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It’s annoying really, that Bucky won’t help write mission reports. After all, it’s not like it’s Sam’s favorite part of the job either. He did more than his fair share of paperwork back in the Air Force and then at the VA, and yet somehow, even though he is now Captain goddamn America, he still spends an unpleasant amount of time hunched over a tiny laptop.
The only difference between then and now is that this time he’s wracking his brain to find a diplomatic way to say, “After the hostiles were subdued and hostages were rescued, my partner punched Associate Director Eugene Trevor Ramsley III of the GRC-NAD (Global Repatriation Council’s North American Division) in the face because Ramsley is a racist, homophobic, xenophobic, and/or misogynistic asshole.”
Sam’s blood boils even thinking about it. Especially since what the man had actually said, (with all the confidence of a mediocre white man), was even worse.
“The victory against Thanos might have been sweeter if Dr. Banner had been a bit more discerning about which types of people returned.”
Bucky, who had still been covered in the blood and grime of battle, hadn’t given two shits which “type of people” Ramsley believed deserved genocide, so without even taking a beat, he introduced his fist to the man’s face. Repeatedly.
The man was lucky Bucky used his human fist.
Under normal circumstances Sam might have held his partner back, but in that moment he hadn’t been able to do anything but listen to the sound of the man’s nose breaking. It was a wet, sludgy sound and even upon reconsideration, his only regret was that Bucky beat him to the punch.
Literally.
What Sam ends up including in the report is a thorough account of day’s events, complete with details about the a) standard pre-mission recon, b) obnoxious bad-guy standoff, complete with an evil monologue of course, and c) the daring and dramatic hostage rescue he and Bucky had narrowly accomplished in the nick of time.
In the end, he decides to only include one line about the director, which, in his opinion, is more than the man deserves.
AD Ramsley later reported that he sustained injuries at the scene of the incident but no member of any staff on the scene – including first responders, medical personnel, local liaisons, or SWORD agents – have come forward to corroborate his claim.
Sam is actually pretty pleased with his analysis and is about to show the result to his partner when Bucky breaks what has been, until now, a peaceful silence.
“Sam?” he asks. “Are we dating?”
With fingers still poised over the keyboard, Bucky’s words enter Sam’s brain and rattle around like kernels in a popcorn maker.
“Huh?” he asks dumbly.
Looking over, it’s immediately apparent (even from across the room) that Bucky is no longer peacefully enjoying the rare pleasure of a sleepy Sunday afternoon. The last time he had glanced over, Bucky had been quietly engrossed in a paperback, lounging on the couch under an absurd number of blankets considering the location (Delacroix) and month (July) .
The former Winter Soldier is now sitting ramrod straight – practically at attention – with both of his feet planted firmly on the floor and eyes fixed intently on Sam.
When exactly had his partner gone from silently devouring The Handmaid’s Tale (and absentmindedly stroking the white cat at his side) to clenching the book tight enough to dent the cover with his super human strength?
“Are we dating?” Bucky asks again, this time dropping his eyes to the floor.
Later, Sam will be embarrassed at how long it takes him to shift from ‘must finish report’ to ‘Bucky is having an existential crisis on the couch,’ but in that moment all he can do is ask (somewhat incredulously), “You’re kidding right?”
In the moments of jagged silence that follow, Sam’s eyes travel the space around them and without meaning to, he begins to catalogue the contents of the apartment.
His gaze first passes over the laundry basket Bucky had grumpily dropped on the desk next to the computer. “It’s your turn to fold,” he had groused, even though they both knew Sam was as likely to fold laundry as Bucky was to write reports.
The basket contains an assortment of shirts and sweatpants neither man can rightfully claim ownership of anymore. Jeans will later get separated by owner – Bucky’s tree trunk thighs and Sam’s Captain America Ass necessitating different sizes – but just about everything else has become communal. More than once, this has caused Sam to be the victim of merciless teasing by an obnoxious sister since apparently I <3 NY shirts are not appropriate attire for the docks.
Between Sam’s desk and the couch is their salvaged end table. It’s covered in a pile of Bucky’s dog-eared paperbacks and a stack of design plans for the next generation of Redwings. On top of the plans – because Bucky is a heathen – sits Bucky’s empty coffee mug.
That better not leave a ring.
Sam eyes the table again and without meaning to, reminisces fondly back on its origins. Sam had been the one to rescue it, but Bucky had been the one to turn it into something beautiful.
They’d spotted the hunk of junk along the curb near Sarah’s house on garbage day. It was in rough shape, barely more than a pile of wood and nails, but Sam was sold on it the moment he saw that it was missing its right front leg.
He remembers lifting the table up high for Bucky to see, making a big show of looking at Bucky, then at the table, then back at Bucky again.
Bucky had groaned, as Sam expected, and Sam’s mood had risen like a bird taking flight as he secured his new treasure in the back of the truck.
He remembers that his ass had been barely halfway back in the cab before Bucky opined, “I’m the one who lived through the Great Depression but somehow you’re the one who rescues junk from the side of the road?”
Sam had looked his partner over from head to toe and answered, deadpan, “Clearly I am.”
Bucky’s snort of laughter was honest and genuine and Sam’s good mood had risen so high it disappeared above the clouds.
He’d known then, in the quiet part of his mind, that if anyone else had made that sort of joke, the older man would have taken the insult to heart. Sam knew completely and fully that Bucky wasn’t the cold-hearted bastard people assumed he was. Thankfully, insults between the two of them are practically a love language, so Bucky had just rolled his eyes again and bit down a grin.
Three weeks later, after returning from a grueling Bucky-less DC trip, Sam had found a refinished and now four-legged table in the living room. It was painted a light blue gray that reminded him of the Paul and Darlene’s hull and it was beautiful.
The table had sat there ever since, flush against the arm of their plush leather couch.
The couch too, had a shared Sam-and-Bucky history. They’d argued over their options for weeks before finally purchasing this one from Doerr Furniture. The store was a staple in NOLA, Sam had told Bucky, and even now Sam is proud of doing what he could to support the local economy. After all, what would it look like if Captain America didn’t shop local?
Draped across the back of the couch are no less than three of the fuzzy blankets Bucky loves, including the hot pink camo monstrosity Sam had bought for Bucky after watching the man covertly return to it twice at Target.
To be fair, it is ridiculously soft, and OK, not everything has to be purchased locally, Sam concedes to himself.
He continues to look around.
Sure, the area rug beneath the couch is Sam’s, but the framed pictures on the wall behind the couch are a collection of Howling Commandoes and Wilsons, with Riley is up there a few frames away from Steve.
For god’s sake, Bucky’s white cat is lounging against his side! Sam certainly didn’t adopt Alpine – that had been a spur-of-the-moment Bucky decision – and yet somehow here she is, in this apartment, looking for all the world like the spoiled queen she is.
Examples of their mixed up, messy, shared life are everywhere in this small Delacroix apartment; Sam’s name might be on the lease, but this is obviously not just Sam’s apartment.
No, Sam assures himself, he hasn’t imagined their life together.
Any hope of finishing the report now abandoned, Sam instead moves into the living room with a sense of urgency that he hadn’t felt a few moments ago. “Buck, you’re kidding, right?”
This time, like a puppet yanked by its strings, Bucky jerks to his feet.
“No, right. Of course,” he growls. “It was a stupid question.”
When the nest of blankets doesn’t release him as quickly as he wants, Bucky rips them off with unrestrained strength. Sam winces as one (thankfully not the pink camo one) falls prey to Bucky’s wrath and rends in two. The pieces fall to the floor but Bucky doesn’t notice, too busy beginning to gather whichever of his belongings are within reach.
The Handmaid’s Tale. Empty coffee mug. His discarded boots with socks peeking out of them. He looks around frantically now. “Do you know where my bag is?”
Sam very much does know where Bucky’s bag is – it is exactly where it belongs, in the bedroom closet next to his own – but he doesn’t feel like telling Bucky that. “What the hell are you doing?” he asks instead.
Bucky scoops Alpine up with his free hand instead of answering and tucks her into his side. He pointedly continues to avoid Sam’s gaze. The poor cat mews her displeasure and is ignored. “My bag, Sam. Where is it?”
“Buck,” Sam starts then stops. Telegraphing his movements purposefully, he reaches out and gently extricates the poor cat from her father’s too-tight grip. Only after she has scampered down the hall does he reach for Bucky. He presses his palm flat to the other man’s chest and pushes Bucky back until the back of his knees hit the couch. The look on his face is sour but Bucky begrudgingly folds back onto it.
A sliver of Sam’s increasing anxiety falls away. It's a good sign that even with whatever-the-heck-just-happened between Bucky’s question and Sam’s response, Sam can manhandle the other man. He’s all too aware that if Bucky truly wanted to stand firm, he’d have better luck fighting a purple titan with a pool noodle.
“Ok, I don’t have the slightest clue what just happened,” he admits, dropping down at Bucky’s side. “But something clearly caused that cyborg brain of yours to go blue-screen-of-death and I'm’a need you to use your words and tell me about it.”
Bucky makes a face. “Blue screen of death?”
“It’s a computer reference. You know, your OS crashed.”
Bucky continues to give him the same look and although Sam is 99% certain Bucky is not the technophobe he pretends to be, he takes the bait anyway. “It means your brain malfunctioned.”
In answer to Bucky’s predictable eyeroll, Sam settles in more comfortably. Now that they have both sunk into the couch, Bucky’s armload of possessions is comical. He’s holding it all like a shield, as if a mug, a book, and pair of smelly shoes can keep Sam at bay.
“Let’s back up a step. You asked – out of the blue I might add – ‘are we dating’ –”
Bucky cuts him off and starts to stand again. “And you answered very quickly.”
This time Sam stops him by grabbing his shirt. “Of course, I did!” He says and tries to do the head-tilty thing Bucky does when he’s intent on catching someone’s (usually Sam’s) eye. He fails but continues anyway. “Cuz the answer is pretty damn obvious, Buck.”
“Well I'm sorry for asking then.”
Bucky’s eyes stay fixedly away from Sam’s face.
Despite how well he has learned to interpret cyborg, Sam still needs to take a moment to analyze Bucky’s sudden defensive behavior. They’ve come so far in the last year and their lives have become so intertwined it’s amazing to Sam that Bucky is suddenly pulling back. And not just pulling back, he’s downright pulling away. He’s a heartbeat from bolting.
Sam knows that if Bucky runs, he won’t be able to find him again. Not now that Bucky’s playing with a full deck.
He blinks twice, suddenly uncertain. “Wait, are you...are you really asking?”
Bucky looks dejected and what’s more, he looks like he’s trying not to look dejected.
“Bucky,” Sam sighs with a small smile. “I answered so quickly because the answer is obviously yes , man.”
Bucky’s eyes grow comically large and snap to Sam’s. “Wait, really?”
“Uh yes. Really. Why would you even ask that?”
The former Winter Soldier doesn’t do coy, but he does do embarrassed and in the space of a heartbeat he goes from skittish to mortified. Everything about him, from his taut posture to the bright flush creeping up his neck, screams his embarrassment.
“Well I don’t know! You’re the one always going on about how we gotta talk about stuff. But we never talked about this .”
Sam opens his mouth to counter – of course they’ve talked about this – then freezes. The metaphorical record scratches. Is it possible they really haven’t?
He racks his memory.
They’ve been nearly inseparable for almost a year now, both on the job and off. No one calls one without expecting the other, not the government, not Sharon or Torres, and certainly not Sarah. Hell, even Cass and AJ expect both of them to answer their Facetime calls. The one time Sam answered alone and explained that Bucky was out grocery shopping, Cass insisted he would call back when Bucky got home. He had news about his geography project and “I want to share it with both of you at once, thank you very much, Uncle Sam.”
They’d dutifully answer the call together an hour later. They’d sat on this exact same couch.
And sure, Sam had never specifically asked Bucky to move in, but when he’d first expressed an interest in moving out of Sarah’s, he’d picked this place out with Bucky .
Technically, Sam’s brain helpfully reminds him now that it’s being forced to reexamine history through the lenses of Bucky’s experience, you asked him if he liked beignets and when he replied that he didn’t know if he’d ever had one, you declared, “Well you better like them because we got an appointment to look at an apartment above a bakery that makes the best beignets in Louisiana. Don’t make me turn it down just ‘cause you got bad taste.”
And then they went and looked at it. Together.
Had he never actually asked Bucky to officially share the apartment with him? For God’s sake, Bucky has been splitting the goddamn rent! Had he just been assuming they were just roommates?
Sam cringes.
Even when it comes to sex, have they ever actually had a real conversation? Or had it all just happened ?
He remembers one minute they were fighting – one of them had been reckless and the other was pissed and worried (which was which? Sam can’t even remember) – and then they were kissing. It wasn’t long after that they were doing more.
Sure, there had been a brief “Are you sure?” “Yes, are you?” “God, yes.” exchange, but other than that, they’d never actually discussed how adding sex into the equation changed their dynamic because it didn't. Not really. It had just seemed like a natural and logical evolution to their already passionate relationship.
As for sleeping together, literally sleeping, that had happened naturally too.
The budget for their mission in Morocco had been half of what they’d been promised and they were forced to share a room. (As far as tropes go, Sam thinks it’s a classic for a reason.) So, recent battle plus two soldiers with PTSD equaled enough nightmares to fill a horror anthology. Sharing a sleeping space, listening to the other breathe, it helped. It wasn't enough to slay the demons, but it at least put a shield between them and the advancing army.
All that is to say, Sam clearly understands where they stand (or he thought he did) because it is so obvious! But for someone like Bucky, a man out of time navigating relationships in the 21 st century (not to mention having a traumatized past as an exploited POW who spent decades without autonomy or even the notion of consent), maybe Sam should have been a little more explicit.
“You’re right,” he agrees, the heat of his own embarrassment creeping up his neck. Seriously, he was a goddamn councilor! How did he just forget to have the “talk” (any of the talks) with Bucky? “Let’s talk about it, then.”
This time when Bucky groans, he actually does pull away and flee the couch. Sam lets him though. Bucky never sits still when he’s being asked to do emotional work. It had taken Sam time to recognize this as the coping mechanism it clearly is, but now that he has, he's not about to begrudge him for it.
“Let’s not,” Bucky counters. “Let’s just forget I said anything, okay? Look, how much more of that report do you got left? I could do some...”
He has the laptop back open and is leaning over it, apparently ready to completely sidestep this entire situation before Sam can open his mouth.
For a split second, it’s tempting to take the help (and the reprieve) but bypassing important conversations is apparently what got them to this mess in the first place.
“Nope.” He pops the p. “We’re talking ‘bout it.”
Bucky spins back if only to show Sam that when he groans, it’s with his whole body. “I should’a kept my goddamn mouth shut.”
“I'll go first then, since I know you’re allergic to feelings,” he offers amiably, and possibly because he wants to be a little shit. He may recognize now that they really need to have this talk, but he doesn’t necessarily enjoy hardcore emotional conversations either.
As if he’s about to recite Shakespeare, he clears his throat dramatically. “Bucky, I like you.” He says. “I have feelings for you. I am not seeing anyone else and I don’t want to. I like what we’re doing here – dating, in a relationship, whatever you wanna call it – and I'd like to keep doing it. Is that clear enough? Your turn.”
Bucky glares, and glares some more, then throws up his hands in resignation. “Fine!” He drops himself into the chair across from Sam in a move so reminiscent of their impromptu “couples counseling” session that Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek. “So what, I just parrot your words back to you?”
Dear lord Almighty, give me strength .
“If you want. Or, you know, you could actually say what you feel .”
Sam doesn’t know what Bucky’s constipated face looks like, because he’s a super soldier with intestines of steel, but if he has one, it probably looks like this.
“Okay fine. Sam... I guess I don’t hate you as much as I used to –”
Sam cuts him off with an eyeroll and scoff; the two-for-one as his mother used to call it. “You never hated me.”
“This is my turn, Sam! Stop interrupting.” He crosses his arms defensively and sinks lower in his seat. With how much Bucky scowls, it’s a wonder Bucky’s face isn’t as lined as a loose-leaf sheet of paper.
“Sam, I don’t hate you. And I guess I kinda like what we’re doing here too. A bit. A small bit.”
“Romantic.”
“Shut up. I am also not fucking anyone else –”
“Jeezus Bucky!”
Bucky continues as if Sam hadn’t said anything. “And I don’t want to. There, is that good? Do you finally get that I love you?”
The silence that drops over the apartment isn’t the calm quiet of before. It’s sharp and sudden and with one wrong move, Sam will cut himself, or worse, Bucky.
“Oh shit. I...I didn’t mean...”
“You didn’t mean it? Or you didn’t mean to say it?” Sam holds his breath while he waits. He knows this feeling, standing at the edge of a precipice, ready to jump. In many aspects of his life, he is the first to step to the edge. And leaping into the unknown? Well, he is the first to do that too.
But it’s a different game when it’s more than just his body that will get mangled by the fall.
When Bucky manages to answer, “The second one. I think,” Sam responds without thinking, “You think!?”
Bucky pulls himself to his full height. “Yeah Sam!” he yells. “I think. I haven’t exactly told anyone I loved them since...who even knows with my fucked-up brain? I'm not exactly sure about it all. Okay? ”
Bucky’s hackles are up and Sam’s one wrong move from watching the other man storm out the door, out of Delacroix...maybe out of his life.
The thought fills his veins with ice but he doesn’t back down. He may be many things (including stubborn and clueless his brain provides unhelpfully), but a pushover is not one of them.
With a confidence he doesn’t really feel, he unfolds from the couch and steps toe-to-toe with Bucky. His councilor brain, the same one he employs whenever Captain America tries to downgrade a ‘threat’ to a ‘person,’ screams at him. Abort! Abort! Back away!
The rest of Sam’s brain clamps a hand over the counselor’s mouth.
“You told the barista Marissa you loved her the other day.”
Bucky’s jaw drops for a moment before he snaps it shut. “She made me an Iced White Mocha with peppermint in it,” he deadpans. “ Peppermint , Sam.”
“So all I've got to do is make you a fancy coffee and you’ll say it again to me? And here I was thinking you like your coffee black.”
More than once, he’s thrown around the line “I know you like your coffee like you like your men – dark and hot” and never once has he received the resounding laughter the comment rightly deserves.
Bucky shuffles closer. His bare feet nudge Sam’s socked ones. “I do like black coffee but a little bit of sugar now and then ain’t a bad thing.” He pivots back to the original topic. “And I didn’t say it to you, I said it about you.” One more pivot. “And let me try that drink first before I decide.”
“Noted. Well then, I should probably say...” Sam pauses dramatically, drawing Bucky in with the promise of something sweeter than peppermint. “I don’t hate you either.” The grin that splits his face is wide and affectionate, if still (a little bit) mocking. “And yes, I did mean to say that. To you.”
“Ugh!” The corner of Bucky’s mouth does not twitch up. Nope. Not at all. “Thanks sweetheart.” He throws back with his own mixture of deadpan and affectionate. “That's some real Hallmark shit.”
“Says the man whose love can be bought with coffee.”
At this point, Bucky loses the battle to keep the smile off his face.
Big ol’ softy.
“Pretty sure my love was already bought with beignets.”