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Sam Wilson was not mad. He was not mad, or irritated, or pissed off, or even annoyed, and most of all he was not jealous.
Steve's excitement had seemed like a great thing at the time, and he recognized now that it was because it was a possibility then and not a certainty. He acknowledged that he was more fond of James Barnes in theory than in practice.
“My friend from back home might be coming to stay with us this summer,” Steve had said. “You remember me talking about Bucky, right?”
Did he remember? Of course he did - how could he not when the guy was the closest thing Steve had to a brother? When he was all Steve could talk about after returning from a trip to Brooklyn over winter break? When in the three years of their friendship, Sam was positive he had heard every story, every variation of, “and Bucky this” “and Buck and I” and “then Bucky said” that there was to hear.
Sam wondered if Steve talked this much about him when he was with Bucky. He wondered why Steve still referred to Brooklyn as “home” when he hadn’t lived there for years. Why he was still friends with Bucky after the other boy moved to Romania for five years and “lost contact” with Steve - and Sam was still convinced it had not been an accident.
But he bit his tongue for his best friend, and smiled and nodded and said it sounded awesome and they would have a great time this summer, the three of them.
Except it wasn’t the three of them - not often. And even when it was, it really wasn’t. The two New York boys were so caught up in each other that it might as well be like the DC native wasn’t there. More often than not, plans would change in the middle and Sam would find himself alone when he realized that Steve and Bucky had disappeared on him again. In moments like this he would text their mutual friend Natasha, and the mysterious young woman had a habit of showing up within the hour, Starbucks in hand and Clint Barton in tow.
It was one such time as this that Sam found himself lounging by the fountain in the center of the mall, halfheartedly sipping his grande americano as he scanned the escalators for matching blue and black baseball caps.
“Stop sulking,” Natasha commanded, black-manicured nails digging into the skin of Clint’s wrist as he tried to sneak pieces of her danish. She fixed her intense gaze on Sam, and he found himself straightening up automatically. “Why don’t you just tell Steve you’re upset?”
“Because I’m not,” Sam insists, not for the first time this week, or even today. “I’m just….maybe a little frustrated.”
“Ah yes,” A slender red brow quirks up and brings the corner of painted lips with it. “Because those are very different emotions.”
“They totally are,” Clint chimes in as he bravely reaches for another piece of danish and receives a swat on the knuckles for his trouble. Sam isn’t super close with Clint. The only thing they have in common besides a love of birds is that they’re both jocks, though Sam plays football and Clint is in the Rod & Gun club. But he appreciates his support all the same.
“Yep.”
Natasha sighs. “This is a man thing. A stupid, pointless macho act.” Her caramel coffee is drained in a final sip, and she unfolds herself from the table. “Well, I have things to do. Have fun pining,” she smirks, flicking his temple as she moves past him to toss her trash and ignoring the face Sam pulls. He’s not pining.
Clint snags the danish from her plate indignantly. “If you weren’t going to eat it, why did you keep hurting me?”
Because I can, Natasha signs at him with a grin, and Sam is abruptly reminded that as well as his hearing aid functions, Clint Barton is actually deaf. You’d never know it outside of moments like this, moments where Nat likes to make him work to understand her, and Sam can’t help but feel admiration for the short, shouty archer with the smart mouth.
“Well fuck you then,” Clint retorts, but quickly abandons the issue to stuff said mouth with raspberries and cream.
Sam lifts a hand in farewell as they head out into the mall, off to who knows where to do whatever those two get up to. He suspects it might be dubiously legal, but it’s not his place to question it.
As soon as they’re out of sight he feels restless, scrubbing a hand over his face and collecting his own trash as he prepares to leave. Maybe he’ll wander the mall, maybe he’ll just go home; either way there’s no point in sitting and moping. One last fruitless scan of the food court and then he’s gone. Who cares about Steve Rogers anyway? Steve can take care of himself just fine.
Fate is having a laugh at his expense, Sam decides, when he enters the parking garage to find a dark-haired, black-hatted figure standing awkwardly at the trunk of his Dodge Avenger. With a heavy inward groan, he debates whether to speak first or just pretend he doesn’t see Barnes waiting so patiently - as awkward as that would be later.
“Hey Sam,” Barnes makes the choice for him, though he at least has the decency to sound as uncomfortable as Sam feels. He grunts a response, and Bucky presses on, “I uh… Well Steve ran into a friend and…”
He trails off, clearly feeling awkward about whatever he’s trying to say, but Sam refuses to take pity on him and lets him struggle as he makes his way to the driver’s side of the shiny silver car. He holds the door open and makes a point of glancing at his watch, and Steve’s old friend chews his lip self-consciously.
“Well she was very pretty, and there’s really only room on his bike for two people, so I’m…” Bucky sighs, a resigned look settling onto his ridiculously chiseled face. “Can I have a ride back to Steve’s?”
Sam just stares at him for a moment, expression neutral but internally incredulous. They ditch him not once or twice but three times in one week, every time with no more apology than a quick text from Steve hours later, and now Barnes has the balls to ask him for a favor. It’d be funny if it wasn’t so insulting.
“Sorry,” Sam responds without thinking, acting purely on petty instinct as he slides into the car and rolls down the window to offer Bucky a smug smirk. “But I don’t have a car.”
He backs carefully out of the slot and drives out of the garage without a single regret or a backwards glance, almost cackling at the stunned disbelief on Bucky Barnes’ face.
He has to deal with Steve later, of course, because anyone who even looked sideways at Bucky had to deal with Steve eventually, and vice versa. But even the following morning, when Steve knocks very politely on his front door and then proceeds to chew him out in his own kitchen, Sam can’t find it in himself to feel bad.
“You finished?” He asks patiently when Steve stops yelling, arching a brow to accentuate the question. “Want some orange juice? Milk? I could make eggs if you’re hungry?”
“Are you joking?” Steve snaps, glowering, but Sam has long since stopped being fazed by this. “Of course not,” He responds calmly, pulling two glasses from the hardwood cabinet before turning to the fridge. “It’s good manners to offer your guest food and drink.”
“Good manners?” Steve loses his cool a bit, slamming an open palm onto the formica kitchen island so hard that it echoes a bit. “You didn’t seem to have many of those yesterday, from what it sounds like!”
And now Sam can’t keep his cool either, abandoning the jug of orange juice on the counter without filling the cups. “And what about you?” His temper is bubbling up, but he stops short of shouting. “Where were your boyscout manners any of the times this summer that you took off with Bucky and left me alone wherever we happened to be?
"I’ve spent more time with Nat and Clint this summer than you, but I guess you didn’t notice because your real best friend is in town, huh?” He scowls, refusing to look away from piercing blue eyes that are slowly dawning with realization. “You don’t need me when you have Bucky, right? I’m good enough when he’s not around, but nobody ever compares to him.”
Steve visibly deflates, sinking into the dining chair and for a moment looking like the scrawny middle schooler he had been when they had first met. “Geez, Sam, why didn’t you say anything? I didn’t mean to…to just…”
Sam sighs heavily, plopping into his own chair with a shrug. “I didn’t want to sound ridiculous I guess. I know you miss him a lot, so I was trying to stay out of the way.” His lips twisted into an odd grimace. “It just felt like shit whenever you two would disappear on me.”
Steve looks pained, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ve been a shit friend too,” he admits, resting his elbow on the table and pushing a hand into his bangs. He’s due for a haircut soon, Sam notes. “I was so excited to see Buck again, I didn’t even notice how often we were leaving you out. We were always together before, it’s really different actually needing to catch each other up on our lives.”
He looks more like a kicked puppy than anything, and Sam feels his ire draining. The man is basically a golden retriever - holding a grudge against him just feels wrong.
“I’m real sorry, Sam.” He looks up from under thick blonde lashes and that’s the nail in the coffin.
“Well,” Sam shrugs with one shoulder, “that’s understandable. You’re pretty much a space cadet all the time as it is. Someone might think you had Alzheimer’s or something.”
“Rude,” Steve frowns, but there’s no heat to it anymore. He clears his throat slightly. “Y'know, I’d take that juice now if the offer still stands?”
Sam grins in response, reaching to pour them both a drink. “I guess I could manage that.”
“The eggs, too?”
“Don’t push your luck, Rogers.”
They’re both chuckling now, smiling easily with the remaining tension dissipating and leaving an atmosphere so much lighter, they both end up doubled over with laughter.
It’s a while before they fully calm down, laughter fading away to soft giggles and then into slowly regulating breaths, but Steve ruins it when he makes eye contact with Sam and asks, incredulously, “Did you really say you didn’t have a car as you were driving away?"