Work Text:
“Wilson.”
“Barnes.”
What could have been a standard morning greeting between James “Bucky” Barnes and Sam Wilson was less a salutation and more a clashing of swords. The two associate attorneys at Stark & Potts LLP stood on opposite sides of the gleaming conference table, each possessing a healthy ego and a pathological dislike of the other.
Sam, a former public defender, had easy, Southern-bred charm and a smile that could disarm you before he ever opened his mouth. His natural warmth and charisma made him well-liked and highly regarded in many circles, even as the color of his skin kept many other doors closed. He had joined the firm the same day as Bucky, a Brooklyn native and former prosecutor who moved with a quiet intensity and a charisma much more subtle than Sam’s though no less effective.
Despite the way they both easily befriended everyone else at the office, every interaction between them had an undercurrent of irritation; and if you asked either of them, neither would be able to describe how it started. However it had begun, it had done so while the two of them were only freshly minted associates at the firm, and the rivalry soon blossomed until it became a simple fact of life that neither could stand the other. They remained professional about it, refused to let it impact the quality of their work, and never undermined the other when a case was on the line or a client was present. But it was there: in every subtle dig at the water cooler, every silent battle for the last good cup of coffee, every invitation that they “forgot” to extend when making plans with their other coworkers to go out for drinks at the end of a long day.
“I saw the memo you drafted for the Parker case,” Sam said as he slid into a chair. “Very…thorough. Did you pull an all-nighter again? You’re looking a little tired, bud.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened as he also sat in a chair, his back straight as he kept perfectly, lethally still. “I don’t need all-nighters to be comprehensive when it comes to my work,” he replied shortly. “Your opening statement at trial last week was very…passionate. Did you have to practice long in the mirror?”
Before Sam could respond, Pepper Potts—one of the managing partners at the firm—glided into the room. She was followed by another associate, Natasha Romanoff, and Ororo Munroe, who was of counsel. And thus, their Monday morning litigation meeting commenced. Bucky and Sam each turned their attention to the meeting, briefly stowing away their mutual animosity for the sake of professionalism right up until the end.
“Okay, looks like Parker is the last case on the list. Bucky, good work on that memo,” Pepper told him. He nodded to her in appreciation of the praise, his gaze lingering on Sam out of the corner of his eye. He could tell that the other man was doing his best not to grimace. “We’ve got a solid foundation for that case. I want you and Sam to take the lead on this one.”
Bucky and Sam both struggled to contain their displeased expressions. Pepper sighed. “It has not escaped my notice that the two of you do not particularly get along well.” Natasha’s mouth twitched, and Bucky could tell she was trying not to laugh at the understatement, having been treated to many an after-hours rant from Bucky…critiquing Sam, to put it lightly. “Nevertheless, I expect you both to be professional about this,” Pepper continued. “This is an important case, and you are both accomplished attorneys. I’m trusting you with this. Do not disappoint me.”
And so, for the next week, Bucky and Sam found themselves putting the majority of their hours towards the case, spending much more time around one another than either of them would prefer. After four late nights in a row at the office spent working in pointed silence—broken only by rustles of paper, scratches of pens, furious clicks on their keyboards, and occasional sharp remarks—the tension was a living thing coiled between them, thick enough to choke on.
By the fifth night, they had crafted a masterpiece of legal acumen to present at the Monday morning meeting; but it had left them both frayed to the breaking point. At 10 p.m. precisely, Sam slammed his laptop shut. “I need a drink. A very, very strong drink.”
“Finally, something we agree on,” Bucky muttered, standing and doing a big stretch before cracking his neck.
They ended up at a bar only a couple blocks from the office, a favorite of many working professionals who were drowning in student debt and drowning in their sorrows because of it. The drinks were cheap, and everyone there was tired, so it wasn’t as loud as many other bars would have been on a Friday night.
Their first drink was shared in silence, the tension still thick between them. The second was marginally less hostile; and by the third, the sharp edges of their rivalry had been softened by liquor.
“You know,” Sam mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, “for a guy who acts like he’s carved out of ice, you sure cite a lot of civil rights case law.” His tone was teasing, but there was a genuine question hidden inside.
Bucky snorted. “I’m not a bigot, Wilson. Everyone deserves the same rights and freedoms. The world is fucked, and it’s our job to fix it.” He took another sip of his drink and eyed Sam speculatively. “I’ll say, though: For a guy who acts as though the law is all about feelings, your arguments do have a ruthlessly logical spine.”
Sam laughed, a real one that crinkled around his eyes. Bucky had never appreciated how beautiful they were. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It was meant as one.”
Their conversation drifted, and each was surprised at how easy conversation with the other had become—the tension replaced with a surprising, and almost unnerving, sense of ease. They talked about duty of care and how changing laws was just as important as upholding them. They talked about their families: Bucky’s twin sister, who had moved to Europe and who he still made a point to talk to at least once a day despite the time difference, and Sam’s sister Sarah. They both brought out their phones to share photos of their nieces and nephews.
The hours slipped away. The bartender issued last call, but they were still lost in conversation, not even drinking anymore, as their heads bent close over the sticky table.
When they stepped outside at last—the bartender kindly but firmly ushering them out the door—the city felt oddly quiet, the air cool and crisp. They stood together on the sidewalk as the moment stretched between them, on the precipice of something neither was brave enough to name, their typical animosity washed away as hours of alcohol and good company caused them to forget why they had ever been at odds.
“My place is just a few blocks over,” Bucky heard himself say. The words hung in the air for a moment, an offer with no clear terms. He didn’t dare say to even himself what those terms would be.
Sam looked at him, his beautiful brown eyes that Bucky had been lost in for the past several hours searching—for what, he didn’t know exactly. Sam could have said no. They could have shaken hands and gone their separate ways, the fragile and personal peace they had forged preserved and maybe even extended to when they saw each other again on Monday morning. But he didn’t say no. Instead he nodded and gestured that he would follow Bucky’s lead.
The walk was a blur of unspoken anticipation, both of them too nervous—excited?—to say aloud what they were thinking. And then they were inside Bucky’s apartment, the door clicking shut behind them, and it was like the rest of the world had fallen away.
Neither of them could have said who initiated the kiss, the complete surrender to one another. It was urgent and clumsy and desperate, the culmination of all the tension, their new camaraderie, the realization that each had been wrong about the other all along. Neither of them had realized how much electricity, want, passion, and desire had been hidden behind years of animosity. And when it was all over, it felt almost like a beginning as they fell into slumber, their limbs tangled, wrapped around one another between Bucky’s silk sheets.
—
Sam awoke to sunlight straining to reach through the edges of Bucky’s light-dampening curtains with a profound sense of dread tinged with hope. He was in Bucky Barnes’ bed. He was naked and in Bucky Barnes’s bed.
He sat up and saw Bucky himself standing nervously in the doorway, two mugs of coffee in hand. “I, uh…” Sam was at a loss for words as he clutched at the sheet, not able to bear looking into Bucky’s eyes.
“Yeah,” Bucky agreed, though neither of them could have said what he was agreeing to. He placed the coffees down on the side table and sat on the edge of the bed. Refusing to meet Sam’s eyes he continued, voice rough, “This was…a mistake.”
Sam felt as though he had been slapped, and the small flame of hope that had been kindled within him was immediately extinguished. “Right. A mistake. Obviously.” He was already out of the bed, gathering his clothes, refusing to look Bucky in the face again. If he had, he might have seen the devastated expression on it as Bucky realized the true depths to which he had fucked up. “Look, let’s just forget this ever happened,” Sam muttered, shame and embarrassment prickling under his skin as he dressed in record time. “We’re adults. It was a long week. We had too much whiskey.”
“Right. The whiskey,” Bucky echoed. His voice was hollow. Sam still refused to look at him, refused to let the doubt he heard in Bucky’s voice give him hope again.
“See you Monday, Barnes,” he called out, still keeping his back to Bucky. The door slammed behind him, and he didn’t look back.
Bucky, meanwhile, had fallen back into his bed. Into the sheets that still smelled like the man who he had only just realized he didn’t hate but rather adored. His eyes burned as the coffees cooled on the table, abandoned, as he stared at the ceiling and grappled with how massively he had fucked things up—alone with the echo of his own stupid and terrified words.
—
The next week was a masterclass in avoidance. Their occasional barbs had been replaced with a suffocating silence. Pepper was pleased with their work, had congratulated them on working together; and they both faked smiles even as their hearts were shattered. On Tuesday, Natasha pulled Bucky aside and demanded to know what had happened, as perceptive as she always was, but he brushed away her concerns.
The fragile something that they had built had been replaced with a shadow of their old rivalry, a hollow performance that reverberated with memories of their potential. And the memories weren’t fading. Sam would catch a whiff of Bucky’s cologne as he stepped into the elevator, and his brain would short-circuit. He watched as Bucky made coffee in the breakroom and remembered exactly how his hands had felt, how gentle they had been as they traced across his skin. It was almost more than he could bear.
And Bucky…Bucky was drowning. He couldn’t stop thinking about Sam’s laugh, about the electricity of their shared touch, about how waking up to Sam’s warmth had felt like home. Calling it a mistake had been the biggest mistake of his life—something he had done out of pure, primal fear that he would fuck everything up because he didn’t know how to want something for himself, something good, without waiting for the other shoe to drop. He had felt the potential with Sam, could almost see what they could build together; and so, before he could lose it, he ruined things before they ever began.
After another month of the same agony, two more ambushes by Natasha, and four grueling sessions with his therapist, Bucky hit his breaking point late on a Thursday night. He and Sam were the last two at the office, but he still closed the door behind him when he entered.
“What do you want, Barnes?” Sam asked, tone clipped as he stared down at the brief he had been reviewing.
“We need to talk,” Bucky replied, his voice quiet, but firm.
Sam’s traitorous heart hammered behind his ribs as he kept his eyes on the page, though his focus was gone. “I don’t have anything to say.”
“Well, I do.” Bucky took a step closer. “I was scared, and I panicked, and I lied. It wasn’t a mistake. That night together…it was more honest, more real than anything that’s happened to me in years. I was a coward, and it was cruel to tell you otherwise.”
Sam stared at him, at the raw vulnerability in Bucky’s steady gaze, and felt his defenses crumble. “Bucky…”
“I’m not good at this,” Bucky continued, voice raw. “I’m not good at people. I can argue, I can win, I can mask it all behind wit and charm and hide it all away from the world. But you… I can’t stop thinking about you. About how you’ve always seen right through me, and how it felt to have you actually see me, to hold you in my arms, and I don’t…I don’t want to fight with you anymore. I want…” Bucky’s words were stuck in his throat as he trailed off, sounding lost.
Sam stood, coming around the desk and shortening the distance between them to a single step. “You want what?”
“I want you,” Bucky whispered. “I want to know if this could become something real.”
Their eyes locked, each of them holding both hope and fear. This time, when Sam closed the distance between them, there was no urgency: only a soft, tentative exploration, slow and deliberate, a question asked and answered in the same breath using no words at all. When their lips met, it wasn’t a collision—it was coming home.