Chapter Text
It takes Sam a week or so to notice. He doesn’t do his own laundry anymore, is the thing; it’s one of the chores that Bucky has silently but unequivocally taken over since he and Steve moved into Sam’s house, along with the cooking, gardening, and general cleaning.
(Apparently you’re supposed to wash your windows; who knew? Bucky had given Sam a look when he had asked why the hell the inside of a window would be dirty, and then he’d shown Sam the black grime he’d collected on the damp newspaper he was using to wipe down the window, and Sam had said “All right, man, wash whatever you want if it makes you happy,” and backed out of the room. So now his house smells faintly like floor wax and fresh lemon oil 24/7, and all his windows sparkle.)
So Sam doesn’t notice at first that the holes in his socks have all spontaneously closed up. It isn’t until he’s pulling off his favorite pair of socks (navy wool with tiny penguins embroidered in white, last year’s Christmas gift from his sister) at the end of a long day that he notices the new stitching, neat and almost invisible, patching the hole in the toe that’s been idly bothering Sam for a few months now.
Sam pigeonholes Bucky in the kitchen, where Bucky is mixing up a batch of sourdough starter to leave in the fridge overnight. (Bucky takes store-bought bread as a personal offense. “It’s just yeast, flour, salt, and water, Wilson, I can mix it in my sleep. Get that spongey bagged shit out of my kitchen.”)
Sam leans on the fridge and holds up the socks with a dramatic flourish, like he’s presenting evidence. “Are you darning my socks?”
Bucky looks down and scratches the scruff on his chin. Is he--
“Are you blushing?”
“No.”
“You totally are.” He totally is.
Bucky buries his face in his hands. His moan of “Steve swears I used to be good at this,” comes out a little muffled, but Sam gets the gist.
“Is this 1940s flirting?”
“Maybe.” Bucky’s fingers shift just enough to let one eye peek out at Sam. “Is it working?”
“Come over here and find out.”
Two months later when Bucky officially moves his stuff into Sam’s bedroom, the first thing he does is re-organize the sock drawer.
“Hey, what’d I say?” Sam swung the shopping basket behind his back when Bucky tried to slip in a bottle of something dark. “No more shopping sprees at the hardware store. This time, for once, we stick to the list.”
Undeterred, Bucky flipped the bottle over Sam’s shoulder in a perfect arc to send it into the basket. “We need it.”
“No, we do not need–” Sam snuck a look down into the basket. “Yet another bottle of polish, what the hell, man? We already have like five bottles.”
“Three,” Bucky corrected. He turned a vase over to check the price tag on the bottom, then snorted and put it back. “We have wood polish, steel polish, and brass polish. That’s copper polish.”
“Is this why you came back from Goodwill last week with that giant copper pot that we also definitely don’t need?” Sam picked the bottle up and shook it accusingly. “So you’d have an excuse to indulge your polish fixation?”
“Make you a deal,” Bucky said, crowding Sam against the shelves and leaning into him a little. Sam looked up and, sure enough, they were in the store’s one security camera blindspot. Bucky really liked canoodling with Sam in public, as long as it wasn’t public public. “If we get the polish, I’ll tell you about the time in ‘38 when Steve accidentally sat in our soup pot and got his bony little ass stuck.”
Sam felt his eyes go wide. “He did not.”
Bucky just raised his eyebrows and looked smug. The fucker always knew when he’d won.
“Fine, the polish stays.” Sam tapped the bottle against the center of Bucky’s chest and tried to look stern. “But you’re telling me that story on our way home, and I expect our new soup pot to shine, you understand?”
Bucky hid his smile against Sam’s temple. “Sir, yes, sir.”