Chapter Text
The cabin is cozy. Too cozy. The kind of place with fuzzy blankets, soft lighting, and only one bed because of course there’s only one bed.
Sam drops his gobag by the door and looks around like the place might be rigged to explode.
“This is a bad idea,” he mutters.
Bucky, already kicking off his boots like he’s settling in for a long weekend, glances over. “Which part? The fake relationship, the bedsharing, or the part where you get to stare into my eyes lovingly for three days?”
Sam shoots him a flat look. “The part where you’re supposed to act like you’re in love with me. That’s the part I don’t buy.”
Bucky shrugs and ambles toward the kitchenette, pulling a bottle of red from the welcome basket like this is a honeymoon. “Then it’s a good thing I’m a better actor than you give me credit for.” He pauses, glancing over his shoulder with a lazy smirk. “You want a glass, sweetheart?”
“Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Bucky pours two anyway. When he hands Sam his, their fingers brush a light touch, nothing more. It should be nothing. But it sparks. Static. Bucky’s hand is a match and Sam feels like he’s been soaked in gasoline since D.C.
He looks away too fast.
“So,” Bucky says, settling onto the edge of the bed like it’s his by default. “Tomorrow morning is couples yoga. Then ‘guided intimacy exercises.’ I’m assuming that doesn’t mean target practice.”
Sam groans. “We’re gonna blow this mission.”
“No, you’re gonna blow this mission,” Bucky says, swirling his wine. “Because you’re the one who can’t even pretend to look at me like I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”
“Because you’re not.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t I?”
Sam opens his mouth. Closes it. Something in Bucky’s voice is off low, steady, almost careful. Like it’s not a joke anymore.
“Don’t do that,” Sam says, quieter now.
“Do what?”
“Say it like you mean it.”
Bucky stands and walks over, glass still in hand. “What if I do mean it?”
Sam steps back. One step. Two. His spine meets the wall behind him, a soft thud. Cornered.
“You’re not acting,” he says.
Bucky’s eyes don’t leave his. The air between them feels electric, heavy, hard to breathe in.
“No. I’m not.”
And for once, Sam has nothing. He stares up at Bucky, chest tight, hunting for the tell the crack in the performance. But there isn’t one. Just Bucky, looking at him like he’s the answer to a question he’s been carrying for too long.
Bucky’s gaze drops to Sam’s mouth. Brief. A question.
Then he steps back, and it breaks something.
“Better get some sleep, sweetheart,” he says, lighter now, but the weight still lingers. He walks to the other side of the cabin and pulls a thin blanket from his bag, tossing it onto the armchair.
Sam watches him, stunned. He’s supposed to be the one in control. The one with the plan. But Bucky Barnes, with his infuriating honesty and steady damn eyes, just dismantled him in two words.
Sam grabs the wine glass Bucky left behind and downs it in one go. It does nothing for the heat still buzzing under his skin. The bed looms beside him, smug.
How the hell are they supposed to survive three days of this?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, the silence between them is louder than the birds outside. Sam pretends to be engrossed in his phone, scrolling fake emails, while Bucky clinks mugs in the kitchenette like nothing happened. No one mentions last night.
Their first challenge comes at “Sunrise Serenity Yoga,” led by a woman with a smile like a knife and a voice dipped in honey. Dr. Anya Sharma weapons broker, marriage counselor, and probable sociopath.
“Welcome, beloveds,” she says, eyes sweeping over the group and lingering on Sam and Bucky a little too long. “Today, we’ll connect with our partners through shared energy and guided movement.”
Sam feels Bucky shift beside him on the mat. Risks a glance. Finds Bucky already watching him, eyes dancing.
“Ready to get bendy, sweetheart?” he murmurs.
Sam elbows him, grinning a little too hard for Dr. Sharma’s benefit. “Try not to break me, Barnes.”
It starts easy. Gentle stretches. Controlled breathing. But then…
“Now, face your partner. Press your palms together. Feel their energy.”
Sam and Bucky mirror each other. Their hands meet. Bucky’s metal palm is cool; Sam’s is warm and a little sweaty. They keep their faces neutral, but Sam can feel the tension under Bucky’s skin the faint tremor in his fingers. Nerves? Strain? Both?
“Next,” Dr. Sharma says, hands clasped. “The trust fall.”
Sam stiffens. “Oh, hell no.”
“You going first?” Bucky asks, amused. “Or should I?”
“I’m not doing a trust fall with you.”
“But darling,” Bucky murmurs, stepping close, voice low and fauxconcerned, “don’t you trust me?”
Sam wants to punch him.
Dr. Sharma tilts her head. “Is there a problem, gentlemen?”
“No problem!” Sam says quickly. “Just long-term couple thing. We’ve got the trust stuff on lock.”
He glares at Bucky. Don’t push it.
Bucky, shockingly, doesn’t. He just smiles and slides an arm around Sam’s waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Sam’s always got my back,” he says. “And I’ve got his.”
Sam freezes. Not because of the arm not entirely but because Bucky’s fingers tap a soft rhythm against his side. Their signal. Stay in it.
Sam nods, jaw tight, and lets himself lean into the touch. Just enough to sell it. Just enough to feel it.
Bucky’s hand shifts a little lower, resting on his hip. His thumb moves, lazy and slow. A careful circle. Maybe nothing. Maybe not.
Sam stares straight ahead, trying to breathe evenly. This isn’t acting. Not anymore. This is something else.
Something dangerous.
Something real.