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Sam noticed it one lazy Sunday morning: Bucky’s toothbrush was still in the guest bathroom.
They’d been dating for over a year now—six months officially, if you went by the moment Sam realized introducing Bucky as “a friend” made literally no sense anymore. Bucky was his person. Everyone knew. Sarah especially knew.
Still, despite the fact that Bucky spent most nights at Sam’s place—sharing his bed, stealing his hoodies—his toothbrush sat in the wrong bathroom like some awkward metaphor.
Sam stood there in front of the sink, toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, staring at the evidence.
He’s still halfway here.
So that night, curled up on the couch watching some documentary Bucky had only agreed to because Sam promised to rub his back the whole time, Sam casually said, “You ever think about moving in?”
Bucky blinked. “Into your place?”
“Well,” Sam said, “you’re here more than you’re not. Thought I’d make it official. Upgrade you from toothbrush squatters’ rights to full-time roommate with benefits.”
Bucky snorted. “You want me to move in because of a toothbrush?”
“No,” Sam said, pretending not to smile. “Because I like waking up next to you.”
There was a beat of silence.
Then Bucky said softly, “Yeah. Okay. I’d like that.”
The ‘move’ was less of a full-on relocation and more of a slow invasion.
First came the duffel bags—Bucky’s signature travel style. Then came the black boots he left by the door, his records (only a few—’the good ones’), and a pile of books Sam didn’t know existed under Bucky’s arm as he came in one night saying, “Figured your bookshelf needed more war poetry.”
Sam cleared out a drawer. Then a closet. Then half the garage.
He found himself smiling every time Bucky added something to the house—like it was confirmation that this wasn’t temporary.
“You sure you don’t mind my stuff?” Bucky asked one night, setting a battered metal lunchbox down on a shelf in the hallway.
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Buck, I once kept Redwing in a kitchen drawer. You think I care about where your weird antique stuff goes?”
Bucky shrugged. “Just don’t want to take up too much space.”
Sam reached for him, cupping the back of his neck. “You can have all the space you want. Okay?”
“Even the side of the bed near the fan?”
Sam groaned. “Fine. But I reserve the right to steal the blanket.”
Bucky smiled against his shoulder. “Deal.”
Three weeks in, they had their first serious disagreement.
It was over a coffee table.
“Sam, this thing is glass. It’s begging for one of your nephews to crash into it and shatter every inch.”
“It’s modern, Bucky. It’s called style. You’ve heard of it.”
“I’ve been alive since before modern style existed. This looks like a death trap and a fingerprint magnet.”
“And your table?” Sam gestured to the beat-up wooden one Bucky brought from storage. “It’s got a bullet hole.”
“It’s character,” Bucky said firmly. “Not everything has to be brand new.”
They glared at each other across the living room.
Then Sam sighed. “Okay. We compromise.”
Bucky blinked. “Compromise?”
Sam nodded. “We keep your table, but we refinish it. Lose the hole. Maybe give it a coat of paint.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Paint it?”
“Or… just sand it a little and call it rustic,” Sam offered.
Bucky gave a reluctant smile. “Fine. But I’m keeping the dent. Steve tripped and knocked it over during a mission. I’m sentimental.”
Sam grinned. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Same thing,” Bucky murmured.
Sam had no idea Bucky owned so many black t-shirts.
Every time he opened the closet, it looked like a tactical gear convention had met a Levi’s sale.
“You ever think of wearing color?” Sam teased one morning, holding up a hanger like it offended him.
“Gray is a color,” Bucky said defensively.
“Barely.”
Sam shoved the shirts to one side and hung up a bright red button-down Bucky had worn exactly once—to Sarah’s birthday dinner.
“Starting a rebellion?” Bucky asked, eyes amused.
“Just trying to brighten things up,” Sam replied. “Your wardrobe’s starting to depress my hoodies.”
Bucky leaned in close, voice low. “You could always undress me instead. Solve the problem completely.”
Sam choked on his coffee. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Bucky said, kissing his cheek and going to the kitchen to steal the last piece of toast.
The best part of living together wasn’t the shared bills or the coffee that Bucky somehow always made better. It was the quiet.
Waking up to find Bucky in the kitchen, hair messy, wearing one of Sam’s old shirts.
Doing laundry together and arguing over who folded towels “wrong.”
Finding Bucky asleep on the couch with a book on his chest, snoring softly.
One rainy afternoon, Sam came in from the store, shaking water off his jacket, and found Bucky painting in the garage.
Not with any real plan—just brush strokes on canvas, muted colors layered gently, a look of focus on his face Sam didn’t often get to see.
He watched from the doorway. Quiet.
Bucky looked up. “You’re staring.”
“Just admiring,” Sam said softly. “Didn’t know you painted.”
“Sometimes,” Bucky said. “Helps me think.”
Sam crossed the room, wrapping an arm around his waist. “Keep going. I’ll sit with you.”
So they sat—rain on the roof, paint on Bucky’s hands, warmth between them like a second heartbeat.
It took almost two months for Bucky to finally unpack the last box.
Sam found him in the bedroom, kneeling on the floor, fingers trailing over old photos and a few keepsakes.
There was a picture of Steve. One of Bucky and his sister. A medal, tarnished and quiet.
Sam sat beside him but said nothing.
Bucky eventually held up a folded piece of paper. “Found this in my old apartment. It’s a lease.” He smiled faintly. “Guess I don’t need it anymore.”
Sam looked at him carefully. “You okay?”
Bucky nodded. “Yeah. Just… didn’t think I’d ever want this again. A place. A home.”
“And now?” Sam asked.
Bucky looked up at him, eyes soft. “Now I can’t imagine not having it. Not having you.”
Sam leaned in, resting their foreheads together. “Good. ‘Cause I was about to tell you I’m never letting you leave.”
Bucky grinned. “Even if I start rearranging the spice cabinet?”
“I’ll make an exception.”
“Even if I adopt a stray cat?”
Sam groaned. “Fine. But only if I get naming rights.”
Later that night, Bucky brushed his teeth—in the right bathroom.
He caught Sam watching in the mirror.
“What?” he asked, mouth full of toothpaste.
Sam shrugged. “You look good here. Like you belong.”
Bucky smiled. Rinsed. Turned.
“I do.”