we’re doing now …no, that wouldn’t work. He could workshop it. He had plenty of time.

“You good?” Bucky asked, startling him.

“Oh yeah, totally,” Sam said, too quickly. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

A pause from the passenger seat. “I don’t know, it’s just that I’m usually the brooding one.”

“I’m not brooding.”

“Seriously. I know today was…a lot.”

“I’m thinking about other things,” he said truthfully. Like ruining our friendship, maybe.

He could feel Bucky turning that over in his head. Finally, he said, “You would tell me if you needed anything. Or wanted to talk about it.”

Sam wasn’t completely sure if that was a question or a statement, but he nodded.

“Don’t forget to stop by the liquor store,” Bucky added. “I’ll go in.”

He felt a sudden, intense surge of affection. Which was such a silly thing to get soft over, but an introvert with a drained social battery offering to go into a store for you was just so sweet. 

Get it together, Wilson, he thought for the umpteenth time on this trip. Nothing is happening tonight. 

That had been sober Sam talking. Several hours later, drunk Sam was absolutely enamored by Bucky playing bartender in their room.

Apparently Bucky had decided that they had to continue the theme of Texas culture tour, because he asked the liquor store attendant what all he needed to make top shelf margaritas, and then, because he never did anything in half measures, insisted on Sam driving him to the grocery store so he could get coarse salt, fresh limes, agave, and even paper plates to put the salt on for the rim.

Bucky was a pretty good mixologist, with the exception of the questionable choice to fill half his own glass with Everclear, claiming it’s the only way I have a chance of getting close to your level , which Sam was pretty sure was just him calling him a lightweight.

He couldn’t bring himself to care though; the tequila had hit fast and all that really mattered was moving closer when Bucky came back with their refills.

Bucky snorted as he handed him the glass. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like…” He gestured to all of him unhelpfully.

“Very eloquent, Buck.”

He shrugged. “Like I need to catch up, I guess,” he said, grabbing the bottle of Everclear from the nightstand and taking a swig before returning it.

Sam winced. “I don’t know how you do that.”

“I’m a man on a mission.”

“The mission being to get drunk.”

“At least a little. Can’t let you have all the fun.”

The movie was back on, some Jane Austen adaptation. Bucky had hid the remote to keep him from changing the channel. Apparently he was a fan.

“I had little sisters,” he had said by way of explanation. “They liked it when I did the voices.”

Sam had suddenly wanted to explore this Bucky, the older-brother Bucky who entertained these girls, watched them while his parents were gone, helped them with their homework. The first drink had been long gone by then, so he didn’t think twice before saying, “Tell me about them.”

He had just looked away, expression shuttering. “They were good,” he said simply. “Good girls.”

“I cannot make speeches, Emma,” some guy with awful facial hair was saying. “If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.” Sam was endlessly entertained at the thought of Bucky emulating a British accent for this.

“You’re less nervous when you’re like this,” Bucky said abruptly when the scene ended and the mesothelioma commercials came back on.

Sam frowned. “When am I nervous?”

“Like, all the time.”

“All the time,” he repeated flatly.

“Almost all the time,” Bucky corrected. “When we’re together. This year, at least.”

“When we’re together,” Sam echoed, apparently unable to form his own words. He knows. He definitely knows.

“Well, yeah,” he said slowly, looking at him curiously. “Like when I do this.” He moved closer. “Or this.” A hand on his arm.

Sam felt very much like they were on the precipice of something. The event horizon, the point of no return. This is flirting. This is very much flirting, right? Well, he needed to do something back, didn’t he? He looked at Bucky’s lips. Leaned forward.

Then, inanely: “It’s because of the Winter Soldier. Right? When I came over in January.”

Sam jolted backwards. “What?”

“And I get it, you know, I’m sorry I just barged in like that and freaked you out. It’s just been recurring, those dreams, and it was especially bad last night and I wanted to tell you about it this morning but I couldn’t and it’s just…it’s just awful that he’s still in there and apparently thinks of a new way to kill you every night, and—”

“Pause,” Sam said.

Bucky’s brows furrowed. “Okay.”

“We’re putting a pin in that, because we should talk about it, and you need to know that nightmares are completely normal and not indicative of anything but maybe that you should look into a new medication or therapy technique or something, but anyway — that is absolutely not what is going on here.”

Now he really looked lost. “I need you to spell it out for me, Sam.”

Oh, fuck it. Clearly this was happening now. “Right. So. When two people like each other very much, their bodies tend to respond a certain way…”

“What?”

“I’m into you, okay?” Sam snapped. “And if you don’t feel the same way, that’s fine, we can forget this happened and I’ll drop you off tomorrow and you’ll go back to your campaign thing and I’ll go back to my photoshoot bullshit and we’ll see each other next time there’s a holiday or someone’s in the hospital. But I need to know, because I can’t ignore it anymore.” There. There was the speech. If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.

Bucky looked…distressed, maybe, tugging a hand through his hair. That didn’t seem like a good sign. “How long?” he finally said, voice a little hoarse.

“How long?”

“Have you known,” Bucky clarified, stilted. This was nowhere near what he had in mind. They were both standing now, and he couldn’t remember when that had happened but the bed between them felt suddenly like an impassable barrier. This was a mistake.

“I don’t know. Forever, maybe? Ever heard of boiling a frog? You know, turning up the heat little by little so it doesn’t know it’s happening?”

“You’re the frog.”

“Yes, I’m the damn frog. Come on, man, give me something.”

Bucky was tugging on his hair again, a new nervous habit, Sam noted, since he grew his hair back out. “I’m sorry. I’m trying. It’s just, you’re — you’re you .”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he demanded. 

“Like, how the hell is this supposed to work out?”

Ouch. Okay. Sam forced himself to take a breath, think for a second, because they weren’t getting anywhere like this. “Alright. Walk me through your thoughts. Did I just, like, totally offend your 40’s sensibilities and now you’re short-circuiting, or…?”

“No,” Bucky said vehemently. “Well, okay. I am short-circuiting. But I’m not offended . It’s just, what the hell, Sam?”

“You sound offended.”

“I’m not! It’s just—” he broke off, twitchy. Sam knew what was coming before he even said it. “I need to go.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I am not leaving. It’s just that nothing is coming out right and that’s not fair to you. I am coming back. Okay?”

Sam deflated. “Okay.”

Bucky eyed the nightstand before snatching the bottle of Everclear. “I’m bringing this.”

He couldn’t even judge him. He grabbed the bottle of tequila and sat back down on the bed as the door shut. Just like last night, but somehow worse .

Oh, you should confess! You think he’s staring because he’s a weirdo, but really, he’s secretly in love!

Jo was full of shit, he decided as Bucky’s footsteps receded down the stairs.

Chapter Text

Anyone who had ever claimed to feel hangxiety had never confessed to their best friend the night before. This was next level.

He realized he had never asked Bucky what exactly “I’m coming back” meant. Normal people would say that when they were going out for an hour or so. With Bucky, who the hell knew. He could very well show back up at Sam’s apartment in a few months, grumpily muttering that he was back, just as he said he would be.

It was a little concerning, though, him being gone all night. There wasn’t a whole lot around town; that was part of the appeal. Colorado Bend was maybe ten miles away — Sam had meant to bring that up as an option for hanging out before they had to go to the airport. Basically just hills, trees, and rivers. Deer, definitely, maybe some mountain lions? He couldn’t imagine Bucky getting eaten by a mountain lion, but still.

The girl who had checked them in — Kayleigh, maybe, or Ashleigh? Something with way too many vowels, for sure — was reading a paperback at the desk. She looked up when he came downstairs, far too bright and chipper for whatever time it was. “Good morning!” She set the book down, adopting an air of frustration. “Guess what I found out last night. I’m supposed to apply for college in a couple months, right? Well, turns out, applications are like, 75 bucks, each . And that’s before I pay to send my test scores. Isn’t that ridiculous? Like, I don’t even know if you’re going to accept me and I’m already paying you?”

“That should be illegal,” Sam agreed, grabbing a mug.

“Right? I guess I should actually narrow it down, because that’s, like, two shifts of work per college. What do you think? Where did you go to school?”

He snorted. “You don’t want to do what I did.” He started to pour coffee, reconsidered. “Do you have decaf?” The pain in his head spiked in protest, but he did not need to get more jittery.

“I’ll brew some!” Her smile faded a little. “Are you ok?”

He belatedly realized he was being kind of an asshole to this kid. “Sorry. Hangover.”

“Oh my God, same,” she said, which was either a total lie or just teenage resilience. “I stayed up way too late last night. Oh, wait, sorry, I’ll brew that coffee now.” She disappeared into a back room, but of course the chatter didn’t stop. “I forgot to mention, check out is technically in a couple hours, but there’s actually nobody in that room tonight, and I took Jess’s morning shift so I’ll be here all day, so really, I can clean it whenever. That reminds me, is your friend awake yet? Jess said he drank basically the whole pot yesterday. Not that that’s a problem, and we weren’t gossiping about you or anything, but I want to make sure it stays warm—”

“Actually, I was going to ask if you’d seen him today,” Sam interrupted.

A blonde head popped out, face creased with concern. “Oh. No, I haven’t seen anybody today. Is he missing? Oh, wait — your little Kia is gone! I did notice that when I pulled in earlier.”

Great. That was just great. Surely Bucky had the sense to sober up first and wasn’t dead in a ditch somewhere. Though he supposed the rental was technically more fragile than his friend. “He’ll show up,” he said with confidence he didn’t feel. He’d better. Sam was not ordering an overpriced Uber to get to Fort Cavazos tonight. He felt like the closest one might be in Killeen, and at that point he may as well pay this girl to take him.

The girl reappeared with the new pot of coffee in one hand and a plastic water bottle, an electrolyte packet, and a bottle of Advil balanced precariously in the other. “For your hangover!” she said proudly.

“You’re a gem,” he said, and she beamed. A sudden thought struck him. “Are we allowed to tip here? Is that a thing?”

Kayleigh/Ashleigh, who had already started blushing when she brought the coffee to him, somehow got even redder. “Oh, no, I mean, technically yes, but I already had all that on me, so don’t feel the need—”

“It’s not that,” he assured her, already fishing in his wallet for several large bills. “This should cover a few college applications. You shouldn’t have to narrow it down.”

Her eyes were wide and, yup, there were the tears again. “I can’t take this.”

“It’s nothing,” Sam said quickly. “Really. Engineering, right? My friend’s son is studying aerospace at A&M. I’ll write down his number in case you want any advice?”

“That would be amazing, thank you, but seriously, this is way too much.”

“Take it,” he said firmly, and luckily her mama must’ve taught her like his had that two refusals was perfectly polite without pushing it, because she nodded, clutching the cash to her chest.

“Thank you,” she repeated, meaningfully. “I’m going to go cry in the bathroom now. Holler if you need anything?”

Sam felt a little better as he took his coffee outside, endorphins from the positive interaction chasing away some of his anxiety. He felt a pang at seeing that the rental was, in fact, gone from the driveway.

He had fucked it up. Bucky was having a moment, as was completely normal with someone with a traumatic past, and Sam had tried to kiss him.

He should’ve gone along with it. Oh, yes, my first reaction when my insanely attractive best friend was pressed up against me with a knife was fear. Like a completely normal person. I wasn’t turned on at all, where did you get that? It was not a revelation of any sort.

But he also let himself feel a little pissed off, because this was the weekend he told Bucky he needed him, and he said he wasn’t leaving, that he would be back.

The anger was given just enough time to simmer when, lo and behold, the god-awful Kia Soul skidded around the corner. Actually skidded. And the maniac didn’t even kill the engine, just threw it in park and tumbled out the door.

It took Sam’s brain a moment to process. There was Bucky, across the yard, looking way too good considering nine hours ago he was wandering into the wilderness with a bottle of Everclear — hair combed back, wearing an Angelo State polo, a piece of paper clutched in one hand and an honest-to-god bouquet of wildflowers in the other.

When he spotted Sam, he looked relieved, maybe, face as open and vulnerable as Sam had ever seen it.

They met in the middle of the yard, and Sam refused to let the other man go first, damn it. “What the fuck,” was what he came up with.

“I cancelled my plane ticket,” Bucky said, which was not an explanation at all, and was also impossible.

“No, you didn’t. It’s on my account.”

“Well, okay, you said Torres was bored, right? And I was like, he’s pretty good with computers. I’ll give him something to do. So I sort of asked if he could hack into your American Airlines account, and it turned out we didn’t even need someone good with computers, because your password is just your first dog’s name and Sarah’s birthday, which is so you , and also so unsafe.”

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing here?”

He waved the paper. “I have talking points,” he said, which was also not an explanation. “I wasn’t going to start with the ticket, but here we are. Also, yup, that’s rain, it’s raining, so my paper is going to die. Why is it raining again? I thought we were in a drought.”

“I didn’t bring up the ticket,” Sam felt the need to point out. “That was all you.”

“Whatever,” Bucky said, and, damn it, the smile lacing his voice was quickly dissipating any anger Sam tried to hold on to. “I got you flowers. Off the side of the road, which I know isn’t romantic, but I think all the florists are in church, and these are pretty, aren’t they? Firewheels, they’re called. I was going for bluebonnets, but I think we’re a couple weeks too late.”

Sam stared dumbly at the red-and-yellow flowers, then back up at Bucky’s earnest expression. “I don’t understand.”

“Keep up,” he said, and that was affection in his tone now, so clear it made Sam’s stomach flip. “My paper is thoroughly soaked now, but I’m pretty sure the first point says ‘explain what you were doing all night, dumbass.’”

“That sounds like a good start,” Sam said faintly.

“I should’ve come back,” Bucky said. “I should never have left. But, to be honest, I panicked. I panicked, and then I walked around, found a trail, and it’s pretty nice out here, even in the pitch black choking down that God-awful drink. And, you know, eventually it dawned on me how much of an unobservant idiot I was. Which is weird, because I thought I noticed everything about you. I’m always watching you, cataloguing your every move, thinking about what it could mean. It’s like, when you’re doing a math problem, and it’s huge, like it lasts pages, and you’re doing every step right, only to realize that you wrote the wrong number in step 2 and now everything’s off.”

“You were wandering around the wilderness with a bottle of Everclear like drunk Jesus,” Sam said, trying to understand, “doing math?”

“Drunk Jesus — no . I’m getting there. Talking points, remember?” He said, waving the soaked, illegible paper. “I’m improv-ing now, but that’s okay. Practice for Congress, I guess. Eventually I decided I needed advice, and also I looked like shit. So I hot-wired the rental — I know, I’m sorry, it’s just, they didn’t even give you a newer model, and the older Kias are the most stealable cars in the world — and don’t look at me like that, I was completely sober, there’s a time jump in the story and I burn through that shit so fast — and somehow found my way to San Angelo. Side note, the little community they live in outside of town wasn’t even on the map, and the house itself wasn’t in anything resembling a neighborhood, so we’re extremely lucky I’m not still driving around west Texas.”

“In the stolen rental, no less.”

“Borrowed,” Bucky corrected. “So I pull up, and it’s way too early to be doing this, and I’m just regretting everything, right? I get out, stand around for a minute, realize I don’t actually know what time church starts for them so they could still be asleep. And then who else comes out but Riley’s sister with a 12 gauge shotgun.”

“She did not . Where’s her husband?”

“That’s extremely sexist, Sam. She knew how to use that thing, I assure you.”

“I know that , it’s just, chivalry is dead if you’re sending your wife out as your representative to deal with the creepy person in the yard in the middle of the night.”

“It was dawn at this point,” Bucky said haughtily. “And to answer your question, her husband is apparently a deep sleeper. She heard a car outside and grabbed the gun. At this point, I’m thinking, this is the end. Cause of death: shotgun blast to the chest after the guy I like’s dead best friend’s sister mistook me for an axe murderer because I was creepily loitering outside her parent’s house.”

Sam tried to comprehend that sentence. “Pause.”

“Sorry, no derailing my speech. Luckily she had a flashlight too and just yelled at me for scaring her half to death. And then she said ‘he told you, didn’t he’, and I gave her the story, and she gave me a piece of her mind again, and then she asked if she could call Sarah, and I said yes, and Sarah gave me a piece of her mind, and at this point I’m one hundred percent certain of my level of idiocy.”

Bucky being an idiot, he can agree to. He still felt a beat behind, though. “Okay, can I derail now?”

“Almost done, I swear. The truth is, it took me all night to sort through how I was feeling and put it into words, which is ridiculous and I really am sorry. But how I feel is this: I want to do this with you. The shitty rental cars, the getting lost and having to run into a stranger’s house and having the most awkward interactions with them, the giant family dinners, even though, side note, while you were walking with Jo her Nana did pull me aside to ask if ‘the YouTube’ was correct in telling her that I killed Kennedy. Sorry, now I’m derailing, but I can’t believe I didn’t tell you this yesterday. I’m panicking because you know there’s a whole generation that I have to make amends to for killing the love of their life, like, they were obsessed with him, but she just says, and I quote, ‘I’m glad you did that. Not just because he was a Catholic and a Democrat, mind, but because he was so awful to that sweet girl Jackie.’”

“Not just?” Sam repeated incredulously. “Did you tell her…?”

“That I’m a raised Catholic and a registered Democrat running for office? No, Sam, I’m working for those football tickets, remember? I just smiled and nodded and neither confirmed nor denied. Anyway, my point is…”

“This has a point?” Sam said wryly. He felt like he was starting to put together where this was going. It was like last night: this is flirting. This is very much flirting, right? He wasn’t going to jump to conclusions again, though, so he just stepped closer and tried to breathe very, very normally.

“The point is, I understand if you’re pissed about last night. I cancelled my flight and all my events this week in case you forgive me, because I want to be here with you. This weekend went wrong in almost every possible way but it was perfect . I want to be there with you during your stupid work shit, I want to keep exploring this town with you and any other places you feel like I need to see, I want to go visit the cemetery with you if you want me there on the anniversary, or if you don’t I want to wait back at the room with copious amounts of alcohol. You’re my best friend, Sam. And this is the first time since the war I’ve even gotten a chance to think about the future, and that’s terrifying, but I know I want you in it. So that’s my point. I’m the frog, too. Except I think I’ve been fully aware of my being boiled alive but I can’t get out of the pot, and I may be crazy, but the water is starting to feel really damn good.”

“Wow,” Sam said. “The frog analogy is really bad, isn’t it?”

“Hey, I accidentally called you a multi-page math problem, so we’re on the same level with bad analogies,” Bucky said with a grin. “So, what do you think?”

I think this isn’t real life. There’s cameras hiding somewhere, and this is just an elaborate prank, because who the fuck actually comes up with an elaborate speech and you are so damn gorgeous and casually saying all these insane things like it’s no big deal, this is definitely the Bucky Barnes that casually charmed every girl in Brooklyn in the 40’s. But what came out instead was, “I think I want to kiss you.”

And the kiss was not good, at first. Sam was going in guns blazing because, sue him, he had been looking at those lips throughout the entire long speech, and Bucky was definitely going for a more chaste 1940’s-we’re-in-public-and-anyway-there’s-no-rush-we-have-all-the-time-in-the-world vibe, but he adjusted quickly, bless him, dropping the flowers and half-dissolved notes to put one hand on his waist and another on his face.

It couldn’t have lasted longer than a few seconds, but when Sam pulled away he was still breathless, heart pounding, feeling like he did when he was half his age and kissing a guy for the first time, realizing so this is what it’s supposed to feel like.

And Bucky was looking so goddamn pleased with himself, like he knew exactly what state he put Sam in. He probably did. “As much as I love PDA,” he said, sounding far too amused as he picked up his little wildflower bouquet, “we’re doing this the right way. Sam Wilson, will you let me take you out tonight?”

“Depends,” Sam said. “Are there going to be any old ladies there that had strong romantic feelings for the 35th president of the United States? I’ll get jealous if you spend too much time with them.”

“You’re joking, but I swear I’ve had to do it before. Old ladies love me, though, so I’m usually forgiven.”

“You’re very popular with that demographic,” he agreed. “They sense a kindred spirit.”

“I promise to spend no more than 5% of the date making amends to old ladies,” Bucky said with the utmost sincerity.

“Make it three,” Sam said, “and it’s a date.”

Chapter Text

It was well and truly pouring at that point, but somehow Bucky remembered to turn of the rental car — I can’t believe you stole it, Buck, the keys were literally just inside the room —before they tracked half the water in Texas into the house.

Ashleigh/Kayleigh was back at the front desk, perking up as they came in. “You found him!”

“He didn’t find me,” Bucky said grumpily. “I came back.”

She nodded. “I had a cat like that. But she always brought back dead birds instead of flowers.”

Sam snorted, which earned him a half-hearted glare from Bucky. He turned back to the desk. “Is there a way to extend our stay one more night?”

“Of course!” She clicked a couple times on the computer. “Actually, the room you originally booked is free, the two-bed, if you want to move…?”

Bucky looked at Sam, which was so unfair . “Um…” he said, floundering. “I mean…we do like the decor.” Bucky looked like he was trying not to laugh, which was so mean and not helping at all. “Let’s just…not bother with moving our stuff, don’t you think?”

“Okie dokie!” Ashleigh/Kayleigh said brightly. “Makes my job easier. What are y’all up to tonight?”

“I was trying to figure that out,” Bucky said. “What’s the nightlife like here?”

She blinked, and now it was Sam’s turn to try not to laugh. “Um. Well. Me and my classmates usually just pile into the bed of Bradley’s truck and go out to the field, you know. Get drunk. The guys do donuts or whatever. Maria did get alcohol poisoning last time, though, which was less fun? I don’t know if that was what you were asking?”

Nice to know nothing about being a high schooler in a small town had changed since Sam was her age. Though he was starting to think there was a decent chance his tip earlier was going to go towards paying off an MIP ticket. “We’re not in Brooklyn anymore, Toto,” he said dryly. “You asked me out without planning anything?”

“I was busy,” Bucky muttered.

“Doing math and stealing cars.”

“Oh!” she said suddenly. “I know what’s going on tonight. The high school jazz band does this end-of-year swing dance fundraiser thing!”

“There!” Bucky said triumphantly. “Date planned.”

The fundraiser wasn’t until dinner and the weather didn’t seem to want to clear up at all, which would usually make Sam feel a little stir-crazy. Now, though, he was perfectly content with staying in the stupid bluebonnet-themed room forever, cycling through board and card games, the rain tapping gently on the window.

He had also found out that the best way to keep Bucky from winning every game was to sneak a kiss every time he was trying to decide which card to play, which was not cheating, thank you very much. Wasn’t his fault it completely reset Bucky’s brain for a good five seconds. He was just mad Sam came up with the idea first.

The downpour slowed to the occasional sprinkle by the time they walked to the high school. Sam wondered when would be a good time to bring up that he didn’t exactly know how to swing dance. And considering the Wilsons were Louisianan born and bred, it seemed like too much to hope that he had some long-lost ancestor from Harlem that could guide him through it, maybe briefly possess him so he didn’t make a fool of himself.

He could two-step. That was just fast-fast-slow, fast-fast-slow, all around the dance floor. Simple enough. He remembered the girls at the country dance halls were always more likely to say yes to the guys who knew how to dip them, which he tried exactly once (it ended in a trip to the ER).

Any time he saw a video of swing dancing, there were always dips. That seemed to be, like, half the dance. He didn’t want to go to the ER. He didn’t want to send Bucky to the ER. Who even did the dipping in this relationship, anyway?

“What are you thinking about?” Bucky asked, a smile in his voice like he knew it was going to be something he knew he could make fun of him for.

“Where the nearest UrgentCare is.”

“Aw, Sammy, you don’t trust my dancing skills?”

“That you’re going to be dusting off after, what, a century?”

He could hear Bucky doing the mental math. “Three quarters of a century?”

“Wait, you actually haven’t gone dancing since then?”

“Oh, no, you’re right, I actually went all the time when I was in HYDRA,” he deadpanned. “You know, for team building. We went line dancing.”

“Why do you sound dead serious?”

“Because I am.”

Sam was spared from having to express his skepticism when they stepped inside the school and the joys of small town life made themselves known — everybody they met cleaning up the morning before were at the fundraiser. He immediately caught the eye of Shay, who of course immediately grabbed her wife, pointed at them, and started making her way towards them.

“Do we have to talk to them?” Bucky complained.

Sam squeezed his arm. “You chose this event. There’s literally nothing else to do in this town. Obviously there are people we know.”

“If this was New York…” he muttered.

“One conversation, one dance, and one round at the silent auction, and then you can go back to beating my ass at gin rummy,” he promised.

“I’m not that antisocial.”

“Just embarrassed you thought they had husbands?”

“I was a little distracted with you clinging to me, trying to trip over every possible piece of furniture.”

Okay, no, Sam distinctly remembered being the flustered one. “Wait—”

“Hey, y’all are still here!” Shay declared. “Welcome!”

“I didn’t know gay marriage was legal,” Bucky blurted in lieu of “hello”.

Sam winced. “And by that he means ‘hi, how are you, sorry I made things awkward not realizing you were married.’”

“Yes,” Bucky confirmed helpfully.

“Oh, no need to apologize,” she said easily. “I just misread the room, you know. It happens.”

“We know some people were raised differently,” Laila added, whatever that meant.

“I’m not homophobic,” Bucky tried to clarify.

“Just out of the loop,” Sam added.

“We have gay friends,” Bucky said.

The jazz band picked up again, and suddenly a potential trip to the ER was a lot less scary than the prospect of digging themselves deeper into this conversational hole. “Wow, Buck, this music sure has a nice swing to it,” he said, too loudly.

“Yes, y’all should dance!” Shay said graciously. “Don’t let us keep you!”

“‘Yes, Bucky, let’s be normal, talk to people,’” Bucky hissed as they turned away. “‘It’ll go great!’”

“We have gay friends,” Sam said flatly.

“We have lots of friends. I’m sure we do! Statistically!”

“Shut up and show me where the hell I’m supposed to put my hands.”

It turned out Bucky was the dipper in this relationship, and he did it damn well.

It also turned out that waking up spooning was not only something that happened in the movies. He was pretty sure two-days-ago Sam would have a heart attack if he saw him now, laying pressed up against Bucky fucking Barnes like it was the most normal thing in the world.

If Bucky was marveling at the novelty of it all, he certainly wasn’t showing it, muttering about how early it was as he rolled out of bed. Complaining about how we should’ve driven down to the base last night , as if he wasn’t the one who booked the room an extra night.

And maybe he was crazy, maybe it was the post-successful-first-date afterglow, but he was looking forward to spending an hour in the car with a grumpy uncaffeinated Bucky.

(He was pretty certain the complaining was mostly for show, anyway, if the smile tugging on his lips as he threw their clothes in the duffle bag was any indication).

Neither of them had a shot at drinking enough coffee during the drive to match Torres’s energy bright and early at seven in the morning, however, a fact proven when they picked him up in Killeen.

He wasted no time with small talk. “So, Cap, how did you like the flowers?” he asked, innocent as can be.

“Oh, so everyone knows all our business now, huh?” Sam said.

Bucky buried his face in his hands. “I didn’t tell him anything.”

“He called me in the middle of the night, asking me to hack into your American Airlines account,” Torres supplied, “which was weird enough but not super telling, but then he asked me if you ‘seemed like a flowers kind of guy’, so…”

“Middle of the night? You said it was, like, 9pm! Because of time zones!”

“Well, I wasn’t in Hawaii, was I?”

“How am I supposed to know where it’s nine o’clock? Sorry for trusting you!”

“Okay, well, you just sounded so sad when you thought you woke me up, so I had to come up with something, and I definitely thought you had figured out that it was impossible for it to be that time unless I was in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and was just being nice about it.”

“In my defense,” Bucky said, “this was drunk me. Regular me knows how time zones work.”

“Really?” Sam said, skeptically. “What time is it in New York?”

“Eight.”

“You hesitated!”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“I hate you,” Bucky said, voice laced with affection.

“Love you, too.”