Chapter Text
The apartment smelled of something burning. Distinctly burning eggs.
Bucky Barnes padded barefoot across the hardwood floor, his enhanced hearing already picking up Sam's muttered curses from the kitchen.
Three months of living together had taught him the soundtrack of his roommate's morning routine: alarm at six sharp, shower running by six-fifteen, and the inevitable battle with whatever breakfast Sam attempted to create.
"Need backup?" Bucky called out, rounding the corner to find Sam standing over the stove, spatula in hand, glaring at what might have once been eggs.
"Nah, I got it under control." Sam shot him that easy grin, the one that had been doing strange things to Bucky's chest lately.
"Just teaching these eggs who's boss."
The eggs, blackened and smoking, suggested Sam wasn't quite teaching a particularly edible lesson.
Bucky moved to the counter, pulling two mugs from the cabinet with practiced ease.
Their morning dance had become second nature - Sam cooked, or attempted to, while Bucky handled coffee duty. It was domestic in a way that should have felt foreign after decades of violence and chaos, but instead settled over him like a well-worn jacket.
"You know there's a diner three blocks away," Bucky pointed out, not for the first time.
"Where's the fun in that?" Sam scraped the charred remains into the trash with theatrical resignation. "Besides, I almost had it this time."
"Almost is generous."
Sam bumped his shoulder against Bucky's as he reached for his mug, and that simple contact sent an unexpected jolt through Bucky's system.
It had been happening more frequently - these moments where Sam's proximity did something that Bucky couldn't quite name.
Something that made his pulse quicken and his thoughts scatter in directions he didn't understand.
He'd known attraction before, of course.
Had loved a woman once, before the war took everything away.
But this feeling brewing in his chest when Sam laughed, when Sam fell asleep on their couch during movie nights, when Sam emerged from the shower with water droplets still clinging to his shoulders - this was uncharted territory.
"Earth to Barnes." Sam's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "You okay? You've been staring at that coffee mug for like thirty seconds."
Bucky blinked, focusing on Sam's concerned expression. Those warm brown eyes held genuine care, the kind that Sam extended so naturally to everyone in his orbit. It was one of the things Bucky had come to appreciate about his friend.
Friend.
The word felt insufficient lately, too small to contain whatever was expanding between them.
"Just tired," Bucky lied, taking a sip of coffee to avoid Sam's searching gaze.
"Nightmares again?"
The question was gentle, without judgment. Sam had perfected the art of checking in without prying, giving Bucky space to share or retreat. It was one of many reasons why living together worked so well, why Bucky felt more settled than he had in decades.
"No, actually." The admission surprised them both. "Haven't had one in two weeks."
Sam's face lit up with genuine pride. "That's great, man. Really great."
The warmth in Sam's voice did that thing again - sent heat spreading through Bucky's chest in ways that felt both wonderful and terrifying.
He'd memorized the way Sam's eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, the way morning light caught the stray silver threading through his beard.
"We should celebrate," Sam continued, already moving toward the refrigerator. "Let me attempt pancakes."
"Absolutely not."
Sam laughed, rich and genuine, and Bucky felt something shift inside him. Some wall he hadn't even remembered he'd built- around this feeling- crumbling just a little more.
They settled into their usual spots at the small dining table, Sam scrolling through his phone while Bucky watched steam curl up from his mug.
The comfortable silence that had developed between them filled the space, but underneath it, Bucky felt the weight of something unsaid.
He didn't have words for what was happening to him. Didn't understand how Sam Wilson, his friend and partner, had somehow become the center of thoughts that left him confused and wanting. All he knew was that somewhere between shared pizza nights and easy conversation, between Sam's patient understanding and brilliant smile, something had fundamentally changed.
Sam looked up from his phone, catching Bucky's stare. "Seriously what's going on with you today? You're being weird."
"I'm always weird."
"Weirder than usual then."
Bucky opened his mouth to deflect, to make some joke that would redirect Sam's attention, but the words stuck. Because sitting here, in their kitchen, with morning light painting Sam's face golden, Bucky realized he was standing at the edge of something that would change everything.
The question was whether he was brave enough to take that leap.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with possibility and Bucky's growing panic. Sam's dark eyes remained fixed on his face, patient but increasingly concerned, waiting for an explanation that Bucky wasn't even sure he should give.
"Sam, I..." Bucky's voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, trying again. "There's something I need to tell you."
Sam set his phone down completely, giving Bucky his full attention. The gesture, so simple and caring, only made Bucky's chest tighten further.
This was Sam—always ready to listen.
Always making space for whatever Bucky needed to say.
It made what he was about to attempt even more terrifying.
"Whatever it is, you know you can tell me," Sam said, his voice gentle but serious. He leaned forward slightly, and Bucky caught a hint of his aftershave, something clean and warm that had become as familiar as home.
Bucky's hands clenched around his coffee mug, the ceramic warming against his palm.
How did you tell your best friend, your partner, your male roommate that you'd started having feelings that didn't make sense?
That sometimes when Sam laughed, Bucky wanted to lean closer and discover if his smile tasted as good as it looked?
That he'd been lying awake at night wondering what it would feel like to wake up with Sam's arm around him instead of on the opposite end of their couch?
"I think..." Bucky started, then stopped.
Think what? That he was losing his mind? That decades of brainwashing had finally scrambled something fundamental about who he was?
"I think something's wrong with me."
Sam's expression immediately shifted to alarm. "Wrong how? Are you hurt? Is it the arm? Your—"
"No, not physically." Bucky cut him off, running his free hand through his hair in frustration. "It's... God, I don't even know how to explain this."
"Try me." Sam's voice was steady, reassuring. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out together. We always do."
The casual use of 'we' sent another jolt through Bucky's system.
They did always figure things out together.
Sam had been there through every nightmare, every therapy session, every moment when Bucky felt like he was drowning in memories that weren't entirely his own.
Sam had never once made him feel like a burden or a broken thing that needed fixing.
Maybe that was part of the problem.
"It's about us," Bucky said finally, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "About... how I feel about us."
Sam went very still. "Us?"
"Yeah, us." Bucky's voice was barely above a whisper. "I keep having these... thoughts. These... Feelings. About you. About being close to you. And I don't understand what's happening because I'm not supposed to—I mean, I've never—"
He stopped, shaking his head violently. "See? I told you. Something is wrong with me.."
For a long moment, Sam said nothing.
Bucky could hear the tick of the kitchen clock, the distant hum of traffic from the street below, the sound of his own heart hammering against his ribs.
He'd done it now. He'd ruined everything with his confusion and his inability to understand his own mind.
"Bucky," Sam said carefully, "are you telling me you have romantic feelings for me?"
The directness of the question hit Bucky like a physical blow.
Romantic feelings.
Was that what this was? The butterflies when Sam smiled, the way his breath caught when Sam emerged from the shower... The dreams that left him aching and confused...
"I don't know," Bucky admitted, his voice breaking slightly. "I don't know what this is. I only know that when I'm around you, I feel... different. Like there's something in my chest that's trying to break out, and I don't understand it because I'm not—I wasn't—"
"You weren't what?"
"Gay," Bucky said finally, the word feeling foreign and sharp on his tongue.
"I'm not gay, Sam. I loved a woman once... Before the war. I remember that. So why do I keep thinking about what it would be like to kiss you? Why do I want to hold your hand when we're walking down the street? Why do I feel jealous when you talk to other people like they might take you away from me?"
Sam was quiet for so long that Bucky began to panic.
He'd said too much. Revealed too much of whatever twisted thing was happening in his brain. Sam was probably trying to figure out how to let him down easy, how to maintain their friendship and partnership without making things awkward.
"Bucky," Sam said finally, his voice impossibly gentle. "Do you know what bisexuality is?"
Bucky blinked, thrown by the question. "What?"
"Bisexuality. Being attracted to more than one gender."
The words hit Bucky like a revelation and a terror all at once.
More than one gender...?
The possibility that his feelings for Sam didn't negate his past with attraction, didn't mean something fundamental about him had been broken by Hydra's programming.
"That's... that's a real thing?" he asked, his voice small.
Sam's expression softened with understanding. "Oh, Buck..."
"Yeah. It's a very real thing. And there's absolutely nothing wrong with you."
Bucky felt something crack open in his chest.
Relief and fear warring for the driver's seat in his lungs.
Before he could process what Sam's words meant for them...
For whatever was building between them...
Sam's phone buzzed against the table.
Sam glanced at the screen, and his expression immediately changed.
"Shit. It's Torres. Says it's urgent."