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simplevanquish · 4 months

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Got A Sweet Tooth Come, And Chew Me Up

sambucky roommate au 😁

Rating: Teen and Up

Wordcount: 21,691

Summary: a sambucky au where two strangers navigate being roommat

AO3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54882493

(title from Sweet Tooth by ericdoa)

Small excerpt:

“We could split rent.”

Which, fuck, wasn’t asking for his number enough?

Apparently not, Sam thinks, because something else in him has taken complete control over what words are ejected out of him, and now he’s suggesting that the two live together.

Finally, though, he manages to grab hold of the reins and clutches onto his cup.

“Sorry. I just don’t think before I say things, I’ll be honest.” Sam tries to explain, but he’s suffocating in the heat that presses on his cheeks from every direction, under his skin, on top, all around, and dips past his neck and bursts in his stomach that might need some help trying to handle all this sugar, actually. “I mean, I’m definitely struggling to find a place, and you as well. So I guess I was like ‘why not’ and just-”

“I get the idea.” Bucky interrupts.

Sam might be screwed.

He likes to emphasize the ‘might be’ though, because it leaves some hope for him. Unfortunately the hope doesn’t materialize itself today as Sam slouches up against the wall.

His lease is ending and he has yet to find a place. He has two weeks. Fourteen days.

He thinks he can manage. Plus, although Sam slightly feels a little bad about it, his friend Natasha offered her guest room up to him for as long as he needs. It’s not that he isn’t grateful or doesn’t like the idea of living with her for a bit, he’s like her “work husband” or whatever she called him the other day with a snicker. It’s just he should really have his shit together and pants pulled up, ready to deal with all of this.

But instead he’s sweaty and tired after a long day of packing not knowing the new place his stuff will all go to. He really doesn’t want to put his stuff in a storage unit, to be honest, they might reek of the smell of weed when he takes them out (in his past personal experiences, this may or may not have happened because apparently storage units, in their steel glory, surrounded by rock and gravel, are the perfect spot to hit a joint or try and grow).

So, he really needs to find a place, basically. He’s actually pretty confident in his packing abilities. He just has a couple of big furniture pieces and the essentials left.

He grabs at the bottom of his shirt, curls in on himself slightly just to wipe off his forehead with the fabric of his shirt. With that, Sam tosses his hands to the side in exasperation and glances around at the almost empty room he’s in.

“You got this Sam,” He mumbles out loud, just for extra encouragement. In case, you know.

His eyes catch on the spider that suddenly dashes across the far side of the room, making him grimace and lean against the wall, which accidentally bumps over the broom he propped up, hitting the wooden ground with three good clangs.

He closes his eyes and tries to reassure himself.

God, he really hopes he’s got this.

“You know I have a guest room,” She says and Sam tries not to show any emotion in response because whoops, he’s gotten himself into this again. Natasha tilts her head, dark red hair moving along with her and brushing her shoulders. She faces him slightly, then lifts her coffee cup up to her lips and takes a sip. “Right?”

“I know,” Sam confirms, offering a huff of a laugh as he rests his elbows on the counter in front of him. “You’ve told me on many occasions.”

She gives him a knowing look, because Natasha’s always had this thing where she can read people effortlessly. Sometimes it makes him suspicious of her, other times it makes him admire her skill, and rarely it makes him wonder if he’d be better at hiding from her if he actually chose to go down his path as a social worker. Since, for some reason he thinks if he’s evaluating and helping others, it will somehow make him harder to evaluate.

It doesn’t make sense when he tries to explain it, to be honest.

Natasha hums, a small smile making its way on her face. “Because I want to drill it into your brain, obviously.”

“Oh it’s drilled,” He says, lifting up a hand to tap his head. “It’s in there, I can even predict when you’re about to say it. Again.”

“Impressive,” She comments dryly, then finishes off what little is left of her coffee, and pushes off of her seat and pats his shoulder. “Keep me posted, mkay?”

Sam fake salutes. “Will do.”

With that, she continues past him, leaving him in the break room. He’s about to let himself dig into the depths of his thoughts, all by himself now, but it’s no more than two minutes he gets by himself until he feels an approaching presence.

“You always make me think you’re leaving,” He says, twisting his torso around to see Natasha return, phone open and a paper in hand.

“I just had to grab something.” She tells him, walking up and setting the paper down without a word. When he looks down, he sees some basic information about an open house for an apartment, the smell of freshly printed paper hitting him as he blinks up at her. “I looked a little bit, sent you the link as well,” She states because of course she did, “If it doesn’t work out-”

“You’ve got a room waiting, I know.”

She smiles, and pats the side of his face. “There’s a bright mind.”

He chuckles at that, and waves before she actually leaves. For real- maybe.

Then Sam takes a look at the paper, a look at the door Natasha just walked out of, and pulls out his phone. Sure enough she’s sent him a link, and clicking on it reveals more information as well. It’s a good price for a two bedroom apartment. He thinks he’ll check it out.

So Sam’s here, two days later, at the open house.

It’s not a bad place, and surprisingly the living room actually looks just a bit bigger than it does on the picture posted online. He’s done some research here and here. Rent wise he’ll just have to put a bit more into housing each month, which is fine, he supposes. He just really needs a place to live, and he’s sure he can cut down on a couple of big expenses that are more things he wants.

So far, so good, he thinks, as he taps his fingers on the counter in the kitchen. It’s nice, looking around, he can get a decent idea of what it would look like if he were to move in.

He lifts up his hand, eyeing the real estate agent curiously for a moment. When her eyes reach his, Sam offers a smile. “Uh, utilities- they were included in the rent, right?”

She nods and based on the way her smile doesn’t quite match his own he realizes that is in fact the third time he’s asked. “Yes, sir.”

Damn. He’s just really stressed, okay. He knows - and man does he know- that he has a backup in case he can’t secure a place by his looming deadline. But, well, he thinks his pride may be in the way.

He’s a grown ass man, of course.

So he lowers his head and remembers not to ask about the utilities again. He looks over the paper that sits below him, since his mind decided to bring Natasha’s printed gift along with him.

He does need a place, and soon. Sam sighs, finally finding it in himself to stand up properly.

The kitchen and living room are nicely adjacent and open, so that’s a plus. Plus there’s an in-unit laundry facility, a pool for the tenants.

“Uh, and how much is the security deposit again?” He asks and he knows he must’ve asked this before. It might say on the paper, actually, but he feels like the more he stares at it the less clear the words become. He can’t even read over the word income and think it sounds right anymore. Income? What even is that?

Okay he knows what it is, but his brain is kinda struggling to comprehend most of anything at this point. Which is super inconvenient.

The lady, bless her soul and her patience, starts to tell him about the security deposit and its purpose. Which, yes he knows, but she isn’t doing it because he thinks he’s dumb. In fact, Sam is pretty sure she could sense his anxious nerves since he walked in. Sure, he tried to act casual and carefree as he greeted her and roamed around the empty living room, but Sam bets she could see right through it.

He tries not to wear his hope thin, and blinks around as she talks.

Yeah, the money is really the only issue. But he can tackle it without too many issues. Like he said, he’s just going to have to refrain from certain luxuries.

He huffs, nodding and thanking her, and declares that he’ll be checking out the bedrooms.

Heading out of the kitchen, he rounds the corner where the two bedrooms and bathroom reside, nearly bumping into somebody on his way there.

Sam steers away and pauses so he can apologize, turning around to be faced with a man who's tired look just might challenge Sam’s nervous look in a match of intensity.

Besides the exhaustion so clearly displayed on his features, etched in with each second this man might miss out on sleep, the man looks alright, his stubble a little rugged and his brown hair a bit messy, his baseball cap is worn and old, but it’s the blue eyes that seem to catch Sam’s attention the most.

Sam blinks once, almost wonders since when there was another person here, and remembers what he had turned around for as he tries a toothy smile. “Pardon me, you kinda came outta nowhere.”

The man lifts his hand, and Sam lets his eyes wander up his long sleeved arm. “No worries.”

And for some reason, like an idiot, Sam opens his mouth again when his brown eyes meet blue. “So you checking out the place?”

Well obviously, Sam mentally retorts, jabbing at his own self as he waits. The other man nods, eyes drifting around.

“Thinking about it.”

“Me too,” Sam says with a hum, patting his front pockets down awkwardly. The man doesn’t really like eye contact, it seems, and Sam takes the hint as he instead focuses on his shoulder. “It’s nice, it’s just the price is cutting it close if you know what I mean.” He chuckles at the end, leaning forward on his heels and quickly reminding himself to back up afterwards and not linger on the thick eyelashes that flutter as the man processes what he’s said.

Then, he gets a small smile, which is surprising in a way he can’t figure out.

The other raises his shoulders in a shrug. “Yeah, uh, we’re in the same boat there.”

Sam doesn’t know why he’s still smiling. He can’t help it. It’s weird and so strange and he bites his cheek to try and refrain from saying anything else, anything unwarranted. But his brain is packing its things up and he takes a breath.

“My lease- it ends soon, too,” He admits, as if this stranger would even care , and Sam points around nowhere and everywhere, possibly looking like a complete fool. And well, maybe he is. “So I really gotta get this shit straight.”

“Moving’s tough.” Is all he gets in response. He nods, and then the man suddenly faces him fully, an unreadable expression, one that might be able to pass as simply blank, rests on his face. “The last places I’ve applied for I didn’t get.”

Sam offers what he hopes is a sympathetic look as he waves a hand. “Real estate is crazy these days.”

“It’s a whole circus,” the other mumbles, making a laugh slip past Sam’s lip, trying to squint underneath the shadow of the baseball cap that obscures the man’s features just a tad when he bows his head.

He can see the lips that are curled upwards, he can see what might be a hint of dimples, and he grins. “Man, you funny.” He observes, and just barely directs the hand he just about set on a stranger's shoulder, instead resting it on his own chest, which makes him feel the beat of his heart, leading him to be all too aware of how he isn’t thinking before speaking. But nothing bad has happened yet, so his brain doesn’t come back from vacation, and he still stands there, looking over the other man, from the top of his cap to where he decided to stop zipping up his black jacket.

“I should get your number,” Sam blurts out, and he’s taken off guard just as much as the other is. No, actually, he might have been put off more so than the man standing in front of him. Because all he gets from the other is a short second of widened eyes, a judging squint, and a shrug.

Which is... Okay.

But Sam still hasn’t even found the reasoning behind his words and he’s already got a phone pulled out.

“Here,” He says, and when Sam lowers his head to the outheld hand, he can see the others screen, and he manages to make his body work with the situation as he enters in his number.

Instantly the phone is drawn back and only seconds later his own dings. When he fishes it out of his pocket it’s simply an unknown number that’s sent him a thumbs up emoji. He huffs with amusement, then looks back up at the man.

“What should I save your contact as?” He enquiries. “Mister mystery sounds catchy.”

He gets an eye roll in return, which is fair, and makes his finger somehow slip up and he presses the home button, eyes flickering to the screen as Sam tries to scramble back to the messages.

“Bucky,” the man answers, which then, Sam would say it’s fair to assume that’s his name. So he nods at Bucky and holds his phone up as if he’s raising a glass to a toast, it’s a little ridiculous.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” Then, quickly, he rushes out. “Oh- I’m Sam, by the way.”

“Happy house hunting, then, Sam.”

Which is nice, Sam notes. He also notes the way his name sounds, and tries to drag it out of his ears as he spends the rest of the day examining the apartment and attending one other open house.

When he gets home and opens his phone, there’s still a single thumbs up sitting there, and even when he closes that out the only other thing he has opened is the website for the apartment where he acquired Bucky’s phone number.

He thinks about it for a minute or two, then decides to bite the bullet as he sends one of those waving emojis. He doesn’t wait for a response, rather, he instantly shuts off his phone and moves on to cleaning the same counter space for about the fifth time, since he keeps getting distracted. Man, moving is tough.

The next morning when Sam walks into work, he can already see red hair and a slim hand resting on the arm rest poking out from his chair that’s facing the wall across the room. He clicks his tongue, squinting at Natasha as she waits for him.

Her sixth sense must kick in once he’s about one meter away as she spins the chair around, eyeing him up and down quickly and furrowing her brows.

“What’s the bag?”

He looks down at the paper bag. Oh yeah. “Oh, I got you a donut.”

She smiles, fixing her elbow on the arm rest and placing her chin in her hand.

“That’s sweet,” She says. He nods and with a huff he hands it to her.

“I just wanted to show my appreciation, you know,” He starts, and he’s being completely honest as gives an affectionate pat on her shoulder, urging her out of his seat. With that, Natasha stands up and spins around to meet him again, and watches as he splays out in his seat with a smile. “Since I’m just the nicest person you’ve ever met in your entire life, I just thought I’d remind you.” He jokingly adds.

Natasha presses her lips into a thin line, attempting to be properly annoyed with his antics, but she’s already diving a hand into the brown paper bag for the sugary baked goodness that it holds.

“So, did you go to the open house thing I sent you?” She questions, glancing up at him once before she refocuses her line of sight on the donut, and takes a bite as he sighs, swaying side to side in his seat pushing on the heel of his shoes.

“Uh, yeah, I did.” Sam confirms, and picks up a free-ranging pen on his desk and taps it against the edge. “I also got this dude’s number when I was there.”

She pauses chewing for a second, lifting a hand to cover her lips as she tilts her head down to really look at him. She squints, curious, and motions for him to explain.

Which, really, there isn’t much to it. The statement is exactly as he said.

“What?” He asks defensively, tucking away from her gaze with a shrug. “We both were looking at the same apartment so we started talking and I asked for his number. Which he gave-” Sam places a hand on his chest, “To me.”

“Oh, I thought he gave it to your mother, thanks for clearing that up,” Natasha comments sarcastically, and of course, she smiles, bright and genuine but teasing when Sam groans. Then, she knocks the side of his wheeled chair with the tip of her shoe. “You got a new friend, though? That’s always nice.”

“Well, I mean…” Sam goes to argue against how Bucky isn’t exactly a friend, since they just met and it happens that they’re only interaction was a very short conversation while checking out an apartment up for rent. However, he draws away from his standing position against the statement, and instead mentally agrees with the conclusion that yes, it is nice to have a friend, and yes, he would like to eventually call Bucky something similar.

Before he can start taking steps backwards and retract, though, his phone dings, sound distant and from his pocket. He retrieves it, glancing down at the screen, and his interest piqued when coincidentally enough, the sender happened to be none other than Bucky himself.

Opening it, he admittedly had to take a second to read over it and make sure he won’t have to see an eye doctor after he clocks out today. Because apparently, it looks like Bucky’s asking him to go for coffee?

Now, he isn’t Einstein level genius, but he’s pretty dang sure that’s what it means when Bucky has bluntly messaged ‘this is bucky. Would you want to have coffee sometime?’

Sam guesses, using both this and yesterday as evidence, that Bucky must be a pretty straightforward person. Which isn’t bad of course, Sam admires the quality. It’s just- Sam feels the need for a cup of water suddenly, like it’ll wash down the growing lump in his throat that is about to drop down into his stomach and swirl around like- well like the excessive amount of cream he likes in his coffee.

He eyes Natasha out of the corner of his vision, purses his lips, hesitant. Then, he quickly offers Bucky a time and address, then points at his phone as he turns to her. “We’re also going for coffee. So yeah, friend.”

Or at least Sam will call it a developing friendship.

Natasha stifles a confused laugh, tilts her head, and just accepts it as she tucks the bag in her palm and holds onto the donut between two of her fingers. “Yes? That’s exciting.”

“It’s coffee.” He tries, like he’s not suddenly anticipating it more and more each second.

“It will be fun,” She corrects, which- hey, he wasn’t wrong. But sure. Fun.

He thinks it will at least be good .

So he agrees with her for the time being and she starts heading back towards her desk.

“Thanks for the donut!” She calls out, and Sam gives a thumbs up as she glances over her shoulder at him, then fixes her hair with her unoccupied hand, and turns back around, never caring for the one person audience that the raise in her voice attracts, who Sam catches, giving them a knowing look, and instantly the other man goes back to work.

Later, Bucky responds with a simple ‘alright’ that leaves Sam about to snicker before he realizes he’s smiling at his messages, making him extremely conscious of the room of people around him. Because of this, Sam puts in the effort to maintain a straight face, and waits for his lunch break to come.

When it does, Natasha knowingly tells him not to get anything with too much sugar- since he may have a habit of overloading the caffeinated drinks with absurd amounts of sugar. But it’s his thing, he always argues, and Natasha just shoves him through the door and tells him to enjoy a date.

Which he pointedly objects towards because it’s just factually wrong.

Now, Sam has luckily managed to figure out his whole sexuality before entering college, so he’s known for a while he likes the gals and the guys, swinging both ways- however one would like to describe the nature of bisexuality. But, hey now, this isn’t a date.

He’s just linking up for some coffee with Bucky, a man he recently met with blue eyes and slightly weathered appearance.

Sam all but refuses to continue thinking as he walks down past a couple of joints, then lifts his head to the coffee shop’s name plastered on the glass window, and walks through the front door.

It’s his usual coffee spot, hence why he suggested it. Close to his work and familiar. The muted oranges of the walls are always so welcoming, and the complimentary blue of the cushioned seats and accents helps bring the atmosphere together. There’s a wall of exposed brick where the waiting line is, giving customers the option of being seated on a wooden bench with egg-white cushions and a thin but ever so sturdy bookcase of wired metal to choose a magazine from.

He’s busy trying to think about where the two of them should sit when someone clears their throat behind him, and Sam turns around to the brightness of the glass door that lets the light halo around Bucky, and the community bulletin board and it’s vibrant colors on Bucky’s left can’t even catch Sam’s attention.

“Oh, you’re here already?”

“I’ve been for a couple minutes,” Bucky confesses, then tips a thumb behind his shoulder that leads down a narrow hallway with a sign reading ‘restrooms’ on the top. “I just had to use the bathroom. I come out and you’re here.”

“Huh,” Sam muses, then allows for Bucky to join him as they get in line. “What’d you want?”

“Oh, uh-” Bucky cuts himself off, peering past Sam’s shoulder at the menu displayed above their heads only a couple meters away. “I’ve never been here before.”

Sam snaps his head back at Bucky, making a noise of surprise that sounds offended, and Bucky hides some of his face away with his hair and shoulder.

“That’s crazy,” Sam mumbles, shaking his head. He’s joking of course. Mostly. “Man, well you’re about to have the best coffee in the city.” He pats Bucky’s shoulder, and thankfully the action doesn’t have much of any consequence, so he can easily tell himself that no, he wasn’t just about to start feeling nervous. Because why would he?

He doesn’t answer the question, nobody does, because it doesn’t exist to anyone, and he focuses on the floor, wooden planks in their wondrous distressed finish glory.

“You could choose for me,” Bucky suddenly says.

Sam blinks, tilts his head up and faces Bucky, and blinks again.

Oh.

Okay, he’s letting him choose. Which he must be doing because he’s never been here before and maybe it’s pretty obvious Sam goes here a lot.

Thus, Sam doesn’t dwell on it much further, crushes the way something unknown in his stomach tightens because for some reason his head likes to twist things around and stretch it to the point where Sam almost thinks it sounds a little bit like Bucky is trusting him with something. Which, technically he is, but it’s just a beverage. So he tries to steer his head in the correct direction and gives a smug smile.

“Oh, boy, okay.” He nods. “I’ll let them fix you up with something good, don’t worry.”

And so, Sam orders the same thing for them, momentarily catching the second-take Bucky wordlessly gives with his expression when he hears how much extra sugar Sam puts into his order. Of course, though, Sam notices this and doesn’t add any extra to Bucky’s, who catches onto what he’s doing and his face settles into this weird little expression that makes it so that Sam has to completely look away so he can pull his card out.

That, however, seems to get a verbal reaction from Bucky who leans forward a little. “I have money.”

“I ordered,” Sam argues and Bucky’s lips are pressed into a thin line as he searches for a retort.

“I suggested we get coffee, I pay.”

Sam bumps his shoulder lightly, trying to give a reassuring look and attempts to appear as persuading as possible as he holds his card out to the employee. “And I pay for it because I want to.”

Bucky stands down then, a little reluctant as he watches the employee swipe Sam’s card before handing it back and allowing Sam to enter in his pin.

Then, the both of them find themselves seated across from each other in the far corner of the coffee shop, the brick of the wall rises to around the same level of the table with the big windows stretching out the whole length of the wall, letting the midday sun pour in and leave their shadows drooping onto the ground.

The way the sun lights up half of Bucky’s face is something Sam thinks he should make note of, for whatever reason, including how it makes the other half all shadowed.

He’s still wearing the same baseball cap, but his hair seems thoroughly brushed. Today he adorns a simple blue button up shirt and black jeans, which isn’t too far off from what Sam himself is wearing. It’s the more casual form of his outfit, since he did just come here straight from work, so he has work pants on instead.

Sam shifts in his seat, his left elbow resting on the table as he lazily lets the pads of his finger poke at the mesh wrought iron surface.

Attentively, he observes as Bucky takes his first sip.

Sam will say he’s prideful of the way Bucky’s eyes widen the tiniest bit, blink and you miss it, and takes another sip before meeting’s Sam’s eyes and he almost seems timid to admit it, so Sam tries to coax the confession out of him with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“It’s good, huh?”

“It’s sugary,” Bucky comments, but he doesn’t deny it. So Sam pockets a win away and swirls his straw. “Yours must be killing your bloodstream.”

“The human body actually needs glucose, excuse you.” Sam defends, emphasizing his take with a big sip.

Bucky huffs and barely stops himself from rolling his eyes. “Not in excessive amounts.”

Sam offers a cheeky smile. “It’s a treat, mkay? Nobody’s arteries are choking or anything. We good.”

“For now.”

Sam laughs at that, laughs at how blunt Bucky appears to be at times, and sighs. “So, man, you enjoying our coffee link up so far?”

“Coffee link up?” Bucky repeats in question, clearly he doesn’t like the name. Sam frowns.

“Yeah, man, that’s what I’m calling it.”

“I get the idea, but-”

“Ay.” Sam cuts him off, spearing his drink with his straw and pointing at Bucky with his other hand. “An idea’s all you need, pal.”

“Well, to answer your question,” Bucky circles back, lifting up his cup and his pointer finger lifts upwards, as he looks past Sam’s shoulder for a moment, and shrugs with a small nod. “Yes, it’s enjoyable.”

A smile sneaks its way onto Sam’s face before he can even try to stop himself. He comes to the discovery, though, that he wouldn’t have anyways, and snaps his fingers lightly as he abruptly thinks of a question.

“Oh, how is it going with finding a place, man?”

He considers it an appropriate topic to touch on and a good thing to ask considering how they even met, and it’s only something born from good intentions.

Bucky takes a moment to reflect on it and formulate a response, then, he makes this weird wincing expression, one that isn’t even sure of itself as he tilts his head left and right. “Uh, I mean, to be honest I’ve found that the only one bedroom apartments that I can afford seem a little too sketchy for my liking.”

Sam perks up, eyebrows raised, because, “Isn’t that the truth.”

“Yes.” Bucky nods his head towards Sam at that.

“They either have some unauthorized and maybe not-so-ethical activity going on in the background that I’d rather not be a part of, or their some stupidly expensive studios to bring in the richer and younger people.”

Bucky’s lips, that have somehow brought themselves to Sam’s line of sight, capturing his notice, curl upwards and no longer in the dimness of the open house, Sam can see that he does indeed have dimples, showing kindly on his face as Bucky’s lips tip higher and push up the softness of his cheeks, making them prominent.

“I have barely enough for that place,” Bucky states, making Sam remember where his eyes should be, and he feels the hairs on his neck stand up like he might have been caught. It’s not his fault- okay, well it was. But he’s simply making sure the dimples weren’t just a trick of the light thing that happened yesterday.

He puts in the effort to comprehend what Bucky’s said, and he quickly picks back up on the pace and rests his cup still on the table, hands at his side as he sighs.

“Yeah, me too,” He admits, and the two somehow are on the same wavelength, maybe it’s the sugar in this drink- maybe Natasha and Bucky are right- and they share a moment of silence for the acceptance of the situation. Then, after a second, Sam shrugs. “I mean, I’ve got to move out, so, although I won’t be living like a king, having a place is a bit more important.”

Bucky tries to nod, eyes focused out the window and the way some foreign emotion sinks into the characteristics of his features, says it’ll probably be a bit tougher for Bucky to pay for the rent than it would be for Sam.

Which he gets, truly. Past in the past, or whatever, but he’s definitely in a better position than he previously was, even with a lease ending and a potential future apartment that cuts it close. But he’ll still be comfortable, at least.

Which makes him think.

Sam doesn’t think too highly of himself as in he doesn't go around parading about whole listing all the goods about him, of course, but he has obviously noted how quick he is to feel this need to help others. His father did that for a living, too, helped people. So he likes to think every time he manages to make somebody’s day just a little bit better, there’s a piece of that man that fills itself back up.

Which, maybe it’s partly that, and maybe it’s also because of the way Bucky’s blue eyes nearly reflect the blur of a circle that is the sun, and how he still keeps sipping on the coffee without ever willing to say it’s good out loud. Maybe it’s just a bunch of things, but he can’t stop himself and think for a second, and instead, he watches, having no control of his mouth at this point, and sets his hands on the table.

“We could split rent.”

Which, fuck, wasn’t asking for his number enough?

Apparently not, Sam thinks, because something else in him has taken complete control over what words are ejected out of him, and now he’s suggesting that the two live together.

Christ.

Jesus Christ.

He tries to backpedal a little, embarrassed on how he seems to keep blurting things out and being so awkward. But again, he has no choice, his mouth opens but not a single sound comes out, so he just glances across the table at Bucky, who is reasonably judging Sam, brows knitted tightly together because of course nobody would have expected it.

Finally, though, he manages to grab hold of the reins and clutches onto his cup.

“Sorry.”

A moment passes, then Sam carries on.

“I just don’t think before I say things, I’ll be honest.” Sam tries to explain, but he’s suffocating in the heat that presses on his cheeks from every direction, under his skin, on top, all around, and dips past his neck and bursts in his stomach that might need some help trying to handle all this sugar, actually. “I mean, I’m definitely struggling to find a place, and you as well. So I guess I was like ‘why not’ and just-”

“I get the idea.” Bucky interrupts, repeating himself from earlier, and Sam tightens his jaw, waiting for the man to say literally anything else. He could quote Star Wars and then ditch for all Sam cares, but as long as he says something, because somehow looking straight into Bucky’s eyes is starting to feel less like he’s looking at Bucky and more like Bucky is gazing into him, past every layer, and exposing him without having to say a word.

Internally, Sam is far too busy frantically trying to collect himself, that it takes a second for him to physically compose, vision coming back into focus as he glances over Bucky, who once more seems to be less affected by the unpredictability of Sam’s mouth than Sam himself is.

Which is a little unfair but Sam decides for once he can keep his thoughts to his own head as he studies the look on Bucky’s face, it’s careful, intentional, and Sam breathes in slowly as he realizes what this is because oh .

“Which is all you need,” Sam says meekly, like his words are trying to fit around the shape that represents ‘I am an idiot, sorry’ all while he’s trying to hold a normal conversation again. His tone contradicts itself and he knows his lip twitches out of uncertainty, which he didn’t think was a thing until now, but they do so, within half a second, a minimal move. But he can see the way Bucky’s eyes notice it.

It goes unsaid, but it’s clear they both could actually contemplate the idea of it, imagine the possibility, and take hold of the suggestion and try to manhandle it.

“You flush right?” Sam asks, because he, for the life of him, cannot stand to let the stiffness swallow him whole anymore.

Thankfully, he’s always had the capability to crack the tension, and Bucky gives him a very unimpressed look, face instantly dropping from where he held it so meticulously that it makes him laugh, and Bucky huffs.

“I’m a grown man, yes, I flush .”

“Hey.” Sam puts his hands up. “I’m just making sure. I’ve met a few.”

“Well forget them, man,” Bucky says, waving a hand literally motioning out the window, and he places another hand on his chest. “I’m a clean guy.”

“Oh you is, huh?” Sam questions, lips pulled upwards into a smile as he raises his brows. “We should shave that head of yours then, call you Mister Clean.”

“I thought it was Mister Mystery.”

Sam shrugs it off and takes a sip of his beverage, and woah, it actually is ridiculous sugary. Maybe putting himself in a situation where he wishes nothing more than to go back in time is the wake up call he needed, and as he blinks, the wall of sweetness hits him and it feels like it’s been ages since he’s been here.

And apparently Bucky can see exactly what’s happening, as he snickers, terribly mocking him.

“You finally realize how sweet that drink of yours is?”

Sam swallows it down and grins. “It’s delicious.”

“Okay. Well, you’re right about one thing, Sam,” Bucky starts, leaning back into his seat and his features nearly soften. Which isa double combo that has Sam forgetting how to use a straw, making him put down his drink. Because Bucky saying his name and the way his face just… settles into this thing- it’s not fair how easily Bucky loops Sam back around to his full focus, but Sam ignores it, because really, there’s no need for it. So instead he just keeps an ear out to listen and tries not to think about how his eyes settle on Bucky’s face in a manner that’s more than just being polite.

“We’re both in need of a place to live, and we both barely have enough to pay rent.”

Which is true, but also, “That’s two things.”

“Okay, smartass. You were right about two things.”

Sam smiles, it’s a bit impertinent, but hardly enough to actually live up to anything rooted in some rude prospect, so Bucky lets it slide before carrying on.

“I’d be down.”

Which is nice, Sam thinks. He’s down.

He’s down to-

Wait.

Sam stumbles a little, his fingers jerking with the sudden move of his wrist and he nearly knocks over his cup as he realizes holy shit, Bucky is actually considering doing this. Moving into the same apartment and splitting rent. Like they were brothers in a frat for ages and now they’ve both decided to move on with only each other as a backup. It’s crazy, it’s something maybe he should give a second thought to, and it’s all too easy because he finds himself almost calling it desirable.

Fuck this.

Sam takes a deep breath, tosses everything out the window (metaphorically, of course) and nods once, twice, then makes sure to stop himself from going for thirds.

“Me too.”

When Sam returns to work, he’s almost constantly occupied by the buzz that lives in his chest, he likes to think it’s the sugar, it floods throughout his body and makes his hands jittery for a moment when Bucky messages him twenty minutes after he left. They’ll be situating the whole paperwork and logistics once he’s off of work.

Which, sure, maybe he should have thought this through, but like, it’s sort of a marriage of convenience, Sam thinks.

Which then sounds odd but the point is still there, standing so obnoxiously tall, waving in his face as he tries to move around the workplace properly.

But it’s only a little difficult when his body practically hiccups when Bucky messages him, phone pinging, and he rushes to check it.

Bucky simply asks if he has a pet, which no, he doesn’t.

Bucky responds with ‘Okay’ and then five minutes later he adds ‘I don’t.’

Very plain, all about laying down the facts and throwing away everything else, which Sam thinks he can start to admire, honestly. In fact, he reads over the messages again and starts to question himself as he nearly proposes the thought that it’s ‘so bucky’ in a style that is far too close to fond.

He should stop thinking about it, maybe.

But then Natasha appears out of nowhere and almost makes him jump out of his seat as he holds his phone to his chest and looks up.

“Oh, shit. Hello.”

“Hey.” She supplies for both a greeting and response, and her eyes drop down to his phone. “Did it go well?”

He follows the lowering of his gaze, pretends to check the time of his phone, and chuckles. “Uh, yeah. Actually.”

She hums and he almost hates how she can tell there’s more to be said. So he takes a second, steers his chair around, and grins. “I’ve settled on a place to live, Nat.”

He gives her the time needed to click it together, pieces of the puzzle being gathered round in the correct order as she stalls, crossing her arms and thinking with a single squint of her eyes, and the full picture starts to string itself together in her mind as she tilts her head, inspecting Sam as if looking at him will make it make more sense.

“Sam.”

He just taps the armrest of his chair, humming. “Yeah?”

Nat waits a moment, as if offering him to deny it, and when he doesn’t she lets her hands drop at her sides and she gives a slightly warning look. “No.”

“Uh,” Sam starts, laughing. “I did.”

He did agree to moving in with Bucky. More so, he suggested it. But Nat doesn’t have to know that part.

“Okay-” She steps back once, looks around as she considers what to say, then seems to mentally shrug it off as she faces him, red hair swirling around her face with the force of the action. She tilts her head up. “Be careful. That’s all I’m gonna say.”

He obviously knows that, though, so he gives her a thumbs up before she heads off.

It’s a couple of days later when Sam thinks maybe he is biting off more than he can chew.

Because their applications and paperwork get approved, and now he keeps receiving messages from Bucky and every time it’s like golden rays of light emit from the screen, tempting him to peek just once more at his notifications with a promise it’s something he doesn’t wanna miss.

There’s this small sense of reason that reminds him of this fact, the idea that Sam took no precautions and just jumped into it, so now it’s his fault that it’s all happening so fast.

Like how he starts to crack open the almost ambiguous aura that swam around Bucky when they first met, and it makes him think for a moment when he realizes how quickly it is he can be subdued into this state, where he’s stuck in this world and if something’s on Sam’s mind, it’s pretty fair to bet that it’s somehow related to the other man and his eyes.

Which are blue. Sam never forgets it.

He let himself dive into the blue, swimming along, and maybe Sam’s starting to think the water is a bit deeper than one would think, since Sam himself most certainly wasn’t thinking about it.

Because then Bucky offers to help move some of Sam’s stuff, and pulls up with this truck and Sam just watches from the sidewalk, sun beating down on his back, as Bucky parks, the intensity of the heat already starting to stick a strand of hair on his head.

Which sorta makes Sam forget how to greet a man for a second.

But it doesn’t mean much, he assures, but is instantly deprived of any firm belief he had when Bucky gets out, walks up to him, and lands a hand on his shoulder.

Now, it’s a little awkward, as in Bucky is sort of doubting the action as he proceeds to carry it out, lips pressing into a thin line that just barely could pass as a smile, and he squints not only from the sun.

But it’s not the fact that it might be a little unfamiliar to Bucky, it’s the fact that his palm is pressed lightly against the round of his shoulder, warmth pouring in through his skin.

So Sam tries really hard to blink back to focus and offer a decent enough greeting before they get to work, and thinks about how maybe it does mean something.

He thinks a lot, actually, as the two of them lift boxes and load them up, and the AC does nothing to beat that evening's simmer, which, paired up with all the physical labour they’re performing, it’s not even a battle, it’s just an obliteration. The air conditioning doesn’t even exist in any room that Sams sweeps across, checking for any possible area that needs cleaning, or anything left behind.

Later, they both slump against Bucky’s truck after having brought in the final box from their moving session. They’ve made progress that Sam is extremely satisfied with, for that reason- and also maybe the way Bucky sighs with exasperation and leans back against his truck, Sam offers to buy the two of them dinner at the most greasiest absolute monster of a burger joint he knows.

Bucky again, admits he’s never been there when Sam drops the name, and Sam just chuckles.

“Man, where have you been?” It’s more of a statement than a question, but whichever way Bucky takes it will work.

Bucky only gives a smile that approaches the nature of an item just so akin to bashful, that Sam can feel the moment his heart finally trips.

It’s been smoothly cruising most of the time, jumping rope looping around and around and just waiting for its moment to shine. And it’s now, when Bucky is here smiling at him, face terribly pink, breathing still a bit on the shallow side as he reclaims all of his oxygen, and his hair is this mess that feels so intentional like even if Bucky tried, the way that his hair strays in some places and sticks to his neck or face will always look purposeful, it will always look good.

Of course, Bucky is entirely unaware of Sam’s internal dilemma, void of knowing how Sam’s brain might just get carpal tunnel with how repeatedly these thoughts slam against the walls of his mind, rattling around like some drunken rave where not a single vision of his has any sort of spacial awareness and trips over its own feet.

So Bucky simply tilts his head and shrugs. “I haven’t been a lot of places, man.”

Sam can’t find an answer to it, and instead of trying to find one, he closes the truck door after realizing he still has yet to do so.

“Well we gotta change that,” He says, and his voice sounds pretty leveled, actually. “I’ll go lock the door, gimme a sec.”

When Sam stands in the doorway of the apartment, however, he lingers for a moment, taking in the sight. It isn’t exactly pretty, just a bunch of boxes, a bunch of Bucky’s bags, and a big ol plant, but somehow Sam can already sense the promise of more, and how this space will belong to the both of them.

With a deep breath, Sam shuts the door and twists his key, because man, he is in for it.

Everybody has that one absurdly unhealthy food or beverage item they should be sick of by a certain point, but unlike most people, they just continue to consume it all. For Sam, it’s probably those caffeinated ‘treats’ he gets that are super sweet, to be honest. But apparently, for Bucky, it is the mess of a cheeseburger sitting on his tray, it’s nearly gone, and he shows no sign of even being full, let alone finished, like he wants more.

Now, Sam can admit part of it might be because the two of them are lowkey exhausted, sweaty, and just want some real tangible American meal to finish the day off. Gosh, maybe they’ll even go get a beer afterwards.

Sam’s joking, of course, since they needa drive back and everything.

Sam was not joking, also, when he mentioned to Bucky what patriotic abominations this joint can cook up. In fact, Sam’s pretty sure they have a burger called ‘The Only American Dream’, with an unbelievable amount of crispy bacon strips, onion rings, and some special sauce that oozes out the sides, something along the lines of barbeque with sriracha, which Sam has never had it so he can’t tell you if what they’re cooking up in that beef lab of theirs is actually tasty or even digestible.

Which, honestly, Sam thinks is sort of the appeal. He can see the vision, as Bucky all but muffles a moan around his bite, and washing it down with some carbonated drink.

Sam doesn’t laugh, of course, let a man eat, he declares. It’s just recently, more and more of the stuff Bucky does can be slotted into this category that’s formed itself into Sam’s mind far too quickly, he might say, because he ends up seeing it as virtually endearing.

It’s weird. He knows.

He also knows there should be a stop light in his head right now turning to yellow, demanding that he slow down, if only for a moment, because each passing minute spent or texting Bucky, it’s almost as if Sam can feel the tightening of this string that’s wrapped around the core of his very being, and the other end is tied around Bucky’s finger, and any movement, any word, any message, pulls Sam closer.

And Bucky has no idea.

Again, Sam is possibly getting ahead of himself- has been since his brain, at the mere sight of Bucky, decided to evict Sam from his comfy seat where he got to decide what he says, and he asked for Bucky’s number without even knowing his name yet.

Which, then, maybe this is all some twisted strange form of karma for never taking things slow enough, for rushing into it, because now everything is crashing right against him because he chose to stand there in the path of a big, eager and raging wave. He could’ve ran for the shore, past the rocks, and instead waited for the wave to tumble out into something with less of a load, with less force. But the sea just never looked so good and so blue, so he couldn't wait, and now Sam just might be paying for it because the matter of fact slap in the face truth is Bucky has trapped him without even trying, without maybe even wanting to.

It might be an issue. They are moving in together. But Sam thinks he can manage, and hopes it’s actually not a problem, which he thinks will be easy to prevent it from turning into one.

A week later, though, when they’ve all but moved in, there’s a heap of boxes and bags in the corner of their shared living room for now, unpacked and untouched, but they’ll get to it. Thankfully, it was mostly Sam who had furniture to move, seeing as Bucky didn’t actually come with much. It’s now more than seven days into this new adjustment where Sam might be questioning his previously professed proclamation that tried to convince him it’s undoubtedly easy to not make his rapidly growing admiration for Bucky to become a problem. It’s all a lie. Now, before Sam goes on a tangent on all the ways that he is just a lost cause at this point, it’s probably best to concede the idea that the word problem might be too strong, too loud. This thing of his that he’s got going on is getting in the way for sure, but maybe it’s not a full blown problem, because those are all but negative.

It shows up in these inconvenient ways, though, Sam likes to note. Like when Bucky showed up, entering the front door with cheesecake, and stumbled into the kitchen with a smile, one that was confident in its purpose, genuine, and all that, but one that started to second guess it’s appearance as Bucky hung his head when Sam gasped appreciatively when Bucky tried to admit it wasn’t just for him, and that he did in fact buy it for them to share.

That was nice, Sam thinks, recalling how they split the slice of cheesecake and casually celebrated having a place to live. Halfway through filling their mouths, Sam had fetched his phone as a connection popped up in his head, and he showed Bucky the wonderful clip of Future talking about cheesecake, using the word sensational in there too.

That had given him a segment where Bucky was transfixed on his screen, and where he should have been to, his eyes had wandered up and away from the video playing to instead let themselves follow the shape of the man’s eyebrows, how they dip at the end, and that one strand of hair that angles seemed to dangle right above the lids of his eyes no matter how many times Sam catched him pushing it to the side with two fingers.

So it’s not a problem, but it derails his original intentions, all his plans, and crushes a good bunch of his brain cells underfoot. Because Sam swears the amount of times he’s suddenly forgot how to do something or faltered the process of whatever he may be doing at the moment. So Sam decides to name it the killing of his brain cells, because whenever Bucky does even the littlest of things, it’s enough to override the power source in Sam’s mind and deep fry bits of his brain.

This little mechanism Bucky naturally does can be evidently shown when Sam enters their apartment one day, and he’s greeted with a sight that could almost make somebody throw themselves at a window to save any others in the area from the impact of their explosive emotions, about ready to leap out of their chest. Because once he’s left his shoes at the door and makes his way to his room, Bucky steps out of the bathroom, freshly showered, hair dripping down his shoulders which-

Which are bare. Since Bucky’s shirtless, only wearing some lazy basketball shorts and a casual expression.

Sam breathes in and mentally curses himself, when not once, nor twice, but at least three times his eyes just keep on shifting back to Bucky who stands there, blinks, then turns off the bathroom light.

Keep it cool.

Sam tries to do such, at least, as his stomach clenches and his knees barely dip towards each other, threatening to start up some flustered and entirely delusional wobble.

So he bites down on his tongue hard to make sure he doesn’t say anything, and quickly slips into his bedroom.

Although it felt like an eternity, Sam can proudly admit that in actuality he did not let that drag on out for forever, and instead, smoothly maneuvered his way out of an incredibly awkward situation that consists of him and his shirtless roommate staring down each other in the hallway.

Even if it felt like ages, even if Sam’s breath is seized tightly in some hidden confinement in his chest, and he can’t just yet get rid of the image- he had still managed to navigate to his own room in a way that can obscure all possible suspecting views.

Because he is not about to start checking out Bucky, not in that way. As in, silently and stupidly standing in front of the bathroom.

Sam grimaces at his own thoughts, sets a hand on his drawer where two open boxes still lay, and he forces the flow of blood to pick back up again as he exhales deeply, as if it’ll cleanse his head and make everything easier, and then he inhales because he’s fucking in for it.

So two and a half minutes later, when Sam is lying on his bed, face up, and phone held above his head, he seeks out his messages with Natasha, only pulling back his fingers in hesitation once, pressing his tongue against his cheek, then deciding there’s nothing that should be holding him back, really, and he types. Sending the utterly helpless sentence ‘i think i’m attracted to somebody, tf do i do’.

It’s stupid, honestly, but Sam doesn’t entirely care, he can’t be bothered to. Thankfully, Natasha doesn’t make him wait too long. However, all she offers is a very unhelpful ‘talk, go on a date, he’s your roommate’.

Sam huffs, dismissing the very suggestion and quickly rebutting her, using the statement that he never disclosed who the somebody was, and that it could have been anybody, so it’s unfair of her to assume it’s Bucky. Natasha just enigmatically says okay and leaves it at that, leaves Sam to fend for himself in such harsh conditions.

Because possibly crushing on Bucy like he’s back in high school is nothing but cruel and rigorous work with an unforgivingly tortuous terrain as his workspace.

Sam lets out a sigh, shoulders sagging as best as he can laying flat on his bed, nose pointed towards the ceiling as he tries to make sense of the tangled mess of emotions swirling within him. It’s a familiar sensation, unsurprisingly. There’s a slight weight of uncertainty pressing down on his chest like a leaden blanket, suffocating and relentless, because sure he may like Bucky. But how in any world is he meant to figure out if it’s even remotely returned.

He takes Natasha’s words into regard. A date.

Which- maybe that is moving too fast but really what part of all of this has been slow? Sam suddenly realizes this and it’s like now he is actually capable of getting whiplash from it.

Still, though, his fingers weave through the holes in his baby blue crochet lace blanket nervously, the color is pale and fading considering the fact that he’s had it since the ripe age of two years old. His nana was insanely good at crocheting, or maybe Sam’s just incredibly terrible at it. Or both.

He blinks around his room, and tries to ignore how Bucky’s room is right on the other side of the wall ahead of him.

A date?

Sam groans, placing the blue throw blanket to the side as he sits up, tossing his legs over the edge of the bed and pressing his lips into a thin line.

He glances at his phone, thinking about it with an extreme amount of doubt. Biting gently on his tongue, he breathes in and decides Nat’s not all that crazy.

But it won’t be a date date.Sam already has a plan, but it will mainly just be two guy friends hanging out for almost all day, and Sam will treat Bucky to nearly anything he’d like and try not to impulsive act out on the way his heart will beat, painfully loud and begging to be seen.

Yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

Even though Bucky is in the room right next to him, Sam figures it’s better to text him since he’s probably getting dressed.

‘ Yo r u free this Saturday? ’

An uncontrolled and impossibly excited noise tries to crawl its way out of his throat, and he feels like he’s just written his number on a slip of paper and put it in the locker of the prettiest girl in school, thinking he has a shot.

He feels so juvenile.

He tries to get it under control, slides his phone in his pocket and stands up, pressing his hands to the back of his head and blowing out air. He’s got this. They’re just going to hang out. And he’s not gonna drop the slightest clue that he might be developing some ridiculous attraction to Bucky to make sure he doesn’t scare him away. Or weird him out enough and make him regret ever agreeing to so much as letting Sam have his number.

Fuck, his head is spinning so fast-

“Sam!”

Sam blinks, instantly yanked back into the real world and takes a second or two before realizing Bucky has just knocked at his door.

When he opens it, the man actually has a shirt on, a tank top more specifically, and Sam remembers he shouldn’t feel disappointed. Bucky’s hair hasn’t been taken care of, though, and it unceremoniously moves with his head, bits deciding to stay together and other soaked strands fray away.

“Uh, yeah?” He asks, noticing the way Bucky is holding his phone. Then he lifts it between them, not facing Sam, but enough to bring it to attention.

Bucky pauses for a slight moment, squinting. “Oh. Well I just wanted to say that I am free on Saturday.”

Okay.

That’s great. That’s a step. This is progress, Sam thinks, and offers a smile. “Good, good. I was wondering if you wanted to…” Not go on a date. Sam mentally grimaces, eyes widening like it will help him focus as he waves a hand unnecessarily. “Hang out.”

A smile slips onto Bucky’s face, one that clearly wasn’t expecting to be there, and Sam wants to welcome it with a kiss, but instantly dismisses the thought and calls it inappropriate. They aren’t there yet. If that’s what’s ahead of them.

“Sure,” Bucky says, and Sam’s mind positively rotates, because even if it’s not a date he’s already getting the same old jitters that come along with it as if he’s at least seven years younger than his actual age.

It’s just- well, he has a feeling even without the looming presence of his attraction to Bucky, he thinks the day’s gonna be nice. It’ll be great, probably.

“Where are ya taking him?”

Sam cheekily grins at Nat’s question, shrugging as if he’s clueless. When she turns to actually face him, he raises his brows. “Oh, girl. I am not telling you. You’re gonna follow.”

She settles herself into her seat, accepting Sam’s accusatory claim because maybe it’s not all that wrong.

“Coulda got some cute pictures and sent them to you.”

He falters a little and shakes his head. “No, no. You don’t needa be doin that.”

She huffs, not arguing against any of it though, and lets her shoulders drop as she leans forward and hauls her elbows onto the counter and resting her weight. Sam waits, glancing over at her and taking note of the purse of her lips, thinking about something. And somehow he manages to steal a bit of her mind-reading skill, and cuts her off with a finger pointed up in the air.

“It’s not a date.”

“But you like him.”

Sam tenses his jaw for a moment, taking the time to think of his response because yes, he does like Bucky. But seriously, it’s not a date. So he stays as firm as he can when he looks at her, attempting to be absolutely confident. “While, yes, that’s true, Nat, it still isn’t a date. I would’ve asked him out on a date instead of a hang out if that were the case.”

Natasha nods at his words absently with a hum, then adjusts how she’s sitting and smiles at him. “Fair point. Have fun.”

“We will,” He says, hoping so.

Saturday ends up creeping up on him. He wakes up early, glances at the clock, and Sam starts to question why he’s up at such an hour until he remembers what day it is, and decides that his mind is just eager to jump on it and start the day as soon as possible, reducing the hours of sleep he’s allowed. He ends up stuffing his face into his pillow anyway, Bucky’s probably snoozing away, and the day doesn’t have to begin this early. It can wait. Plus, it gives him time to lull over what jokes to make, what compliments to give, and a bunch of other stuff. Not a script, per say, but just a little guideline he can choose from in case it gets too silent and awkward.

He thinks it’ll be fairly helpful.

So Sam, when the time has come, has perfected his announcement as he walks out two hours later, feeling fresh and a bit more well rested. Bucky is sitting criss crossed on the ground rather than the couch, watching something on the telly with the volume boarding mute, Sam can barely hear it. In his lap, Bucky has a bowl of cereal, lifting a spoonful of it into his mouth before his eyes shift from the screen to Sam, who clears his throat and tries to remember what he practiced to say to give himself max confidence.

“Good morning,” He blurts out, and makes a note about how that wasn’t exactly what he had originally planned. But ultimately, the original plan consisted a lot of ‘sounding like a tour guide for a middle school field trip’, so maybe it’s for the best.

“You too,” Bucky says, voice mellow, and Sam’s heard Bucky’s morning voice a good amount of times now, but that doesn’t mean it gets any less appealing. Some things never lose their shine, after all. Bucky plops his spoon back in his bowl, and tilts his head to the side slightly. “Should I…”

He pauses, and Sam squints as he tries to attempt to predict what he’s trying to say. He doesn’t get too much time, though, and doesn’t come to answer when Bucky finds his words. “You want me to get dressed? I’m assuming you’d rather hang out when I’m in actual clothes.”

Which brings attention to the shorts Bucky’s still wearing, the ones that ride up his thigh with how he’s seated, and that raggy tank top that really shouldn’t look that good.

Sam blinks, remembering he needs to give Bucky an answer, and he offers a shrug, averting gaze to the TV. “Oh, yeah, man.”

When Bucky moves to get up Sam waves a hand with a minor shake of his head.

“You should finish that first, we got time, Bucky.”

When he gestures to the bowl in Bucky’s lap, colorful cereal and all, Bucky almost looks like he’s been caught in some act, hand in the cookie jar, all for eating the sugary breakfast. Sam doesn’t quite get it until he realizes that the cereal was technically Sam’s, considering he bought it and put it on one of his designated shelves.

However, Sam honestly can’t find himself to be bothered by it in the slightest, which might be strange when somebody takes into account how annoyed this man was when anybody in the family household would get into his own well-earned stuff. But it might have something to do with the fact it’s kinda like he’s slowly converting his opinions and personal tastes into Bucky’s mind. The man even showed up one day with those excessively sweet drinks Sam likes, and although he still has yet to verbalize the fact that he clearly enjoys them, it’s obvious he does, so Sam just smiles.

“Eat and then get changed, alright? We’ve got a day ahead of us,” He says, and elects on sitting on the couch, and Bucky remains on the floor, lifting his head with what might be relief, and also gratefulness, and Sam tries to keep it a secret how the other’s face melts a piece of him. He likes to say he does a fair job, because it’s nothing short of comforting as they sit there, watching whatever, and Bucky even has the thought to turn it up a bit. Sam likes to watch his movies loud, and seemingly Bucky’s picked that up.

By the time the other has finished their breakfast, Sam starts to set his mind on getting something to eat as well, just so his stomach isn’t rumbling and he’s not crazy hungry all while trying to enjoy the day. So after Bucky’s taken care of his dish and whatnot, Sam finds himself alone in the living room, and decides now would be a good time to get his breakfast while Bucky changes.

It takes a minute, but soon, Bucky’s walking out in a white tee that’s been slightly covered up with a black leather jacket, making Sam do a double take. He reminds himself not to stare, and lets a teasing chuckle slip past his lips as leaves the kitchen and leans against the wall.

“I see, all we need is to grease up that hair of yours,” Sam says, he’s half joking, because a part of him is curious as to what that would look like, hair slicked back a bit, shiny and all. It would probably look a bit goofy, to be honest.

Bucky, who glances down at his own outfit, pats down his black jeans and Sam can just barely see him almost bite his cheek out of what might be embarrassment- maybe, because he raises his shoulders and keeps his face pointed away. “Uh, I could change if the jacket-”

“What?” Sam cuts him off, shakes his head and lifts his pointer finger, waving it back and forth. “Nah. It’s perfect, I love it.”

That brings some reassurance to Bucky’s expression, and he glances at the wall, then blinks before facing Sam. Which makes him remember Bucky has no idea what the plan is today, so he’s probably waiting for Sam to announce it.

So Sam clears his throat, throws his hands at the side, and hopes he’s appealing when he smiles. “Alright, you ready?”

Bucky only nods, which is enough.

“Okay, first I thought we’d go to the farmer's market,” He says, and his voice gives away the fact that he’s asking for Bucky’s approval, he wants to know if Bucky would like the idea of joining him for it. Thankfully, there isn’t any opposition laid out on Bucky’s face, so unless he’s really good at pretending, it seems he’s down for it. In fact, Sam would like to note that the edges of his lips tip upward just a tiny bit.

So that’s how they end up underneath the sparkling sun, glistening in the reflection it leaves in little puddles between the asphalt and the concrete curb that encloses parts of the parking lot that was emptied out for the farmer’s market, various different market stalls and their tented roofs, muted and bright colors alike joining the wonderful theme of the market.

Bucky stays right by his side, practically attached by the hip, and Sam only allows himself to laugh at it once, and very quietly when Bucky is busy looking around. Maybe it’s because there’s a whole ton of people here, maybe that’s what leaves Bucky only a tiny but stiff, more reserved, when it comes to all the smiles and waves, farmers and artisans trying to urge them over.

A part of Sam wonders if he should have asked how Bucky felt about crowds, but the other part watches with an affectionate gaze when Bucky nudges his side and points a hand up to the booth offering up twisted pretzels. They’ve got salted, cinnamon, and even more delightful options to pick from.

“You’d want some?” Bucky then asks, leading Sam over. When he glances back at Sam, the other has to make sure to snap out of whatever entrancement was placed over him by watching as Bucky decided to take the lead once he found something he really liked.

“You like pretzels?” Sam asks, just genuinely curious, and Bucky pauses for a split second, like somebody knowing what he does and doesn’t like is some big thing, and Sam tries to empathize as he offers a smile and Bucky shrugs.

“Yes,” He says, and steps up to see the price. “Do you want one?”

Sam shifts his line of sight to the various pretzels displayed, and they do look good. “I’d like to try one, yes.”

He swears he sees Bucky’s eyes light up, and Sam has to remember not to turn into a melting puddle of admiration and all these other feelings, especially not right in front of him. Not when they’re here, hanging out as two friends and nothing more.

“You choose which one,” Sam makes sure to add and Bucky hums at that, absently agreeing as he waits for the two people in front to finish up their order.

A glance at them and Sam sorta feels his insides twist up as he realizes they’re a couple, hands held together with confidence as the girl laughs at something then shakes her head in denial. It makes Sam have to put in an effort not to look down at Bucky’s hands and imagine things. Even when her boyfriend takes a sample and hands it to her, kissing her cheek after as a gift, Sam pointedly looks away to not remind himself of the moments he thought of kissing Bucky’s cheek. But he fails, thinking about cheesecake and Bucky’s soft lips- at least, he thinks they would be. He thinks about a shirtless Bucky standing in the hallway, and of the few late nights the two had ended up on the couch unceremoniously splayed out in strange positions, and Bucky had bluntly asked why they allowed a very cringe line to make it through the release of the movie, and Sam had laughed, asking if he could have done any better as a script writer, and when he had turned to see Bucky’s face, the other man had been closer than previously expected, and Sam’s eyes traced the shape of Bucky’s eyebrows, nose, and lips, until Bucky blurted out his attempt at replacing the line and it was equally as bad, sending Sam into reeling fight of laughter.

There’s more moments, Sam knows it, and he forces them out of his head before Bucky can turn around and look at him with those blue eyes again. The couple is gone, and Bucky is currently paying for their little snack, treat, whatever. Admittedly, it has Sam blushing when Bucky then eventually offers him a pretzel twist with its length wrapped halfway in parchment paper.

“Thank you,” He says, and hopes it sounds like a normal one and not one that may spill out more emotion than he was meaning to. Whichever one it may be, Bucky doesn’t seem affected, and nods, looking Sam up and down, an unknown glint in his eyes. Which makes Sam realize Bucky is waiting for him to take a bite, because Bucky wants to know if Sam likes it.

It makes warmth blossom in his chest and he quickly takes a bite, he’s only had the salted one when he’s been here before, he will confess, so the flavor is in fact new as he squints, looking down at the pretzel as he chews, then hums with satisfaction.

He catches the smile on Bucky’s face, and snickers. “It is good. Isn’t it?”

Bucky holds his pretzel up. “It is,” He says, then takes his own bite.

Next, they find themselves picking out a bag of tortilla chips and salsa for themselves to take home, and when Bucky presses his lips together in thought, Sam declares it an appropriate time to take it upon himself and choose.

“You know, I always get the tomatillo salsa, it’s a straight up classic,” Sam supplies, turning to see Bucky who blinks at him, curious, and his blue eyes are just- they’re impossible to describe at times, wide, and unfairly long eyelashes fluttering at Sam. It makes him have to take a second before he forces out a laugh and hopes he doesn’t sound awkward. “Shit’s a banger,” He says, and quickly whips back around to the lady and her teen daughter, offering them the required amount to purchase both the chips and the salsa.

He thinks for a second, about whether or not he actually heard Bucky make some sort of distant chuckle behind him, and huffs as he takes the bag and thinks screw his pretty face , no matter what he could be laughing at.

Seconds later, they’re walking around again, sun warm on their backs, and the bustling around them almost transforms into a background loop of noise as Bucky carefully crafts up his words and tells Sam a story from his senior year in highschool that he’d been reminded of when Sam commented about the Lightning McQueen backpack some father was absolutely rocking for their kid and saying he wished he had one when he was in school.

And Sam feels like an idiot that once they're done laughing at the punchile of the story, that his head circles back to the girl in it, the one that Bucky went to highschool with, the one from years ago, and asks, “So you’re into blondes, huh?”

He wants to drag a hand down his face at his own question, wants to rewind time and tell himself to retry, but he can’t, and just waits as Bucky’s lip twitches, he looks at Sam, pausing for a second with his mouth open, then shrugs.

“Rarely, I’m a changed man since then,” He says, and Sam knows a part of him wanted to hear that he wasn't crazy over blondes because it saves a small slot for him, but it honestly doesn’t help much better if Bucky were to say yes. Because really, he doesn’t even know if Bucky’s into guys at all, and he should know better than to start questioning what his type is right now, because he really wants to be his type, so it’s probably a bit different than just one dude asking another what his type is.

So instead, he nods, averting his eyes elsewhere, and hoping it isn’t terribly obvious as he sighs. “Yeah, I’m not about blondes myself.”

“No?” Bucky is still looking at him. “Not your thing.”

“Yeh,” He croaks out awkwardly, and the two of them squeeze through a particularly crowded part of the famer’s market. “I mean, it’s just-” Fuck, he needs to breath for a second. “I prefer like, darker hair?”

Bucky nods in thought at that, and they take a second to look over the stand set up selling mushrooms, a kind and energetic man with round glasses standing behind and explaining some sort of fun fact about different types of fungi to a curious kid. Then, Bucky sighs.

“I know, like, you aren’t supposed to judge people over looks,” Bucky starts and that quickly grabs Sam’s attention as he whips his head over, an eyebrow raised in suspicion because he is dying to know who starts a sentence like that and what follows, so he fights a smile, a smirk, really, and urges Bucky to continue who lets out a breathless laugh at Sam’s face, almost bashfully, and lifts his shoulders. “I’ve only dated two people and they were both blonde. And they both kinda left me…”

Oh, that’s where this was going. Sam’s features soften without thought and he tilts his head, observing the way Bucky’s eyes don’t escape to look anywhere else, or the way his posture stays, unchanging, and firm in itself. It’s in those ways you can tell somebody is moving on, and doing it well, and Sam is happy for him for that.

“Yeah, it’s been ages, but I think your mind kinda already sets in those experiences with others. I mean, she left me for another man, and he left me for another life, so, I know it’s stupid, but-” Bucky cuts himself off, letting the sentence finish for itself and allow Sam to take it however he wants, and really, he guesses it makes sense. The human brain may be complex, but in the end it’s simple, if you try the same food twice and it upsets your stomach and leaves a bitter taste, you’ll probably not eat it again, especially if there’s a whole buffet of ready and different foods and-

Sam hates this metaphor. He decides to stop thinking, only for a second, and resets his mind, rethinking about what Bucky said, and abruptly comes to a stop when he remembers something.

Bucky said he .

He. As in another guy.

And. Well-

Holy shit.

Sam tries to steady his thoughts, but his mind is already hurdling them around like a laundry cycle, and over and over again he obsesses over the fact that Bucky has dated a man before. Which means, maybe- maybe - Sam is a very distant, in the future, option.

He might sound crazy, wondering since Bucky’s dated one man, maybe he’ll go for another, one named Sam Wilson, one that’s standing right in front of him.

And Bucky’s standing right in front of him, too, and is closely examining Sam’s face, which makes him aware that he’s literally gone silent after Bucky’s confession, and he thinks he can get what that might look like, and why Bucky’s lips are pulled downwards and his eyes are intently and curiously gazing at him.

“You good?” Bucky asks and Sam makes sure to nod and try not to think about any of it anymore, to try and wipe it from his mind so he doesn’t start falling into the rabbit hole of it, and hums.

“Uh, yeah. No, yeah, I’m good.”

Bucky’s response comes a few seconds late, which is all Sam needs to know that Bucky isn’t convinced, but honestly, he’d rather Bucky not believe him than know what he was just thinking about, because that sounds an awful lot like embarrassing.

“Okay,” Bucky finally says, voice oddly absent, because not even he is actually buying any of it, and Sam mentally writhes underneath Bucky’s gaze, at the rising suspicion in his voice. “I just thought you, uh.”

Bucky must be a master of leaving his sentences incomplete and up for the unsuspecting mind to finish, because Sam can count a good handful of other times Bucky has done this to him. He doesn’t dislike it, sometimes it just makes him think extra hard to try and interpret what Bucky meant, like right now, what he was thinking about Sam.

He squints, trying to figure out, and when he notices that Bucky’s slight frown is laced with uncertain discomfort, it clicks in his head. Bucky was half right actually, for thinking Sam was caught up on the he Bucky had so casually dropped, but it seems Bucky’s got the wrong reason for why. A very incorrect reason.

“Oh!” Sam exclaims with the realization, hands coming up and he shakes his head. “Oh no, man. I’m not-” He’s not homophobic, he’s falling in love. “I’m bisexual, so.”

He can see the exact second Bucky feels that sweet pinch of relief, allowing his features to lose their stiffness, but Sam can also see the way Bucky gets slightly surprised by the news.

“Oh.” Bucky’s shoulders loosen up, and he offers a shy smile. “Sorry.”

“No need, I just-” might need to stop talking before confessing “Never took you as somebody who swung that way.”

Bucky chuckles, it’s genuine, and Sam smiles.

“Clearly I was thinking the same,” Bucky admits, and the two share a look to acknowledge the ironic ridiculousness of the situation.

Which, thankfully, makes it easier to ease out of any lingering awkwardness and uptight following the misjudgement, or whatever one may call it.

They also buy themselves some of the freshest vegetables, planning to make something with them, Sam has forgotten already, and they drop the food off at their place quickly, leaving Sam alone in Bucky’s truck for a moment since the other had volunteered to take on the task.

Sam tries to ignore the way the silence lets his thoughts flood in, the ones back from when Bucky so casually commented about dating a man before. God, that was embarrassing, wasn’t it? Sam was embarrassing, probably. Sitting there looking all starstruck but Bucky took it differently, and honestly since Sam was able to quickly clear it up, he finds himself awfully admitting that maybe it’s better that Bucky assumes that rather than knowing Sam was just delusional and celebrating that he just might have a chance.

Which is bad, so he quickly stops himself from thinking that, and feels grateful when he hears Bucky opening the passenger door and sliding in.

“So, Bucky,” Sam starts, peeking over at him as the other buckles up. “Where’d you wanna go next?”

Sam can see Bucky pause for a split second, hands stalling, before he looks up with a curious and surprised look. “Oh, me?”

Sam nods and Bucky’s brows try to meet each other in concentration as he thinks about it, the click of his seat belt locking in dully attempting to thud into the momentary silence.

“I- well-” Bucky shuts his mouth just as soon as he opens it, and Sam tilts his head to the side. “We could do something outside, yeah? A walk. We could go on a walk.”

Sam smiles softly, then tries to pick up the pieces of himself that are falling for Bucky, but it’s too much to carry so he ends up having to look away, flexing his hand on the steering wheel and whistling. “Alright, that sounds nice. I’m assuming you don’t know any nice spots to walk around due to the fact you haven’t known a single place we’ve been to yet.”

Bucky shrinks in his seat, not shy, but a foot away from it, and shrugs. “You’d be right.”

“Yeah, that’s fine, though, I know some. I love going on walks, runs, yada yada.”

Sam sees Bucky’s growing smile out of the corner of his eye, and remembers to focus on the road instead of the handsome, pretty passenger that sits to his right, and pulls out of the parking spot. Luckily, Sam doesn’t leave with his water bottle, so if they end up needing some refreshment, he’s got some, as well as the twelve pack of water that sits in the back, only two missing.

The car ride there is relaxing, Sam absently notes, as he lets Bucky pick the music and has to wait a good minute until Bucky seems convinced enough to put on what he really wants and not just Sam’s playlist. There’s a little overlap in their music taste, Sam’s known this for a minute, known since he was pleasantly surprised to hear Bucky listening to an absolute classic he adored, eager and maybe with too much energy, Sam had interrupted Bucky and mentioned his enjoyment for the song, and Bucky had grinned, almost proud, and agreed with Sam.

But there’s also a lot of difference within their personal taste, and Sam can’t help but find it interesting as the music plays and he blinks over at Bucky for a moment like if he listens to the music hard enough (however that works) that Bucky’s mind will start to crack open for Sam to investigate, for Sam to explore, so he can be able to know the way the other works, what he thinks, all that jazz.

By the time they’re out of the vehicle, though, nobody’s brain was split open metaphorically.

Or the other way, of course, Sam shakes the idea off, wincing with it, before dismissing and glancing at Bucky and recirculating back to the figurative language form of it, the preferred way. And Sam sighs knowing he can’t read Bucky’s mind, but he knows that if he were actually granted the idea, he’d have a strong reason to believe others were gifted it too, and he absolutely does not want Bucky to read his mind as easy as the alphabet, especially since there’s been an ever growing increase in thoughts related to the man and his blue eyes. They’re all positive, in favor of Bucky, but still, it’s not the thing somebody wants to share, especially not to the person they’re about.

Sam snaps out of it when a twig snaps, and he looks up to see Bucky waiting for him. Of course. The other’s foot is rolling a stick through the gravelly path, and Sam can see the bit that broke, as it sticks out then tries to fight under the weight of Bucky’s shoe, and Sam tries to find his words as Bucky blinks at him. It feels more like fluttering eyelashes to Sam because he’s becoming infatuated, it seems.

Which, really, he’d argue a good amount of people couldn’t ever blame him. Because Bucky, even with his ridiculous black leather jacket and slightly tousled hair, looks good. The nature around them is just an effortlessly perfect background for him. The path of small rock trails behind him, disappearing behind the curve it forms, behind the tree with its dangling mess of leaves, ones that Sam would always want to swing on when he was younger. And the overgrown grass and bushes fill up most space, making the trail stand out more, even with the cracks of vegetation that tip toe into the rocks, settling in like it’s home and sticking out as you walk down and step over a bright red flower halfway down.

The sight, admittedly, makes Sam feel a little breathless, and they haven’t even started walking. It’s something about the light that makes it through the archway between the lines of trees that frames Bucky’s figure, so soft on the edges and everything, and it has Sam fumbling with his water bottle for a second.

“Uh-” He laughs, willing to bet he’s just become one of the most awkward people for a second, as he tries to steady himself out and joins Bucky. “You know, it’s actually a perfect day to go on a walk here. It’s very nice out.”

He’s not wrong, but he’s also making everything up to bury the part of him that wants to compliment Bucky, unprompted and too earnest.

He needs to deny himself the strong and continuously growing urge that lodges the vowels of his admiration at the base of his throat, daring to hurdle upwards due to even the slightest mistake. A stammer and the words might spill out, tumbling ungracefully out of his mouth despite all his best attempts to hold them down because of their wanton undertone. So he’s careful with his sentences and quick to formulate new ones that avoid travelling down the path of possible error, seeing as he can’t afford any.

Which is why he elects on going down the physical path laid out in front of both him and Bucky, the two making their way past the greenery around them as they talk, which is something Sam finds easy to do. The bluntness that Sam had associated with Bucky around when they first met carries into his sense of humor, and Sam finds himself laughing at every joke regardless of how funny it may be or whether it’s at Sam’s expense, because it’s Bucky.

Because it’s Bucky, Sam feels the need to tell him any fact, important or not, about a bird that sits three feet ahead of him on the trail they’ve broken onto. Bucky may not actually care for any of the information, but Sam just wants to, can’t help it, as if somewhere inside of him there’s hope that maybe it impresses Bucky in the slightest, that maybe, it’s something Bucky notices and starts to like him more for. As if, for whatever reason, Bucky decides to. Sam’s not even sure if half the things in his head makes sense, but he knows at least that anything Bucky hears is at least seventy-percent understandable, so that’s good.

Eventually, the two decide to take a short stop and sit at the sheltered set of picnic tables, two to be exact, and when Sam sits down he is expecting Bucky to perhaps sit across from him, and feels warmth swallow his entire chest when Bucky wordlessly chooses to do otherwise, and sits right next to him. Their shoulders brush as they both settle, Sam trying to play it cool as much as he can as he rests his right elbow on the table and uses it to hold his water bottle upright as he drinks. Bucky is to his left, throwing his legs over the bench-like seat and moving to face Sam, some of his hair momentarily blocking one of his blue eyes with the movement.

Past Bucky’s shoulder, there’s a some thin trees hanging around the small and mellow creek just past them and some chunky rocks, and the flow of the water can distantly be heard and the sunshine still peeks past the roof of the structure they reside in, brightening a quarter of Bucky as he faces Sam.

Once again, Sam ends up facing the challenge that’s made out of not allowing himself to say what is on his mind. It’s on the tip of his tongue, the word beautiful, perfectly aligning with the way Bucky’s lips twist up into a curious smile, tentative but gradually growing confidence as Bucky hums, sounding partially distracted.

“What is it?” Sam asks, prompting Bucky to tell him, and he rests his hand on his own near in concern for how he nearly places it on Bucky’s shoulder, which might just be a friendly gesture, but not with Sam because he’s swam to far out at this point, and the touch would silently be beckoning Bucky closer and Sam’s not so sure either of them would want to know how a sudden confession of feelings from Sam would go.

Of course, Bucky unintentionally had an effective habit of never making things easy for Sam when it came to this type of stuff, and when Bucky sighs, he sways towards Sam as they sit, his arm grazing against Sam’s in an almost timid but purposeful manner and it has Sam thinking he might be just overthinking.

“This is nice,” Bucky says, so simple, just like that, and Sam really starts to tell himself he’s just thinking too much about it, trying to assume things by overanalyzing the inflection in his voice, the tone, the whatever at this point, as if a part of him is just dying to get some insight into Bucky’s head, to know if Bucky really does think of him in a similar way, if Bucky’s possibly into him. But he’s not a mind reader, so he doesn’t know, and he mentally curses himself for helplessly consuming even the tiniest crumbs he’s got like a starved man, hungry for a sliver of a sign, dreaming.

It has his head gently spinning as he nods at Bucky, fighting the way his own eyes want to sink into Bucky’s. “Yeah?”

Bucky hums again, this soothing sound, one that Sam’s come to adore. It makes his heart a little more driven, many things Bucky’s done has done this to him, and he can feel lungs hold tightly onto oxygen, breath hitched quietly as Bucky drifts towards him again, staying this time, and tilts his head up at Sam since Sam’s tightened up to be sitting strangely upright, whereas Bucky has found some comfort in slouching a little. The act of it trips Sam, makes his entire being stutter, because there’s just something about the way he gazes up at Sam, something about the light dashing in his eyes, the ones that are so blue and unforgettable, and his lips just barely curled upwards-

It’s a lot, and it has Sam fighting the confession that wants to sneak out of him like it’s his only purpose, like he’s only meant to drown the things he shouldn’t say but wants to.

“Yes,” Bucky says, confident, too. It stirs that longing in Sam’s stomach, the one that yearns for Sam to just quit and give in, the one that begs of Sam to just drop his shield and sword and let Bucky know what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. He doesn’t, though, and instead keeps his lips pressed tightly as he listens to Bucky. “I want to thank you, for- ya know- well- inviting me to hang out.”

Sam’s fingers curl at the shape of his knee as he tries to think of what to say, and his throat becomes restricted in his mental attempt to control what he says, and he manages to croak out what must be a very awkward, “No problem.” It has him retreating for a second, biting his cheek, and trying not to back away from Bucky just because he looks pretty. “I mean, of course. It’s great to be around you.” He tries and it doesn’t sound terrible, so he sticks with it, decides he shouldn’t risk fumbling any further, and waits as Bucky blinks, seemingly needing a moment to process.

“That’s…” And Bucky doesn’t find a word for it, rather, he lets it die on his tongue and decides now is the best moment to look right into Sam’s eyes, the most perfect moment for eye contact, here, when Sam is trying extremely hard not to let the kept thoughts in his brain flood out onto the floor and spell out a message for Bucky that directly addresses how he feels. So Sam swallows, swallows hard, and waits for Bucky to back down, or maybe to tell Sam he’s not into him that way, to crush his hopes, to diminish the dream, anything really works. Rather, Bucky, who has Sam’s heart squeezed in his palm whether he’s aware or not, all for him, offers a smile. “I could say the same for you.”

Sam doesn't even realize at first how he’s suddenly smiling back, but he’s quickly made aware of how a fluttery feeling blossoms all around him, how there’s an approaching feeling in his stomach, twisting up with anticipation, because, well, his mind is lost in admiration and all sorts of affection statements made from somebody who is most certainly crushing on somebody else. So his body nearly tries to tell him that the way Bucky looks at him, lips parted slightly, sun gently laying on their shoulders just as Bucky’s hair tiptoes across his due to the light breeze-

He shouldn’t, but it starts to make him think that this is a moment where they’d kiss. It’d be a cute and shy thing, he thinks, first kiss midday, both fairly and cautiously testing out what it would be like. That could be nice, he decides, then quickly tries to make himself drop the subject because Bucky is still extremely close, and the color in his eyes starts getting to Sam’s head, like the other thinks Sam hung the moon or something. Which he didn’t, so the look is making him melt, and he isn’t even sure if that’s the intention, if Bucky is even aware and maybe he’s trying to perhaps convey a mood that expresses the complete opposite.

Because of this, Sam considers withdrawing, and then proceeds to do so as he chuckles, remembering what Bucky said, and tilting his head away as he takes a sip of water.

“Thank you,” He says calmly, acting composed for the sake of appearance, and maybe his body will supposedly catch onto the message as well. As he takes another drink, though, Bucky wordlessly shifts after a good couple of seconds of stillness, then, eventually, Sam hears him simply hum out an ‘mm hm’. Sam’s shoes shuffle beneath the bench, and with a sigh, he blinks at Bucky once before squinting out to the surrounding nature. “You ready to head outta here?”

Bucky rummages around behind him, and Sam can see the shadow of his head as Bucky stands up, hair flowing with the light wind. “Yeah.”

When the two make it back to the vehicle, it’s decided that they’ll cool down from the warmer weather with some actual working AC, since the one in this truck doesn’t seem to be very handy when it comes to doing it’s job. Bucky’s quietly apologized for it before and Sam had insisted it was alright, however, that doesn’t mean they have shame in admitting maybe a refuge indoors is in order.

They find their escape from the sun’s generous warmth back in their apartment, where Sam puts it upon himself to add some cool and very refreshing ice cubes to two cups of water, one for him and one for Bucky, who doesn’t take it instantly and instead his hand falters, he looks up, Sam barely catches the squint of his eyes, and then takes it.

“I promise it’s not poisoned,” He says teasingly, resting his own cup on the coffee table before he sits on the couch, letting the cushioning of the furniture attempt to suck in him and soft on his body. Sam can count to three, and then Bucky smiles at him, a small thing, but Sam will take it.

He ends up having to do this a couple more times as they head back out, finding themselves venturing back out into the public, and seeking food and entertainment from a nice park. There’s a whole bunch of food trucks around, ranging from smokey ribs to churros, plenty to choose from if one is willing to strangle their wallet a little to hack out some money.

Sam and Bucky walk amongst the small lingering crowd, some already resting in the green grass with their tinfoil wrapping or paper boats, eating their selected food and talking about who knows what. Sam isn’t really paying attention, because he’s sorta busy trying to figure out a better way to convince Bucky to smile. After leaving the trail the brightness of the sun had faded away from Bucky’s face, and like the open sky closed in like Bucky, suddenly a little more reserved. Thankfully not completely, but still noticeable, and Sam is puzzled, left pondering as if he could find a simple solution, a way to make Bucky’s smile just a little bigger each time.

He may be too busy thinking about it, though, as he barely catches Bucky’s voice. It pulls him out of his head, and he whips towards the other, a curious look. “Oh, yeah, what?”

Bucky opens his mouth and nothing comes out at first, like he’s having second guesses, and Sam wants to comment on it, wants to tell him whatever’s on his head he can just spit it out without fear of being judged or anything. Bucky, with a furrow of his brows, determined, decides to double down though, not backing out, and leans his head towards him, a sneaky finger pointing off somewhere.

Sam follows the line of trajectory, and finds Bucky’s finger landing on a man of similar age, dark hair, a nice olive complexion, and very dark eyes. Unlike Bucky’s eyes, which are, as Sam has announced to himself a thousand times over, blue, and at times they’re dull and just blend in perfectly, not commanding anyone to look. Other times it’s as if his eyes are calling for Sam to look, to gaze upon the color of them, brighter, and standing out a little.

Which makes Sam a little confused why he’s pointing at the guy. “What about him?”

Bucky breathes in, Sam hardly notices it. “He your type?”

Sam nearly chokes, eyes darting over to look at Bucky’s unbothered expression, thriving with the way he fixes his features to not be anything but deadpan. Sam feels a small rock drop from his mouth to his stomach, and it’s a tad sharp, so it stings, somewhere deep in Sam, and he feels both a wave of coldness wash over him just as heat strikes his face. Like he’s been entangled into some trap where now he’s facing the consequences. Because, of course, his mind is supplying him with the view that he’s been so obvious to Bucky, that the man is just now testing him. Which is absurd, but it crosses Sam’s mind, what if Bucky knows Sam likes him, and so he's now questioning him about ridiculous things like this, to get a reaction, to bring a confession out of him.

It isn’t likely, so Sam tries to force himself to relax as he regains control over his breathing, no longer on the verge of choking. “Huh?”

“That guy,” Bucky says dryly. “Do you think he’s your type?”

Bucky, thankfully, lowers his hand, and even though Sam wasn’t the one being pointed at, it somehow lowers the amount of pressure and demand that one silly question has brought to him.

“Uh-” Sam blinks over at the guy again, almost like he’s going to consider evaluating the man, but quickly swallows as he can see Bucky out of his vision, and has to remember not to be basically waving a sign around as he shakes his head. “I mean, he’s not- he isn’t- I’ve got…” A crush, don’t say it, Sam.

Bucky’s eyes widen for a split second, and for a moment Sam actually grows concerned because Bucky’s face displays some sudden sense of startle and loss.

“Oh, oh,” Bucky starts, backing up slightly as he tilts his head. “You have somebody?”

Wait…

Dammit, Sam thinks, realizing what ‘ I’ve got ’ could imply, which he had so stupidly said not even a minute ago. It’s another misstep, another misunderstanding, and Sam wonders if his demeanor slightly resembles a fish flopping around in a desert by any chance, because he starts to feel like one, helpless and floundering to go somewhere, to pick back up.

“Oh, no, I don’t,” Sam rushes out, as fast as he probably could have, because of course there’s a part of him that wants to make it obviously clear that he’s single, and that Bucky is absolutely an option in his mind. “I don’t have some…” He fails to finish that sentence properly, and instead, looks away from Bucky due to the constant shift in his expression, seeing as his brain can’t seem to figure out what any of it means. “Partner. I don’t have one.”

“Oh,” Bucky notes simply. “I just- I thought when you said-”

“Yeah,” Sam interrupts, knowingly agreeing how one could mistake his words. “I didn’t really realize that when I said it.”

It’s silent for a few seconds, and Sam, in the rest of the conversation, realizes they stopped walking, and decides to continue again.

“So that guy isn’t your type, Sam?”

Sam snorts a little, watching as the subject disappears behind them as they carry on, and Sam doesn’t look back at the man as he shakes his head. “No, not really, Bucky. Not my type.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything, and instead, they approach a taco truck, shining in its white, red, and yellow glory. They glance at the menu, written in chalk that switches colors every now and then, an assortment of intriguing taco names that then continues to list their contents.

When they settle somewhere to eat, discovering a nice place against a thick tree both can lean on mostly, shaded but they can still rotate every so swiftly and bathe in the light of the day.

Sam sits with his legs folded out fully in front of him, shoes pointed upwards, as Bucky bends his legs at his knees and rests his taco in the space between his legs, tilting his head back until he can rest it against the tree, and Sam bites his lip at the sight, only realizing his action once it’s too late, and he shifts his gaze to his own taco, stuffed to the brim, and he taps the wrapping of his food with his pointer finger awkwardly when Bucky sighs.

“There’s a squirrel.” Bucky points out and when Sam pauses to make sure he’s heard him, he then looks up, and sure enough above their heads is a squirrel frozen in place, staring right at them. Sam sneaks a glance over at Bucky, letting his eyes trace over Bucky’s smile, and allows one to form on his own face as he turns back to the squirrel.

“Yes there is.”

Sam can see Bucky’s hand slowly ascend upwards, towards the squirrel. Much to Sam’s surprise, the small thing doesn’t scurry away instantly, but rather, inches two smudges closer, and Sam can very clearly hear the excited way Bucky gasps before capturing his breath. The animal keeps its position for only a few seconds longer, before it runs off to the other side of the tree and presumably to some other place, and Bucky laughs breathlessly.

Sam turns to Bucky, finding him already looking, almost expectantly, like he just knows Sam has something to say. Which he does, as he laughs, an amused expression on his face.

“Didn’t know you were an animal guy, so attuned with nature,” He jokes, bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s, and feeling the movement burn his skin. “It’s cute.”

It’s cute-

Oh no.

Sam freezes, and tenses within the time that somebody blinks, and now he's in hot water, dreading the possible confrontation ahead. He doesn’t even know, he just knows he slipped, after all the battles and all the struggling, he didn’t manage to catch everything, and he had let a ‘cute’- one of the most compromising words of all- to make it the world, from his throat, using his voice.

Bucky isn’t doing an incredible job to conceal his short-lived surprise, it shows loudly on his characteristics, the slightly widened eyes, the momentarily stillness, the unclasped of his jaw, practically, upper and bottom lip being separated once more.

Sam’s first thought is to panic, and unfortunately, it’s also his only thought. Because he’s messed up. He’s made a mistake, and now he’s here and he can’t do this. He can’t face telling Bucky sorry and saying he didn’t mean it, because he really does, and then he’ll end up admitting that to Bucky, who would look at him weird, and Sam would end up embarrassing himself when he tells Bucky he likes him, wants to take him on a date, and wants to kiss him.

He isn’t built for that, not right now, at least, he can’t withstand such blistering uncomfortable things right now. He can’t do that, shouldn’t do that, he should keep this friendship instead, he needs to not ruin this-

“There’s a football,” Sam blurts, and the awkwardness that crawls over him is fierce, the regret is unforgiving, and the uneasiness and dread are obnoxious. But hey, maybe some American football might help him shake it off. “In the- uh, in the truck. I could grab it, too, so after we eat-”

“Sure.” Bucky agrees, then takes a big bite out of his taco, and a piece of chicken falls in his lap, making his brows knit together as he mutters something, most definitely out of frustration, but it’s only bordering on the line of maybe a bit too intense for just some food. Sam doesn’t comment on it, however, and wordlessly hands him a napkin.

Over the course of their stay at the park, there is a thing that slightly bothers Sam, makes him feel like maybe he’s doing something wrong. As Bucky once again shows signs of retreating, of possibly curling back into a shell Sam’s pulled him out of since they moved in together. And it’s never consistent, so Sam doesn’t even know what’s triggering it. Bucky moves past it eventually, like a step forward, but then shortly afterward it’s two step backs that they take, and it leaves Sam danglings from a cliff, trying to climb to the top where the answers await, but he just can’t quite reach.

Being at the park is still fun, though, and when they once again return to their apartment, Sam can at least admit the majority of the day, or well, at least ninety percent of it, was just pure positive experience.

However, when they lock the door behind him, it’s a little bit of a different story, a weird spin off that doesn’t sit right with Sam, one he isn’t fond of, as its silence holds its own heavy weight and looms over them both, just daring one of them to stand up and cut through it with a bold word.

Sam isn’t sure that he wants to, but he might have to be the one that does.

“That was fun.” Sam observes, feeling like he’s never been able to be persuasive in his life based on the way Bucky remains unmoved, on the couch for a good moment until he nods.

“Yes, it was.”

“A good…” Sam shifts, their shoes and jackets abandoned at the door as Sam joins Bucky on the couch. “Hang out day. I suppose. A hang-”

“Yeah.” Bucky responds, but it’s short, and it leaves Sam squirming for a second as he lowers his head, examining the ground as if the carpeted floor is very interesting now, unlike all the other times he’s looked at it.

Sam clicks his tongue and attempts to will himself not to drown in the unbelieve amount of uncertainty that fills him and the fragile tension of the living room. It's suffocating, the way quiet seems to seep into his body and tries to bury itself inside of him, tries to swallow him.

“Well,” He starts, aiming to fight it. “Whenever- if ever you wanna go out again.” He is getting scores way below average here, numbers below zero, because he’s literally failing, and he can’t stop himself now, he can’t, actually, he doesn’t even know what will best remove the rigid posture that Bucky’s adorned. “You know, if you want a friend-”

“I think I’m gonna go to my room-” Bucky abruptly braces his hands on the couch, feet ready to launch and before Sam can even think he’s reaching a hand out, because this time he’s failed to not extend towards Bucky, he’s failed to keep himself curled up in a neatly packaged bubble and now he’s starting to unravel all in front of Bucky, because he cares for the man, and he’s falling trying to solve the mystery behind his mood.

“Are you…” But Bucky’s look makes Sam hesitate for a moment, because he almost looks upset, and Sam instantly retracts his hand from where it had rested on Bucky’s wrist. Instead, he just trusts Bucky to stay but doesn’t blame him he decides not to, and Sam tilts his head. “You alright?”

The question, although such a simple one that’s been asked many times throughout many lives, plants itself right into Bucky’s chest, supposedly, hitting him atop the head and sinking into his gut as his composure suddenly collapses and he slouches back into the couch, like pulling the wrong block in Jenga, or perhaps like the only string holding up a blanket snapped and Sam’s watching as it just loses its structure and Bucky sighs heavily.

“Why’d you move in with me?”

Well, oh, that’s a big- that’s something. Sam’s chest tightens, asking himself. It’s not like he doesn’t have a response, it’s not like there aren’t reasons but, well, he just can’t list the many swirling around his head, because each one just spins around as soon as he thinks of it, blocking the words from his view, blocking his ability to understand a single thing in his head.

“I-” He has no idea what to say, really. “We both needed a place, we both needed it. I thought. You know, I thought it was a good idea. I thought.”

Bucky blinks, looking away as he thinks, probably about Sam’s response, and Sam waits, anxiously. His heart pounds slowly, loudly, just once, and then it practically disappears because all he can focus on is the damning silence and how it dances around him, mockingly almost, and his throat dries slightly.

“Do you regret it?”

And, well, Bucky may be asking some strange questions, ones that send Sam’s mind spinning just from the fact that they’re being asked, not their difficulty or anything, and when he peeps Bucky’s face, he catches onto a new perspective, a new blue, a new meaning, because this blue is heavy, his eyes are glued elsewhere, and it makes Sam’s shoulders drop for a moment.

However, answering is easy, as he lifts his chin up, a contrast to Bucky, and hums. “Not at all.”

“Oh.” He hears Bucky, whose voice is soft, distant, and the downturn of his tone isn’t anything to be associated with hopefulness, and perhaps that wasn’t the ideal reaction he could have received. It has Sam’s nerves shriveling up with confusion, the unknown always felt so overwhelming, leaving Sam with an unrestrained sea of confliction in his head as he tries his hardest to make sense of any of it, to really look at the curve of Bucky’s lips and the focus of his eyes and just comprehend what exactly it means.

Currently, Sam has no idea, and it’s hard to really start unfolding this case and connecting dots when Bucky has yet to fully face him, features slightly hidden by the angle of his head and hair, not to mention the slight ambiguity that has accompanied Bucky’s words since they got back.

Bucky then decides whatever may be on his mind is important enough to present his face to Sam, a look on his face that could possibly be described as dejected, and it’s enough to pull Sam’s lips down with the gravity of it all as he sits patiently.

“So, am I-” Bucky starts, then his face contorts itself in a way that almost looks like he’s cringing at his own words, lips being pulled down with the slouch of his shoulders, and it’s then that Sam notices just how colorful Bucky’s cheeks are. “Am- okay, question, am I not your type?”

“Am I not your type?” …wait what in the world?

“Wha-” The oxygen leaves Sam’s lungs, feels it leave him with surprise at the question, all his thoughts burning like paper, nothing but ashes, and it leaves him coughing as he tries to get a grip of himself. Because, well, where did that come from?

He has no idea. No fucking clue, actually.

“I’m-” He tries, then realizes he has no idea how to answer that right now because he still has yet to control his breathing and the ongoing chaos in his head, flames rising and heat scorching. He breathes in, maybe a little more loud than necessary, and he can feel the way shock lifts his eyebrows up. “Uh. Huh.” God he sounds so awful, like he can’t talk. “Why… Why do you ask?”

Bucky stares at him for a moment, like he’s debating the realness of Sam’s words, almost like he doesn’t believe him, like he doesn’t fully buy the way he’s been caught off guard. But when he realizes it’s all serious, it’s all genuine, he pouts, looking frustrated, and lets out a sigh that almost sounds annoyed, making Sam tense.

“Why do you think?” He asks, his volume increasing, before he pinches his brows and lets his hand rest on his knee with a stiff plop. “Okay- oh- God, I can’t believe you.”

“What?” Sam is absolutely dumbfounded right now, just watching, utterly lost, as Bucky makes an exhausted expression.

“I didn’t know you were this dense,” He says and Sam’s face bursts with warmth, almost getting embarrassed.

“Hey.” He warns, not a single inch of meaning behind it, absolutely no bite, because he’s far too concerned with the sinking realization that there is something Bucky is referencing that he’s not understanding here, and that’s why Bucky’s just called him slow, essentially. Unaware of whatever Bucky is mentioning, and it makes him try to mentally take a second, like he can take a step back and look a the bigger picture since he’s maybe been too concentrated on a single corner and the message Bucky’s trying to get across is a bit bigger than around just a quarter of it all. “I’m not.” He defends poorly.

“Sam.” Bucky calls his name firmly, an unimpressed look on his face, and the expression would fit perfectly with some crossed arms, but he stays at his side as he looks at Sam. “I’m asking because there were like two different times you could’ve kissed me, I wanted you to, and you didn’t.”

Sam goes entirely still, like a deer in headlights, and his face must look excessively shocked, all over again, since Bucky is starting to make a habit of surprising him since they got back.

“You didn’t kiss me, Sam.”

“I- fuck,” Sam mumbles, he’s embarrassed on how it sounds like a wheeze, and he desperately searches for some sort of anchor, something to bring him back, so he doesn’t look like a complete fool that’s dropped every bit of him all over the floor. “You wanted me to kiss you?”

Bucky’s voice has just the tiniest hint of exasperation. “I just said that. I wanted you to but you didn’t. So I assumed you just must really like, not be into me. Which was disappointing, but, if you don’t want to, yknow, then.”

He doesn’t add anything else to that and Sam’s stomach swirls around, like he’s gonna be sick, because holy shit, Bucky’s been… he’s been anticipating Sam to kiss him sometime here or there, just to find out if Sam likes him because Bucky wants Sam. And Sam’s been too distracted tripping over himself because he’s been staring at Bucky, struck and lost with admiration, but somehow all the looking and crushing wasn’t enough for Sam to catch onto Bucky, to notice the way he was trying to point out that he is in fact into Sam.

God, was Bucky actually really obvious and Sam was just blind?

Sam can see it now, actually, as he obsesses over trying to make sure he doesn’t come off strong, he instantly fails to see how maybe Bucky’s more than okay with that. He just assumed , and that’s where it goes wrong, isn’t it?

“I’m like,” Sam breathes out, letting out a chuckle. “A dumbass. Bucky, Jesus, I’m a dumbass.”

Bucky only arches a brow, urging him to explain himself further with a wordless gesture.

“This whole time I thought I shouldn’t make any moves because it would’ve made you uncomfortable ,” Sam clarifies, tilting his head up, and his tone very loudly gives away the irony of it. Bucky, unnerved, because Sam made a move on him? “But you- you-”

“Wanted you to?”

“Yea,” Sam says.

“I thought I was being obvious, I mean,” Bucky cuts himself off with some tangled noise, making a weird movement with his hands like he can’t fully verbalize what he’s trying to, and then raises his shoulders. “We’ve gone out for coffee, we’ve had drinks together, we went out to the movies. We- we live together, which I know that wasn’t- none of it had anything to do with me liking you but-”

God, it makes Sam sound like an idiot. They’ve been on these unnamed unofficial dates way even before today, and Sam’s just been unable to factor that fact until now.

“I could kiss you now?” Sam suggests, and his voice isn’t too confident, still trying to catch up, so it phrases itself as a question, but he still soaks in the way it effectively makes Bucky stop talking, lashes fluttering, as he reserves a couple of seconds to himself or processing.

“You’d like to?” Bucky asks and it’s an easy one to answer as Sam nods.

“I’d really want to, so yes.”

Bucky shifts, facing Sam with his whole body, and relaxes his shoulders, arms to the side and it’s endearing how he sort of opens up, as if to prepare himself and invite Sam over all in one movement.

And, well, it wasn’t the original plan for how they would end the day, but Sam doesn’t find himself at all opposed to how it happens, how he leans forward and his lips meet Bucky’s, who within a blink of an eye has a hand reaching out towards Sam, tugging on his shirt to bring him closer, like it’s all not enough even though it’s just begun.

Sam admits he likes it quite a bit, as his fingers press into Bucky’s side, his other hand raising to cuff Bucky’s face, almost like maybe Sam could fit Bucky into his palm if he really tried hard enough. When in reality, it’s Bucky who's got Sam wrapped up, entirely twisted into the ribbons of affection, attraction, and any other feeling that Bucky yanks with his fist, keeping Sam nearby, and he doesn’t even think of considering leaving. Because here it feels nice, it feels great, even, and it feels as it should be. With Bucky in his hold, with Bucky kissing him back and sending a feeling of final success, like satisfaction, slowly sweeping up his spine, because he’s finally here where he wanted. He’ll be able to tell Bucky all the things he sweated to keep down, like how his eyes reel him in, how his lips are in fact soft like he thought they may be, or how Bucky seems to be trying to give himself into every bit, like he can migrate a piece of himself straight into Sam through the way he presses at Sam’s chest with the flat of his palm, birthing warm spirals of goodness underneath his touch.

Which, maybe Bucky will actually end up doing so, maybe he’s already been doing it since they met, since Sam’s eyes settled onto Bucky’s blue ones and lingered for longer than normal.

“Would you wanna…” Sam trails off, because his head is split between about a million things he wants to offer, a thousand things he thinks he wants to give up to Bucky, to let him have, because he’s just gotta hand over something to Bucky. It takes a bit of effort to think about it properly, though, as Bucky, whose got Sam’s head spinning again and his thoughts pleasantly fuzzy, kisses his cheek. It’s unexpectedly sincere, which makes him have to pause before he can speak again. “Bucky, Bucky, you should be my boyfriend, you know. I’ve thought about it, and I wasn’t expecting to make it to this point way out in the future if things worked out, but-”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees quickly, shutting him up with a smile that’s nearly smug, and Sam startles a little at the warmth of Bucky’s finger’s beneath his collarbone, on his bare skin, his shirt slightly tugged down at the collar. “And you should be mine. Be my boyfriend?”

And well, there’s no debate there, as he instantly is confirming his response and kissing Bucky again, relishing in the way it starts to wipe off that smugness from Bucky’s face as the other’s body melts towards him, Sam’s thumb drifting across Bucky’s lower cheek, stubble and skin, which has Bucky letting out a long content sigh, resulting in laughter erupting from Sam.

Bucky glares at him. Or well, tries to, considering not even seconds ago he was eagerly kissing Sam and placing his hands all over him.

“Shut up, I had to wait on your slow ass to make some sort of move,” Bucky argues for his image, which mainly consists of his kissed lips that are trying to pout but find themselves upturned into a smile, and some hair that Sam clears from his face with a swift move, pretty blue eyes and everything. It’s definitely a good image, though.

“And why couldn’t you make any?” Sam asks then finds out he shouldn’t have as Bucky whacks his arm.

“I did!” He states, very sure of it. “I was giving you big heart googly eyes like some cartoon, dude . I tried to… I don’t know, I literally walked out shirtless just to see if maybe that’d let me know if you’re into guys.”

Sam goes to fetch a quick quip out but pauses, blinking once, and his mind replays the last bit and he snorts. “So you tried to seduce me?”

“What?” Bucky’s eyes widen slightly, and somehow it makes him look flustered, scandalized almost, and he hides his face into Sam’s hand. The action almost has the power to stop Sam’s heart just to prove it can bring him back to life. Then, Bucky backs up, Sam’s hand floating around, and Bucky shakes his head. “No. That wasn’t me ‘seducing’ you or whatever fantasy you’ve got.”

“That I’ve got? You’re the one who tried it.”

“No, I wasn’t try-”

“Sure, Bucky.” Sam concludes, smiling at the way Bucky’s brows furrow into empty frustration and instead he decides to direct his energy into scooting closer to Sam, much closer, and he’s almost in a position where he could be sitting in Sam’s lap. But it’s not quite that. Despite this, Sam’s heart trips off of the stage, falling into a crowd of emotions and letting them carry him around as he looks up at Bucky, intrigued, and watches as Bucky places a hand on his shoulder and lightly pushes.

His knee presses into Sam’s thigh, and somehow Sam’s hands have found themselves at either side of Bucky’s torso, and Sam’s mind swirls as his body sets on fire, nerves starting to go crazy as Bucky gazes down at him, his brown hair daring to be so utterly graceful as strands fall forward past his ear.

“But, you know, Sam, I could try to now?” He suggests, and the way he allows himself to smirk when he says it tips Sam in on the game he’s playing, making Sam roll his eyes.

“Man you’re corny.” Sam looks away, shaking his head.

“I had you, though,” Bucky says, certain, and Sam hates to admit that he’s right. He doesn’t say it outloud though, and instead kisses Bucky again, deciding he’ll be just as stubborn as Bucky refusing to admit those sugary caffeine drinks are more than delicious. He does, however, send a wordless invitation to Bucky that the man is allowed to try if he wants, pulling Bucky closer and savouring the way it feels to hold Bucky in his hands, like it’s impossible to grow tired of it, and he bets that’s true.

Which makes him smile, realizing that even tomorrow or the day after that or next week, he’ll be able to test that theory, he’ll be able to take Bucky’s hands in his own, he’ll be able to wrap his arms around him and kiss his neck, all the sorts, and Bucky can do all the same and whichever way he likes to go about showing unmasked affection. It’s a great little fact that he tucks into his brain. And, really, this is the best date ever, he decides, since yeah, that’s actually what this is.

Sam’s dating his roommate, Bucky, after helplessly crushing on him, and he’s already thriving from it.

#sambucky #sambucky fic #bucky barnes #sam wilson #fanfic #oneshot

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