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I.
Zemo is the first to notice.
“You like him,” he says, voice all raspy and lilted as he unwraps another Turkish delight. Sam instinctively glances around, even though Bucky is off doing god knows what. The afternoon sunlight filters through the glass stained windows of Zemo’s flat. Sam wrinkles his nose at the Turkish delights.
“Those are disgusting, you know,” Sam says. Usually he would be more respectful towards other peoples’ palates, but apparently Zemo woke up choosing war.
“You are ignoring my statement,” Zemo tutts. He maneuvers around the kitchen, pulling out what appears to be an old fashioned tea set.
“Oh my god, you even eat like a villain.”
Zemo ignores him.
“As I was saying, if you have… feelings for James, then you should act on them. I think his reaction may surprise you.”
“Bucky? Surprise me?” Sam huffs. Splutters. Squawks. Whatever, it’s all perspective. “No way. He hates me. He said so himself.”
Zemo hums.
“That is only what he says. You must know by now that he conveys his deeper sentiments through body language.”
Translation: his hips don’t lie. Sam is starting to feel slightly hysterical.
“Why am I having this conversation with you?” Sam asks, sitting up from the couch. Maybe he could take a walk, even though he knows nothing about this city. Actually, that might be a good thing. Maybe he can just disappear down the street and into the wilderness. “You were literally trying to kill all of us, like, three years ago—”
“Seven—”
“—and now you think you know enough about me to give me relationship advice?”
Zemo calmly steeps his tea. Sam wonders how Zemo manages to always remain so calm. He wonders if that is really tea Zemo’s steeping.
“As they say, keep your friends close, your enemies closer.” Zemo takes a smug sip of his tea. Sam stares at him for a moment, then collapses back down on the couch. He covers his eyes with his hands.
“Even if he did feel the same—which he doesn’t, ” Sam says, “ it would never work.” He feels something in his chest lighten at finally being able to unload the secret he’s been keeping for the past few weeks. Even if it’s to Zemo. “He and Steve,” Sam continues, “there’s too much history there. People have written books about it. I don’t even know where I’d fit in.”
Zemo sighs. It’s an oddly parental sound, and Sam is uncomfortably reminded that the man used to be a father. Zemo only compounds this fact by coming around the couch and setting a steaming teacup on a coaster in front of Sam.
“You ever notice how the greatest love stories always end in death?” Zemo says wistfully. “That is perhaps because the greatest love stories run on short fuses. You do not want that, Samuel. You want something that will last.” Zemo steps behind the couch and out of view. “Unfortunately, lasting romances are not as fun to read about.”
For a moment, they sit in quiet. The steam from Sam’s teacup curls toward the ceiling, dissolving in the sunlight. Then Sam remembers that he’s getting love advice from Zemo .
“Nothing you say would sound even half as smart if you didn’t have that voice,” Sam says, feeling rather petty. Zemo simply shrugs.
*
Torres is the next to find out.
“No,” the kid practically gasps, and Sam feels like burying his head in his hands. He doesn’t. Instead, he uses his hands to frantically wave them in the air, universal sign language for shut up he’s gonna hear.
Behind them, Bucky sits obliviously on one of the jet benches, legs stretched out long before him, hands working on cleaning a sniper. God, Sam thinks. Those legs.
“For real, though?” Torres says, in a whisper this time. “Like, you two—”
Torres gives him what seems to be a meaningful look, but what with the decade or two of age difference between them, the look is lost in translation.
“Look, kid. This stays in between us.”
Torres lights up, seemingly ecstatic at knowing a secret.
“You got it, Sam.”
Then, because Sam can’t help himself even though he knows better, he leans in.
“How did you know,” Sam demands. “What gave it away.”
Torres glances between them, then shrugs.
“It’s just… your aura. You’re giving the vibes, y’know?”
Torres gives some more meaningful looks, possibly to communicate what exact vibes Sam is giving off. Sam stares blankly. Torres sighs.
“You stare. A lot.”
Sam splutters.
“Me? I’m staring? He’s the one with the staring problem.”
Torres gives him another look.
“I didn’t say he isn’t staring too.”
Sam’s heart picks up a little at Torres suggestion, but then he reminds himself that all of this is not meant to be. Yes, Bucky’s legs are long. Impossibly long. (Aren’t people from the forties supposed to be short?) Yes, the way Bucky’s working the sniper is giving Sam some thoughts and opinions. Yes, Sam wants to punch Bucky’s face with his mouth.
But this is Bucky, and Bucky is off limits.
“You gonna go for it? Tell me you’re gonna go for it,” Torres says excitedly. Sam tears his eyes away from Bucky. Sweet, stupid, long legged Bucky. Sam sighs, clapping Torres on the shoulder.
“It doesn’t work like that, kid,” he says. “You’ll understand when you’re older.”
*
Sarah picks up on it faster than Zemo, which is unsurprising, because Sarah always manages to pinpoint Sam’s deepest insecurities and latch onto them like gum to a shoe.
“Since when?” Sarah asks, the two of them gazing across the boat, where Bucky has taken a break from repainting the pillars to play with a screwdriver.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam says. Sarah gives him an unimpressed look. “Jesus, fine,” Sam amends. If Zemo knows, his actual blood-sister might as well know too. Sam takes a breath. “We… we were in Wakanda. Before the blip.”
Sam remembers waiting with Bucky in front of the palace. He remembers how, for a moment, the clouds shifted, and a honeyed ray of sunlight slipped through the trees above, painting a gentle, warm stripe on Bucky’s cheek. Bucky’s eyes were downcast, his expression fatigued, but not defeated. Sam remembers his breath catching in his throat. Beautiful , he thought. Then, seconds later— oh shit.
Because, while Sam isn’t the biggest believer in the bro code, he is pretty sure he would be violating something sacred by hitting on his best friend’s ex, even if said best friend fucked off to ‘the moon.’ That isn’t even considering the history books, the academic articles, some random teenager’s blogpost—all of it analyzing and speculating on the epic, decades long romance between Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes.
That isn’t even considering what Sam saw with his own eyes—the fierce, dangerous determination on Steve’s face on that bridge oh so long ago, as Steve ignored Sam’s advice to stay away; the first give of a smile on Bucky’s face at the sight of Steve after decades.
Where does Sam fit in all that? Does he fit in at all?
“I can tell you’re thinking something stupid,” Sarah says. Sam scowls.
“I mean, just look at him,” Sam says. Sarah looks and nods sympathetically. At the stern of the boat, Bucky accidentally drops an old oil rag and bends over to pick it up.
“Jesus Christ,” Sam says.
“Amen,” Sarah says. She pauses. “Are you sure he isn’t into you?”
Sam lifts an eyebrow. “He literally flirted with you within five seconds of meeting you. I’ve known him for years and he hasn’t so much as smiled at me.”
“Jealousy is the oldest trick in the book Sam, and he is old. Also—” Sarah glances back at Bucky, who has started ripping rusty plating off the wall with his bare hands “—he is wearing really tight jeans. Like, really tight.”
Sam sighs.
“That’s the kind of bullshit rapists say in court, Sarah.”
Sarah rolls her eyes.
“Context, Sam. Please.”
Sam glances back across the boat, except this time, Bucky looks up too. For an awkward three seconds, they hold each other’s stare. Sam isn’t sure what his own face looks like, but Bucky’s is indecipherable. Then, in classic give-no-shit attitude, Bucky looks back down at his work as if nothing happened.
Sam lets go of a breath.
“Wow,” Sarah says, and Sam briefly wonders why he couldn’t have had a little brother instead. One who sees Sam as a cool superhero instead of a lame weirdo. Lucky Cass. “I knew you had it bad, but damn.”
“I could use some support here, Sarah.”
Sarah shakes her head.
“Nah, bro. You’re fucked.”
“I wish,” Sam mutters.
II.
Bucky doesn’t get it. He knows for a fact that black jeans and boots make his legs look amazing. Steve knew it. Leah from the bar knew it. Sarah Wilson, he suspects, knows it.
Why doesn’t Sam know it?
What adds salt to the wound is that they’re at the fucking docks. Bucky used to work at the docks. Flirting at the docks is, like, Bucky’s specialty. Between the tight clothes, the bend-and-snaps, the heavy lifting, he’s pulling out his greatest hits. He’s on home turf right now.
And yet, nothing is working.
Chin up, Barnes, Bucky thinks to himself, tearing another metal plate off the boat. He glances Sam’s way, just to check if the other man saw.
Unfortunately, Sam is too busy talking to his sister. Talking rather frantically, from the looks of it.
Which, fine. Okay. Bucky can work with this. He didn’t survive seventy years of bullshit because he’s a giver upper. Admittedly, he wasn’t aware enough of his own autonomy to be able to give up, but it is the underlying principle that counts, which is that Bucky Barnes is one smooth motherfucker, and he isn’t about to call it quits just because his jeans and boots combo isn’t working.
It’s time for plan B.
Bucky may be a hundred and six and counting, but he’s been on the web. He knows what the fuck a competence kink is, thank you very much, and Bucky is ninety-five percent sure that a gentleman as refined and classy as Sam Wilson has a competence kink.
Bucky gets to work.
Because he can, he also updates his wardrobe while he’s at it, opting for a tight black t-shirt the morning he and Sam have to drive into town to pick up more hardware. Because they’re ‘working on being a team,’ as Sam puts it, they start a game of twenty-questions.
“Okay,” Bucky says, thinking to himself that this is possibly the lamest game ever. As far as flirting goes, Never Have I Ever gets the work done in half the time. “Are you gay?” he asks.
Sam chokes, which is probably not a good thing, since he’s driving.
“ That’ s your first question?” Sam asks. Bucky shrugs. Steve once told him that he has no tact, but Bucky’s not the one that went back in time to live in the Jim Crow era, so Bucky thinks he wins that argument.
“There aren’t rules to the questions, are there?” Bucky asks.
“No,” Sam says slowly, as if deeply regretting his lack of foresight.
“So? Are you gay?” Bucky asks. There is a long pause. Then, belatedly, Bucky remembers his manners. (Everyone on the block always said Bucky was a Good Boy. Until Steve Rogers corrupted him, at least.)
“I mean, you don’t have to tell me,” Bucky adds awkwardly. People keep telling him that society is more open minded now, but other people also tell him that things still suck. Occasionally, Bucky has trouble gauging the meter.
“Well, to answer your question, no,” Sam finally says. He clears his throat. “I’m bi.”
Score, Bucky thinks.
Bucky, 1.
God, 0.
“My turn,” Sam says quickly. He chews his lip in thought, and Bucky finds himself staring.
Holy shit oh my god what if he tastes like strawberries oh god—
“What’s a fun party trick that you have?”
Bucky frowns.
“That’s your question?” he asks, disbelieving. How is he supposed to work with this? This… this vanilla crap?
“First of all, this is a much better question than yours, considering that we’re on question number two of this game.”
Bucky huffs, slinking down into his seat a little.
“I don’t go to parties,” he says. Sam rolls his eyes.
“Fine. What’s a fun trick that you can do that not everyone else can do?”
Bucky scrolls through his mental rolodex. Competence kink, Bucky reminds himself.
“I have no gag reflex,” Bucky says. The car swerves a little.
“Jesus fuck, Bucky.”
“What, it’s true.”
“Not having a gag reflex is not a party trick .”
Internally, Bucky thinks that Sam is going to the wrong parties. But he keeps that to himself.
“You said a fun trick that I can do that not everyone else can do,” Bucky says. “Most people have a gag reflex.”
“I meant like you can juggle or something, fucking hell.”
Bucky pauses, considering.
“I can salivate on command,” he offers. Sam gives him a weird look in the rearview mirror.
“Okay, now you’re just fucking with me.”
“No,” Bucky defends. “I can sweat on command too. It’s all on page two-twenty of my manual.”
“Oh my god,” Sam says. “This game is over.”
*
At the hardware store, Bucky loads everything into the trunk because he’s a fucking gentleman. But then, back at the Wilson family household, Sam insists on bringing everything in himself. Which, again, fine. Bucky can work with this.
He also receives a great view of Sam’s arms and shoulders, bulging as he carries their new equipment into the house.
Bucky, 2.
God, 0.
When lunch is over, they return to the boat. Since his earlier tactic of Looking Hot In The Distance didn’t pan out, Bucky figures he might as well work beside Sam this time.
Throughout the afternoon, Sam keeps shooting Bucky suspicious looks, but Bucky stays the course. He delves into the deepest recesses of his memory for boat repair tips and helpfully steps in whenever Sam starts wrinkling his brow.
(Bucky really likes it when Sam wrinkles his brow. He kinda wants to tell his therapist about it.)
It’s just before dinner when the sky turns thick and grey, making the green of the nearby trees appear violently chartreuse.
“We better head in,” Sam says, wiping his hands on his jeans. Bucky frowns.
“We’re not done yet.”
“Yeah, well—” Sam glances upward at the sky “—I don’t feel like getting electrocuted today, so I’m going in.”
Reluctantly, Bucky follows.
It’s not that Bucky doesn’t like spending time with the Wilson family. In fact, he loves spending time with the Wilson family. It’s just that Bucky’s on a mission, and, again, flirting at the docks is his specialty.
Back in the Wilson family home, all the lights are turned on, and yet the stormy darkness outside seems to press in. By dinner, the rain is pouring. Cass and AJ are more rowdy than usual, chasing each other up and down the stairs, likely swept up from the excitement of the storm outside. Bucky watches as they laugh, feeling something pinch and twist inside his chest.
“My sisters used to get like that,” Bucky says offhandedly. He thinks of three little girls whose faces he is starting to second guess. “Right before a storm. They’d run all over the house. My ma would bake a cake just to make them sit still.”
“You have sisters?” Sarah asks. In the afterglow of dinner, the three adults are in the kitchen, Sarah wrapping up leftovers while Bucky washes the dishes. Sam stands next to him, placing the freshly rinsed dishes into the dishwasher. Loud footsteps thud from upstairs.
“Three of ‘em,” Bucky says. “Becky, Ruthie, and Winnie.”
“Cute,” Sarah says. Sam is being oddly silent. “You the oldest, then?”
Bucky pauses.
“I guess so.”
After the chores are done, Sam and Sarah retire for a a glass of lemonade while Bucky plays a boardgame in the living room with Cass and AJ. For the first time all day, Bucky’s mind is able to fully leave Sam, instead focusing on the two kids and the game in front of him, at which Bucky is losing tragically. He doesn’t even realize Sam is watching until the man kneels beside him on the carpet.
“Scoot over. This is how you play.”
Bucky does scoot over, but not by much. Next to Sam and the kids, the storm raging outside, Bucky feels so, so warm.
III.
“How do I know I really want him?” Sam asks, and Sarah sets her screwdriver down on the workbench, nose wrinkling at Sam’s wording.
“I’m pretty sure anyone with eyes can tell, Sam,” Sarah says dryly. “AJ asked last night if Mister Bucky is living with us forever.”
Sam’s chest flutters at that. He swallows.
“But how do I know if I want him want him?”
Sarah gives him an inquisitive stare, realizing that her brother is asking seriously.
“Well, say that you have him. What then?”
Sam glances across the docks, missing Bucky’s steady presence. Since it is the weekend, Cass and AJ are home from school, and they insisted Bucky stay home and play video games with them. Sam didn’t know he could miss looking at someone so much.
“If I have him…” Sam says, trailing off. He thinks of Bucky pressed against his shoulder, eyes on Sam. Only Sam. “Then we’ll buy a house together,” Sam decides. “And matching silverware.” An image begins to form in Sam’s mind: a quaint, picket fenced home. Weepy Louisiana trees. The seasons passing by outside, year after year. “We’ll share a Netflix subscription. And we’ll turn on the AC whenever we want to. And we’ll file joint taxes. And we’ll fight over how to fix the plumbing. And—” Sam’s eyes widen. “Oh god.”
Sarah nods knowingly. Sam stifles in a pained moan.
“Oh no. Fuck.”
“You have it bad, brother,” Sarah says sympathetically. “You don’t just want the dick. You want that domestic shit.” She picks up her screwdriver again, apparently deeming Sam’s problem solved. Next to her, Sam is nearly doubled over.
“Seriously, Sam. Chill out. I know you’re a forty year old bachelor, but it’s never too late to start.”
“Thirty-eight,” Sam manages to say. “I’m thirty-eight.”
Sarah shrugs. “So?” she asks. “You gonna do anything now that you’ve had your earth shattering realization?”
Sam looks down at his shoes, which have scuffed from a week of working on the boat.
“Even if he wants me, he probably doesn’t want me want me.”
Sarah sighs.
“You gotta stop talking like a third grader, Sam.” Then, taking pity on her brother, “Just test the waters a bit. You don’t know for certain how he feels. If you want him that bad, don’t you think it’s worth the risk?”
Sam thinks of Steve breaking bones and international laws to save Bucky, only to leave him once the dust settled. Sam doesn’t get it. Why did Steve do all of that just to miss out on the best part: the everyday?
“Okay,” Sam says, regaining some of his composure. “I’ll do it. I’ll test out the waters.”
“Great,” Sarah says. “Now help me finish this boat.”
*
Sam may have trouble deciding whether to put the moves on, but he certainly doesn’t have trouble deciding how to put the moves on.
Bucky, insomuch as Sam has observed, doesn’t care much for words. So Sam goes for actions.
(Which is a shame, because Sam can recite Shakespeare, damnit.)
On the boat, Sam takes every opportunity that presents itself to lean over Bucky or let their hands brush. Everytime they work in a cramped space and Bucky steps close, Sam steps closer. They’re in the engine room when Sam steps up right beside Bucky, and Bucky drops the hammer he is using onto the floor, narrowing missing his own foot. Mumbling awkwardly, Bucky bends over to pick the hammer back up. The pessimist part of Sam tells himself that Bucky was just surprised. The optimist part cheers.
“What do you think he likes?” Sam asks Sarah, because apparently his sister has turned into his best wingman.
“He’s from the thirties,” Sarah replies. “He literally grew up in the depression. I don’t think it takes a lot to impress him.”
That night, Sam googles Great Depression recipes and attempts not to wretch at the prospect of Hoover stew. Steve wasn’t kidding. They really did boil everything.
“Do you think he actually ate this stuff?” Sam asks, showing a recipe of Dandelion salad to Sarah on his tablet. “Or is it just historians being historians again?”
Sarah shrugs, scrolling down and frowning at something called ‘chipped beef on toast.’
“I mean… it doesn’t hurt to try.”
So, the following evening, Sam makes dandelion salad. It’s certainly not the worst thing Sam’s ever done. Certainly not the worst thing he’s ever done for Bucky.
The process of dandelion salad, Sam learns, is somewhat demeaning. It involves going into the backyard and essentially digging up weeds. Pulling himself up by his bootstraps, Sam does just that, returning back to the kitchen half an hour later with grass stained jeans and a bowl full of dark, stiff looking greens. He looks at the bowl doubtfully.
Suddenly, Bucky strolls by. He stops at the doorway.
“Are those… weeds?” Bucky asks.
“Dandelion leaves,” Sam says.
“Why.”
“I’m making dandelion salad.”
“Why.”
Sam frowns. This is not the reaction he was expecting. Sam thought Bucky would go all misty eyed like Steve did whenever he saw something from the good ol’ days.
“Didn’t you guys, like, used to eat this stuff?” Sam asks. Sam rambles when Bucky continues to stare. “I mean, I looked it up online. The website said people used to dig up weeds in their backyard… and make… salad.”
Bucky continues to stare at him, but it’s not the dead-eyed stare Sam is used to. Instead, it’s something softer. Almost a little pained.
“I lived in Brooklyn,” Bucky finally says. “I didn’t see grass until I was, like, twenty.”
“Oh,” Sam says, looking mournfully down at the bowl of dug up weeds.
“We ate other stuff,” Bucky continues. “Like stew. A lot of stew.”
With that, Bucky slinks out of the doorway and into the kitchen. He begins rummaging through the fridge. His head peaks out from behind the door.
“You gonna help me or not?”
*
Sam realizes over a dinner of Winnifred Barnes’ famous slow cooked stew that somewhere along the way, he had assumed Bucky was a terrible cook. Mainly because Steve was a terrible cook. It stands to reason, Sam supposes, that if Steve had been a terrible cook, then Bucky at least had to be a decent one.
For Reasons, Sam finds this incredibly hot. He daydreams of coming home from missions with Bucky and the two of them stumbling sleepily through the kitchen, pulling out spare ingredients to put together a fast dinner. Then they would eat in the living room and watch late night infomercials, and everything would be warm and perfect.
“Sam, are you listening?” Sarah asks. Sam snaps his head up.
“I—yes,” Sam says. Sarah gives him a pointed look.
“Then are you coming with me to the hardware store tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. His eyes accidentally stray across the table and meet Bucky’s. Bucky quickly looks away, but his ears turn pink. Sam’s heart speeds up.
Sarah, who saw all that, looks pleadingly up at the ceiling.
*
“Do you think there’s a chance he likes me? I feel like there’s a chance he likes me. Or am I just reading too much into things? Am I crazy?”
Sarah sighs.
“No Sam. You’re not crazy.”
*
Finally, that evening, Sam decides to say something.
They’re on the boat again, the sun dipped halfway into the water, soaking the ocean a warm, orange hue. It’s just Sam and Bucky on the boat, after Sam told Sarah that he needed to talk to Bucky alone.
“Fucking finally,” Sarah had said.
Prior to stepping on the boat, Sam had everything planned out. He would broach the topic casually— so, are you going back to Brooklyn? Then Sam can work it from there. He can invite Bucky to stay longer. He can ask where Bucky sees himself in ten years. He can ask if Bucky sees himself with anyone in ten years.
Sam’s done this all before, and though it’s been a while, he’s sure he can do it all again.
Then Bucky looks up at him when they’re taking a drink break, the dizzying colors of the sunset painting his skin, and any semblance of a plan flies out of Sam’s brain.
“I— gugh ,” Sam says. Bucky gives him a funny look.
“What?”
“Where do you see yourself in ten years?” Sam says. Apparently he’s on automatic now. He misses the faint dusting of pink on Bucky’s cheeks.
“What is this, a job interview?” Bucky asks.
Sam’s beginning to wonder if he had ever truly been good at flirting, or if all of that had just been a hallucination.
“I—I’m just asking. Think of it as twenty-questions.”
Nice recovery, Samuel.
Bucky looks down at his knuckles, the deep lines of his face settling in. Sam wants to trace those lines with his thumb.
“So?” Sam asks. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
“I don’t know,” Bucky says. He takes a swig of his beer. “I’ll probably be dead.”
Which—okay, fair. Now that Sam thinks about it, Bucky probably experiences near-death events more regularly than some people get colonoscopies.
“If you’re not dead,” Sam says. “C’mon, man.”
Bucky tenses his jaw, a tic of his that Sam has been noticing these past few weeks. He wonders if Bucky has always had that tic. He wonders if Steve knew about that tic.
At the thought of Steve, Sam’s stomach churns sour.
“If I’m alive,” Bucky says, “I’ll probably be doing the same thing I’m doing now.”
Sam snorts.
“What, trying to get drunk with some guy you don’t like?”
Bucky’s quiet for a moment, but for that entire moment, he stares at Sam. Then Bucky gives a little one shouldered shrug.
“Why not,” Bucky says quietly. “It’s not so bad.”
And Sam’s heart speeds up with nearly painful acceleration.
But Steve, Sam thinks. What about Steve?
Because, Sam realizes in that moment, this is all very fucked up. Here he is, falling in love with a guy who just lost his best friend. A best friend who is also Sam’s best friend. Sam’s best friend, who basically thrust everything he no longer wanted onto Sam under the guise of some grand inheritance. But Sam doesn’t want to be a replacement. He doesn’t want to be eaten alive by Steve’s shadow, like how John Walker is.
He just wants to be his own Captain America, and he just wants to love Bucky Barnes his own way.
He’s afraid that’s too much to ask for.
“What about you,” Bucky asks, looking up at Sam through his eyelashes. “Where do you see yourself in ten years?”
Sam hums.
“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’ll be doing this too. Drinking beer with some guy I don’t like.”
They’re only a foot or two apart, seated on wooden crates and separated by an old cooler. Crickets rattle in synchrony from the woods. Fireflies dance drunkenly in the sky. The air smells like old wood and varnish and whatever Bucky uses to wash his hair. Bucky leans closer. This is it, Sam thinks, heart thudding in his chest.
Sam, 1.
The Rest of the Fucking World, 0.
Sam closes the distance.
The kiss is soft. Patient. A kiss that knows there is time for plenty more down the line. Bucky tastes like heat and gentleness. Like something new that already feels familiar.
They pull away silently, feeling, for a moment, each others breaths on their lips. Bucky’s pupils are blown, his eyes looking at Sam in wonder. Sam swallows. He sits back.
The crickets continue chirping. Somehow, the world is still the same.
“Just so you know, that wasn’t some spur the moment thing for me,” Sam finally says, looking Bucky in the eye and forcing his voice not to tremble. “I… I’ve been waiting to do that for a while. And I want to do it again. And I want it all to mean something. That—that’s what I want. But I don’t know what you want.”
Because that’s Sam’s greatest fear in all of this: that, in Bucky’s mind, Bucky’s kissing Steve.
Bucky gives him a long, thoughtful look. Then, finally—
“You know that one boat theory?”
Sam blinks.
“No? What the hell are you talking about?”
“That ship thing? Where if you replace every plank of wood on a ship—”
“Yes, yes, I know. Ship of Theseus,” Sam says impatiently. Jesus Christ, he basically just filleted his heart on a chopping board in front of Bucky, and Bucky suddenly wants to talk college philosophy.
“You said you didn’t know,” Bucky says defensively.
“You called it the boat theory. Of course I didn’t know.”
“Whatever. My point is—” and Bucky looks away in a rare show of shyness that makes Sam’s chest ache. “It’s… it’s like we’re boats. And if I’m a boat, and you’re a boat, then everything that’s happened these past few years… it’s like the journey that replaced our planks. So, even though we’re technically new boats, all the other boats treat us like we’re still the old boat, since we still have our old names… but you’re also a new boat, so you get it.” Bucky looks up at him with those big, dumb vulnerable eyes. “We’re both new boats.”
I’m not who I was, Bucky’s eyes say. And the new me loves the new you.
Sam looks at the man across from him. This stupid, stupid man who has just compared their relationship to boat repair.
Sam has never been more turned on.
“Fuck,” Sam says. “Get over here.”
Bucky grins.
*
Later that night, Bucky discovers Sam does have a competence kink
And Sam discovers Bucky indeed has no gag reflex.
*
The next morning, when Sam steps down for breakfast, shirt hiked high to hide his hickies, he finds Sarah sitting alone at the kitchen table, looking haunted.
“You know that dream house you were talking about?” Sarah asks. “With the picket fence and whatever?”
“Yeah?” Sam says unsurely. He cringes when his voice comes out a little hoarse. Behind him, Bucky stumbles sleepily down the stairs. He looks like he got hit by a truck. Sarah’s glare grows ten-fold at the sight of them together.
“Yeah. I need you to move into that house. Pronto.”
A few months later...
Somewhere far away in prison, Zemo receives a small basket of Turkish delights. The man smiles smugly and unwraps the first candy.
“Irresistible,” he murmurs.