Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So there’s this new guy at the gym,” Natasha drawls in her husky, ‘Salesperson of the Year’ voice. “Totally your type.”

Bucky makes a noncommittal sound into the phone.

“You should meet him.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been kind of busy lately.” He knows she means well, but he'd rather get a root canal than go on another blind date.

“Look,” Natasha says, ignoring his obvious lie, “Brock was an aberration.”

“He sure was something,” Bucky mutters, pacing into the living room.

“He was an asshole and I’m sorry, but this guy is nice.”

“Nice.”

“Don’t say it like that,” Natasha says. “Nice can be good. And after Brock—”

“Who you set me up with—”

“Which I have apologized for. Multiple times. It was one date, get over it!”

“It was so bad, Nat.”

“I know—you told me. He was rude to the server.”

Bucky can feel himself gearing up to have this argument again. “And he was in one of those weird conspiracy groups.”

“I will run a full background check,” Natasha promises.

“You are terrifying,” Bucky says. “Also: I’m not ready.”

“And normally I’d respect that, but I’m telling you…he just moved here and he’s a catch. He’s not going to be single for long.”

Bucky watches idly as Alpine sniffs the air. One of his neighbors must be cooking dinner. He should think about making something instead of ordering takeout again. He should order groceries.

“Hey, are you listening? I think you’d really like him.”

Bucky is not listening. Bucky is watching his dumb cat squeeze her giant fluffy body out the partially open window.

“Alpine, no!” Bucky runs to the window and watches in horror as she scurries across the fire escape—a cloud of white fur. She swishes her tail once and then leaps into the neighbor’s open window.

“Nat, I have to go.” Bucky hangs up on Natasha’s protests, dropping the phone onto the rug. He pushes his window all the way open and stumbles out onto the fire escape. He hesitates when he gets to his neighbor's window and knocks on the glass, calling out, “Hey, is anyone home? My cat—oh shit.”

Alpine is pacing in front of the stove and eyeballing a frying pan of something—fish—if the smell is anything to go by. No wonder she's going crazy.

“No!” Bucky yells as she tenses to leap onto the counter. He dives in through the window and scrambles into the kitchen in time to scoop her off the stovetop before she burns her whiskers off.

“Excuse me? What do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky spins around and he’s confronted with the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes on. Who is wearing only a towel and a thunderous expression.

“I’m so sorry,” Bucky says, trying not to stare at the man’s bare chest and failing. To be fair, it’s a very nice chest. And there’s so much of it. “My cat, she—I had the window open like two inches.”

The man gives him a dubious look.

Bucky is saved from having to come up with a better explanation. He points to the stove: “Your pan is on fire.” He barely gets the words out when the smoke detector starts to scream.

“Goddammit.” The man rushes past Bucky, his towel slipping a bit.

Alpine struggles in his arms and makes a frustrated yowl. Bucky clutches her closer, takes one last look at the man’s backside, and races to the window.

“Hey!” his neighbor yells after him.

Bucky ducks out onto the fire escape, nearly braining himself on the bottom window rail. He scuttles back towards his own window and tosses Alpine inside, where she lands like a spring and glares back at him. He throws himself after her and slams the window shut, pulling the curtains closed for good measure. He can barely hear the muted wail of the smoke detector over the whooshing pulse in his ears.

After the smoke detector finally shuts off, Bucky half-expects his neighbor to show up at either his window or his front door. When he doesn't, Bucky doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

When he feeds Alpine her nightly can of wet food, she looks at him for a long moment before she deigns to eat. “You liked what was going on next door better?” Bucky asks her. “Yeah, girl,” he says, thinking of the shirtless man. “Me too.”

Sam knows it’s a mistake to call Sarah, but he has to tell somebody. When his sister picks up he blurts out, “So some crazy white boy broke into my apartment today.”

“I told you about leaving your windows open. You're in the city now! You can’t be doing that.”

Sam glances at the open window. Well, it has to be open now. He’s got two fans going, trying to get rid of the burned-fish smell.

“Wow. Not even asking if I’m okay? I see how it is.”

“Oh please. If you weren’t okay, you wouldn’t be leading with that.” He can hear her futzing about in the kitchen, probably working on dinner for her and the kids. He’s going to have to go pick something up soon. (He was looking forward to that salmon, he had a nice wine picked out and everything.)

“Was he on drugs?”

“Who?”

“The crazy white boy.”

Sam thinks about it. “I don’t think so?” The guy was kind of skinny and bearded, but the beard looked on-purpose and he seemed…clean? “He had a cat.”

“A cat? What the hell.”

“I think his cat got out—he must live in the building—pretty thing with blue eyes.”

“Huh. I know you always fall for those blue-eyed boys, but you have got to draw the line at B&E, Sam. Have some standards.”

Sam groans. “I was talking about the cat.”

“Sure. And what color was your boy’s eyes?”

At his pause, she cackles.

“Shut up,” Sam says, regretting everything.

“Hey, Steve,” Bucky says into the phone. “Did Nat tell you to call?”

“Wow, can't I say ‘hi’ to my best friend?”

“So that’s a ‘yes’.”

“She’s just worried about you, Buck.” Steve sighs. “To be honest, I am too.”

“Oh no, not this again. You guys start talking and you get each other all wound up and who pays the price? Me. That’s who.”

“No, she’s right. You’re practically a hermit. When’s the last time you stepped foot out of that apartment?”

“Like not even an hour ago, actually.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve’s voice is skeptical. “And where did you go? Checking the mail doesn’t count.”

Ha. Like he remembers to check the mail. “Um. To my neighbor’s place.”

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

“Well, it’s true. It happened.”

“And what’s your neighbor’s name?”

“Why, you gonna call him?”

“Maybe I will.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

“You don’t know, do you?”

“I swear I was over there.”

“See, that I believe. Because you’re a terrible liar. Now, I’m just curious as to what got you out of that apartment. Was this a noise complaint? Did you start a fight?”

“Is my name Steve Rogers? No, I didn’t pick a fight with my neighbor. Look in the mirror, buddy.”

“Well, that was one time…hey, this isn’t about me, don’t change the subject.”

“It was definitely more than one time.”

Steve ignores him. “Tell me about your neighbor or I’m siccing Nat on you.”

“Now you’re playing dirty pool,” Bucky grouses.

When Bucky finishes, there’s a long pause.

“Wow,” Steve says. It sounds like he’s trying not to choke.

“It’s fine, you can laugh.”

“Only you,” Steve says, wheezing.

“God, I know. It’s like I’m cursed.”

“I bet he was handsome too,” Steve guesses.

Bucky whines. “He was so hot! And now I’m going to have to avoid him forever.”

“Or you could knock on his door and apologize,” Steve offers. “Maybe ask him out to dinner to make up for it?”

Only in his wildest fantasies. “Have you met me?”

“Yes? You’re great. I don’t see the problem.”

“Ugh. You don’t get it because we’ve known each other for so long.”

“I guess I don’t. You’re smart, funny, and some people tell me you’re good looking. Personally, I don’t see it. I think your eyes are too close together—”

“Ha. Ha.” Bucky snorts. “Shut up, Steve.”

“Seriously Buck, go talk to him.”

“He’d probably call the cops on me. An hour ago I was running around his apartment yelling my face off.”

Steve giggles. “Sorry, I was imagining it in my head.”

“No, it’s fine. I’m happy that my pain is amusing to you.”

“You’re very entertaining,” Steve agrees. “Peg’s probably gonna call you in a bit.”

“Come on.”

“She’s better at this stuff than me,” Steve tells him. “You know how to distract me. She’s like a laser guided missile.”

“Steve.”

“Love you. Bye.”

Dammit.

Peggy doesn’t call. She shows up at his apartment with Thai food.

“How did you know I haven’t eaten yet?” he asks when he opens the door.

She kicks off her heels and kisses his cheek before answering. “Please James, I have met you.”

He grumbles at her, but he takes the bag she offers.

When they’re seated with plates in their laps he says, “You know I’m fine right? I’m not depressed or whatever Steve’s been telling you.”

“Steve didn’t tell me you’re depressed. Steve told me you and that little beast of yours spent the afternoon terrorizing your neighbor.”

“Oh my god.” Bucky laughs.

“Are those the actions of a depressed man?” Peggy smiles, dimples showing. “Steve’s working on a deadline. He’s busy and I’m bored and want company.”

“Oh jeez. Sorry, I knew that. I should have called you.”

“Quite alright. I know how to reach out when I need companionship.”

Bucky flushes. “Now you sound like my therapist.”

“She sounds like a smart woman. Maybe you should listen to her.”

“I did. She told me to open a window and get some fresh air. And look at what happened.”

“Oh James,” Peggy says, shaking her head and biting back a smile.

They eat, they chat, and Peggy doesn’t bring up dating or his neighbor for a good long while. She waits until they clear the dishes before she asks him to come over “for a little get together” once Steve’s made his deadline. It isn’t until after she leaves that he realizes he’s agreed to it without finding out the guest-list first.

“Damn. She’s good,” he texts Steve, who sends him back a bunch of laughing face emojis.

Bucky’s cleaning out his overloaded mailbox when he runs into his neighbor. Literally.

He was turning to dump the wad of junk mail into the nearby trash bin, provided for that purpose, when he hits a very solid chest. “Oh my god,” Bucky says, dropping flyers everywhere. “Sorry!”

Equally solid arms reach up to steady him.

“Oh my god,” he says again when he looks up to realize that it’s his shirtless neighbor. Well, he’s wearing a polo shirt now. Barely. (He’s definitely stress testing the material at the biceps.)

“So, you do live here,” his neighbor says, smiling. It’s a nice smile. He has a little gap between his front teeth.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Bucky says. Apologizing for being alive, apparently. He cringes at himself.

“This is a lot of mail,” his neighbor says, helping him to pick it up. “You real popular or something?”

“Not really,” Bucky says, scratching the back of his neck. “I just never remember to check it. My friend was on my case last night and reminded me.”

“Roommate?”

“Oh no, I don’t…it’s just me and Alpine. She’s my—”

“Cat? Yeah, we met. I have the white hair on my counter to prove it.”

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“I’m just messing with you,” his neighbor says, clapping Bucky’s left shoulder lightly. It’s his bad one, and Bucky flinches, even though it doesn’t hurt much anymore. The man’s eyes flicker like he notices, but he doesn’t comment on it. “She’s very pretty—blue eyes and all. Someone has recently reminded me I’m a sucker for blue eyes.”

Bucky stares at him and blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah, my sister was giving me a hard time about it. Said I should draw the line at B&E, have some standards.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “You must think I’m so weird.”

“A little,” his neighbor agrees. “But it’s not a bad-weird.”

“There’s a good-weird?” Bucky asks.

“I hope so,” his neighbor says, and before Bucky can come up with a response, his neighbor is extending his hand. “Sam,” he introduces himself.

“Bucky,” he says, hoping his palm isn’t too sweaty.

“See you around, neighbor,” Sam calls as he leaves the mailroom and Bucky very smoothly trips over the trash can.

Bucky’s cat has taken to visiting Sam. At first it was just when he was cooking, but after a while it seems like she just likes hanging out. Sam supposes if he was trapped in a 600 square foot apartment all day, he’d be excited about basically doubling his space too. He knows he should probably bring her back over as soon as he spots her, or listen to his sister and keep his windows locked. But, if he’s being honest, he enjoys the company. (If he’s being really honest, he’s hoping that Bucky will come looking for her.)

“Hi sweetness,” Sam coos at Alpine. She trills in response and winds around his legs.

“You smelled my cooking, huh? Does your daddy not feed you?”

Alpine mews pitifully.

“Oh? He’s starving you?”

Alpine mews louder.

“Poor baby, you sound so hungry.” Sam bends down and feeds her a small bite of his dinner. She takes the food from his hand and daintily licks his fingers. Once she gets a taste, she seems satisfied to curl up on his feet while he eats.

After he puts his plate in the sink, Sam picks her up and cuddles her close. “Come on, your dad’s probably worried about you.”

She’s purring like crazy. He walks over to the window and ducks out onto the fire escape to bring her back home. When he gets to Bucky's window, it’s barely open.

“How did you fit through that?” Sam asks the cat. She chirps at him and he kisses the side of her fluffy face. He has to tuck her under his arm like a football to open the window with his free hand. He drops her inside and she immediately trots into the kitchen. After a moment he can hear her crunching loudly on what he can only presume is dry cat food. He shakes his head. What a menace.

He’s about to push the window shut when he hears his name being called.

Sam glances around. “Bucky?”

There’s a soft gasp and then a shuffling sound. Bucky’s head pops up over the back of the couch. “What—Sam? Sorry, I just woke up.”

Bucky’s face is pink and kind of sweaty and Sam freezes. “Uh, sorry.” He points to the kitchen and mimes tossing the cat through the window. “Alpine,” he explains, feeling like an idiot.

Bucky turns his head towards the kitchen and then back to Sam. “Oh. Thanks.” His hair is sticking up funny and his eyes are very blue.

“I’ll just let you…” Sam does a weird half wave and then backs away from the window. Sarah was right, he thinks. And then, I’m never going to hear the end of it.

Chapter Text

Bucky slides back down, presses his face into the couch cushion, and lets out a muffled scream. Nothing like looking your hot neighbor in the face right after you wake up from a horny dream about him.

He hears nails clicking on the hardwood, and he sits up. “Alpine, why?” he whines. She yawns and flops down on her side, disinterested in his suffering.

Bucky pushes off the couch and walks over to the window. He shoves it shut and pulls the curtains closed. Alpine looks up at the noise. “Don’t look at me like that; we’ll open it again tomorrow. I know Sam is hot stuff, but you’re gonna give me a complex.”

“There’s a man at your window,” Natasha says, nodding towards the fire escape.

Bucky turns so fast he wrenches his neck. He walks over and slides the window all the way open. “Hey Sam.”

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks warily, hugging Alpine to his chest.

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m just working.” Alpine licks the underside of Sam’s chin and Bucky tries not to be too jealous of his cat.

“Uh-huh.” Sam’s looking past Bucky into the apartment, his face ashen.

Bucky follows Sam’s gaze. Natasha’s in full Winter Soldier gear: tactical suit, goggles, and face mask. She’s also holding a large knife.

Bucky huffs out a laugh. “Okay, I can see how this would raise questions.” He turns his tablet to Sam, showing him what he has so far. “I’m a comic book artist.”

“Oh wow. That looks great,” Sam says, visibly relaxing. “I’d love to see that when it’s finished. And side-note: I am very relieved I don’t have to fight a knife-wielding maniac right now.”

You’d fight a maniac for me? Bucky wants to say. Instead, he says, “I’m sure Alpine would be a big help.”

Sam grins. “She helped me with lunch, but I’m heading out and wanted to return her.”

Bucky sets the tablet down and takes Alpine. “I hope she wasn’t bothering you.” She wriggles out of his arms, and he rolls his eyes. “Jeez,” he mutters. “What am I, chopped liver?” They both watch as she trots over to Natasha and sniffs at her boots.

“I don’t mind the company,” Sam says, his smile soft.

After Sam leaves, Bucky shuts the window and turns around. Natasha has sheathed the knife and is holding Alpine in her arms.

“Really, Alpine?”

“She smells Liho on me.” Natasha sets Alpine down and pushes the mask and goggles off her face. “So that’s the neighbor, huh?”

“Um, yeah.” He waits a moment and then says, “What? No commentary?”

“Unfortunately not.” She purses her lips. “I can barely see out of these.”

Thank god, he thinks. He says it out loud too, because he knows it will make her laugh. She does, shaking her head at him. “I’m going to change. Don’t forget, you promised me lunch.”

“I did.” Bucky straightens up the coffee table. He’s learned not to leave his stylus pens lying around for Alpine to play with. “What are you in the mood for?”

“Something light, we’re going to yoga class afterwards.”

“Natasha.”

“You’re already in sweatpants,” she points out.

“Nat, I don’t want to deal with anyone today.” Or any day, really. “And besides, I’m not supposed to exert myself.”

“It’s restorative; it’ll be like taking a nap,” Natasha says easily. “You said the doctor cleared you for light exercise.”

“But—”

“Nobody you know goes to the gym at this hour, and you can use my guest pass,” she interrupts, anticipating every argument he could make.

He sighs. “Fine. You can call Steve back and tell him you bullied me outside. Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” Instead of denying it, she whips out her phone and sends a text right in front of him. There’s barely a pause before Steve texts back a thumbs-up emoji.

“That’s cold,” Bucky complains. “This good cop/bad cop thing you’ve got going with Steve is annoying and I don’t like it.”

Her lips quirk in amusement. “If we were both soft, you’d wallow. Lucky for you, I’m Russian.”

“You’re hilarious is what you are,” Bucky grouses. He narrows his eyes. “You promise you’re not setting me up with anyone?”

“Cross my cold, Russian heart.”

“Sam, your boy is famous,” Sarah announces when he answers the phone.

He switches over to his earbud and drops his phone back into his pocket. “What are you talking about?”

“I found his Twitter.”

He stops short and gets bumped by a grocery cart. The woman behind him apologizes, and he waves her off, rubbing the back of his thigh. “How’d you find his Twitter? I don’t even know his last name.”

“It’s Barnes. James Buchanan Barnes,” Sarah informs him. “After I got your text, I googled ‘Bucky’ and ‘comic books’ and his Twitter came up. Don’t you know how to use the internet yet?”

Huh. “How famous are we talking about?” Sam puts a half gallon of milk into his basket.

“Okay, I exaggerated a bit; he has like twenty thousand followers. Do you think he’d follow me back if I told him I was your sister?”

Jesus. “Please don’t do that.”

“Hmm.”

“Sarah.”

“Yeah alright.” Sam can practically hear her roll her eyes. “He posts a lot of pictures of his cat. I think this man is obsessed with this cat. Like how many pictures of a sleeping cat do I need to see?” He hears her clicking around on her laptop. “Okay, that shit is cute. This cat is really pretty, Sam. Aww, look at its little jellybean toes. I’m liking that one.”

“Sarah, come on.”

“What? Can’t I like a cute cat picture? That’s practically why the internet was invented—oh wait, here are the thirst trap posts.”

“What?” Sam asks, his voice strangled.

“No wonder he has all these girls following him; your boy is fine. Ha! Blue eyes, I was right,” she crows.

“Stop messing with me.”

“I ain’t messing with you. He posts gym selfies. Ooh, looks like he doesn’t skip leg day. I approve of him, Sam. You have my approval. Invite him to Thanksgiving.”

“Gym selfies?” He can’t imagine it. Every time he’s seen Bucky, he’s been wearing baggy sweats. He takes naps in the middle of the day. Hell, one time Sam went to return Alpine, and Bucky was asleep in a sunny spot on the rug. He didn’t seem like the type to take a gym selfie.

“Please don’t tell me I have to explain a thirst trap to you.”

“I know what a thirst trap is,” Sam insists. Two college-aged girls look up from the yogurt, and glance at each other, smirking. “I don’t think this is the same guy,” Sam argues, more quietly, and ducks down the next aisle. Sam hasn’t seen Bucky outside of his apartment since they collided in the mailroom.

“It has to be, he posts all this comic book stuff. There’s this red-haired lady with a robot arm and a bunch of other crazy drawings.”

“Huh,” he says, thinking about the redhead in Bucky’s apartment.

“Ooh, he has a hot friend. His hot friend has a Twitter account—you can invite him to Thanksgiving, too. Wait...maybe not.”

“What is happening right now?” Sam asks, bewildered.

“His hot friend has a hot wife.” Sarah sucks her teeth. “Oh wow, they both do comic books, too. Are all comic book people this hot? I never knew.”

“Alright Sarah, as fun as it would be to hear you describe every picture this man or his friends have ever posted—I’m gonna have to let you go.”

“Mmm-hmm. So you can google him for yourself? I’ll send you the link.”

Sam sighs.

She texts him the link right after he hangs up. Then she sends him a photo of two muscular guys with their arms around each other and a string of fire emojis. He stops and stares at his phone in disbelief and gets rammed by another cart. He barely feels it. Because the guy on the left is definitely Bucky.

Sam gets home and puts his groceries away, and he clicks the link that Sarah sent him. He scrolls through Bucky’s Twitter feed and feels like a huge creep. (He’s not going to stop though, he’s just going to feel bad about it.)

It’s all business for a while. Bucky's new comic book releases, promoting friends, and retweeting other people promoting his stuff. Most of the pictures are of comic art. Every now and then, a tweet about a movie or TV show that he’s seen. (Sam’s never seen the Netflix Daredevil show, but Bucky’s doing a rewatch. Sam makes a note to add it to his queue.)

Sam scrolls until he sees a picture of Alpine. She’s buried herself under the couch cushions; only her tail and one foot are visible. Sarah was right. There are a lot of photos of Bucky’s cat. Sam scrolls, his smile growing with every picture. Alpine sniffing her new cat tower. Alpine stealing Bucky’s takeout food. Alpine sleeping in weird spots all over Bucky’s apartment. Alpine perched like a gargoyle on top of the refrigerator.

There’s even fanart. Apparently, it’s a thing to send Bucky drawings of his cat, which he then retweets every Saturday. Bucky even posts his own Alpine sketches. It’s basically the cutest thing Sam’s ever seen, and he can’t fault Sarah for ‘liking’ the cat pictures. If Sam had a Twitter, he’d be compelled to ‘like’ them all. (He’s so glad he doesn’t have a Twitter.)

The first selfie is around five months old. Sam sucks in a breath. Bucky’s in bed. Alpine is sleeping on his chest, her nose pressed against his neck. Half of Bucky’s face is hidden in Alpine’s white fur, and he’s fake-scowling at the camera. He hasn’t grown his beard out yet, but he has a 5 o'clock shadow that Sam finds ridiculously appealing. Bucky’s Twitter followers seem to feel likewise, because some of the comments are downright feral.

Sam scrolls until he gets to the gym selfies. He glances over his shoulder, as if Bucky’s going to turn up at the window and judge him. A breeze ruffles the curtains. He angles himself on the couch, so if Bucky were to drop by, he wouldn’t see his own face on Sam’s phone. This is already humiliating enough.

Thirst trap is right. Holy shit. Sam can feel himself blushing as he stares at a picture of Bucky flexing and mugging for the camera. In the background, there’s a beefy blond man laughing at him. The next picture is the one Sarah sent him. Bucky and the blond man, arms around each other; someone else is taking the picture for them. Sam would be jealous if he wasn’t so turned on. The comments on that particular photo are absolutely unhinged. Sam can’t even blame them; he’s feeling a bit unhinged himself.

Something jumps on him and Sam jerks back and shrieks, throwing his phone across the room. There’s an angry yowl and Sam clutches his heart and looks down, realizing he’s just dumped Alpine onto the floor. She’s glaring up at him and he laughs, relieved.

“I’m so sorry, baby. You scared me.”

There’s a noise behind him and Sam flinches and swings around.

“Sam! Are you alright?” Bucky’s crawling in through the open window, the Gerber combat knife in his hand. He’s holding it all wrong, and Sam wants to tell him to put it away before he cuts himself. Then he sees that Bucky has paused and is staring down at Sam’s phone, which is face up and still awake.

Sam freezes as Bucky bends down to pick it up. He shuffles a few steps towards the couch and holds it out to Sam.

Sam takes the phone back; he looks down at the photo of Bucky and his gym buddy. He turns off the phone and slips it into his pocket. “My sister found your Twitter earlier,” he explains, mortified.

Bucky beams at him. “I know!”

What? “What.”

“She liked a bunch of Alpine’s pictures, so I took a look at her profile.” Bucky shrugs. “There were some pictures of you with your nephews, so I followed her and sent her a message.”

“Oh, lord.”

“She seems really nice,” Bucky offers.

“She’s the best,” Sam says immediately. And then quickly adds, “She’s also pure evil; don’t listen to anything she says about me.”

Bucky chuckles. “I know what you mean, that goes for like, all my friends.” He looks down at the knife he’s still holding. “Sorry for barging in. I don't know what I was thinking—it’s not like I go around knife-fighting people.” He sets the knife down on the end table. “I just bought it so I could draw it properly. What happened anyway? I thought you were getting murdered over here.”

Sam points down at Alpine, who looks up at them with big, innocent eyes.

Bucky leans over the couch. “Oh jeez, I’m sorry. I’ll keep the window closed from now on.”

“No, don’t do that,” Sam says too quickly.

Bucky blinks at him, looking taken aback.

“I mean, I don’t mind. She startled me, that's all. I didn’t realize she was in here.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Bucky says slowly. “Let me know if she’s in your way, I’ll come get her.”

And isn’t that the best opening Sam could ask for?

Bucky ducks back into his own apartment, clutching his phone to his chest. Sam had asked for his number. They had exchanged numbers. He feels jittery and a bit light-headed. He sheaths the knife and puts it away. It takes a couple of tries because his hands are shaking. He laughs at himself. He used to get hit on all the time and it didn’t use to be a big deal. But this feels like a big deal. But maybe it’s not? Maybe Sam’s just being friendly?

“Sam asked for my number,” Bucky blurts out when Steve picks up the phone. “Sorry, are you busy? I should have texted first.”

“I can take a break,” Steve says. “I’m almost done with what I have and then I’m waiting for pages again. You know how it goes. Sam’s your hot neighbor?”

“Yes, Sam’s my hot—” Bucky realizes he’s standing in front of the open window; he hurries into the bedroom and shuts the door.

“Did you just realize you were yelling in front of that window?” Steve asks, sounding amused.

“Shut up,” Bucky mutters. “Listen to this and tell me if I’m crazy.”

“I can’t believe you dove into his window with that knife,” Steve says, laughing. “What did you think you were going to do?”

“Probably end up stabbing myself with it, Steve. I don’t know. I heard him yelling and I panicked. I have a baseball bat behind the door, but the knife was right there.”

“Well, you did play baseball, at least.”

“Come on.” Bucky paces between the bed and the dresser. “Do you think he was hitting on me? Or was he wanting my number so I could come get Alpine when he’s fed up with her?”

“Buck, if he didn’t run screaming for the hills after the first time you broke into his apartment, I’d say he’s into you. Besides, didn’t you say he was looking at your Twitter page?”

“I post a lot of cute pictures of Alpine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I think he loves my cat, Steve.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah sure. That’s it.”

“It’s been a while.” Bucky flops down on the bed. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

“You’re doing fine,” Steve says. “Just be yourself.”

Bucky groans and squashes his face into the comforter.

“I’m serious, it seems to be working so far.”

“I’m just—I’m a mess. I saw myself in the mirror today and I look like a hobo.”

“You work from home, that’s normal. I haven’t shaved in two weeks.”

“Buddy, I haven’t shaved in two months,” Bucky says, tugging on his beard.

“So, shave. Get a haircut. Put on real pants.” There’s a muffled sound and Bucky can hear Steve talking to Peggy in the background.

“Peg says to tell you I haven’t changed out of my pajamas in a fortnight. But I feel it’s necessary to add that I’ve been showering every day and putting on new ones. Yes, these are a different pair than yesterday.”

Bucky grins. “Sure, pal.”

A week later, Bucky gets a text from Steve. “I’m free!” it reads, followed by three party popper emojis. Two seconds later, Peggy texts, “Game night this Friday! Pizza on us!!!” Bucky looks down at his phone and smiles. Before he can respond, he gets another text from Steve. “You should bring your neighbor.”

Bucky stares at the text, his heart tripping funny at the thought. He shows the screen to Alpine. “What do you think, girl?”

She flops over and starts purring.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I think so too.”

Chapter Text

After Bucky shaves he stares into the bathroom mirror. His face is thinner, almost gaunt now. He snorts. (He finally has cheekbones and all it took was a week in the hospital and a few months of convalescence.) Still. He doesn’t look bad. Or at least—he no longer looks like he’s in a biker gang. He grabs his phone and snaps a selfie. Then, trying not to overthink it, he tweets it out with the caption “feeling cute, might delete later”. He figures it’ll give his friends a laugh, at least. He gives it an hour before Steve is roasting him.

Less than twenty minutes later, his phone is blowing up. Steve and Peggy reply to his post with kissing face emojis and tag him in their own duck-face selfies. Their old art school friends have found the post and have started teasing him for trying to bring back a dead meme. Then Sam’s sister sends him a line of fire emojis. His face heats. He had forgotten he and Sarah had followed each other. He hopes she doesn't think he's a complete airhead.

On the day of the party, Bucky Ubers over to Steve and Peggy’s a few hours early. The rideshare car’s still backing out of the driveway when Steve leaps off the porch swing to bear-hug him. Bucky grunts as he’s lifted off the ground.

“Good to see you too, pal,” he wheezes. He thumps Steve on the back a few times and that quickly devolves into a pseudo wrestling match.

“Boys,” Peggy calls from the porch. “Wrap it up, you’re frightening the neighbors.”

Steve straightens and waves to the woman who’s squinting at them from across the street. She shakes her head before turning back inside. They both shuffle up the steps, shushing each other and giggling like they're still in kindergarten.

“Where’s your hot neighbor?” Steve asks as soon as the front door shuts. “You chicken out?”

“Sam’s still at work; he’s coming over after.” Bucky shoves Steve lightly. "And stop calling him that."

"So he's not hot?" Peggy asks, her lips twisting in amusement.

"He's hot like the sun," Bucky says, turning to her. "But if you guys keep saying it, I'm gonna call him that to his face and then I'm gonna have to throw myself off a cliff."

Peggy laughs at him and kisses his cheek. Then Steve swoops in to smack a kiss on the other side.

“Alright, alright.” Bucky squirms away, grinning at his idiot friends.

“You look good,” Steve says when they’re in the car to pick up the food and some drinks.

Bucky absentmindedly runs his hand through his hair and then looks at the gel on his hand in disgust. “The barber was painless, but it took me three hours to find these jeans. I had to take a muscle relaxer when I got home.”

Steve glances over out of the corner of his eye.

Bucky flips the visor mirror down and tries to fix the mess he made. Why couldn’t he remember not to touch his hair? Why did he think gel was a good idea? “Have you ever tried wrestling with skinny jeans in a dressing room the size of this car? I’m having flashbacks, by the way.”

Steve grins. “Can’t say that I have.”

“The skinny jeans won, Steve.”

“They are kinda tight. I bet Sam’s gonna like them, though.”

“He texted me today and I almost threw up because I thought he was canceling.” Bucky pushes the mirror closed and leans back in his seat. “He was asking for your address because he wasn’t able to get out of work as early as he thought.”

Steve pulls up to a red light and looks over at him. “You never used to be so high-strung over guys.”

Bucky bristles. “Maybe it’s the brain damage.” The look on Steve’s face makes him regret saying it out loud. “Sorry, that came out bitchy.”

“I always want you to tell me how you’re feeling.” Steve shrugs. “Even if you’re feeling sarcastic…” He gives Bucky a crooked smile. “And bitchy.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m just nervous. I feel like I have bees in my chest.”

“That’s how I felt around Peg all through college.” Steve’s smile is softer now.

“Yeah, you were a huge dope. She was clearly gone on you.”

“I sure was,” Steve agrees cheerfully. “I bet Sam’s gone on you too, Buck.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky points towards the now green traffic light. “Stop making dumb faces at me and drive.”

“You’ll see,” Steve says, pressing on the gas when the car behind him starts to honk.

Sam follows the turn-by-turn directions until his phone leads him to a cute bungalow on a quiet, tree-shaded street. He double-checks he has the right house. Takes a breath. Gets out of the car. He’s halfway up the steps when he realizes he’s forgotten the wine in the trunk.

“Take two,” he whispers to himself as he climbs the steps for a second time.

He knocks. The door opens to reveal an attractive brunette. She’s dressed rockabilly style, with pin-up red lips and a colorful tattoo on her forearm. Sarah was right, Bucky’s friends are all impossibly good-looking.

“You must be Sam,” she says in a British accent. “I’m Margaret, but everyone calls me Peggy.”

“Nice to meet you, Peggy,” he says, handing her the wine. 

“Oh, this is lovely, thank you.” She takes the bottle and waves him inside.

“The boys are out picking up the pizza,” she explains. She dimples at him. “I have baby pictures of James. If we hurry, I can show you before he gets back.”

Sam grins back at her. “You call him James?”

“We met in college. He thought it sounded more grown up, I think.” She leads him through the living room and down a hallway. “Steve could never get the hang of it, though. Everyone was always, 'who the hell is Bucky?'” She says the last part in an American accent and Sam cracks up. “There were three other people named James in one of his classes and he finally gave up. Here we are.” She gestures to a wall of framed photos.

There’s a large wedding photo in the center. Peggy and her husband look very young; they must have gotten married right out of college. Next to it are smaller photos of the wedding party. Sam spots one of Bucky and Steve, arms around each other's shoulders, and realizes that Peggy’s husband is Bucky’s gym buddy from Twitter. Twenty-something Bucky was adorable, all pouty lips and puppy fat. Sam can feel his face stretch into a wide smile—he’s probably grinning like a fool.

“If I open this up, will you have some with me?” Peggy asks, lifting the bottle. After Sam nods in agreement, she points to a framed Polaroid. “That one’s my favorite. They look so sweet.”

She heads into the kitchen with the bottle, and Sam leans down to get a closer look. Bucky and Steve are both ridiculously tiny. They're wearing matching blue baseball uniforms, arms around each other once again. Bucky’s hair is lighter, nearly as blond as Steve’s. His cheeks are adorably chubby.

“This is precious,” he says to Peggy when she comes back with two glasses of wine, handing him one.

“Isn’t it, though?” She sips from her glass. “This is very nice,” she remarks. Then she points back to the Polaroid. “Apparently, right after this picture was taken, Steve got into a fight with someone on the other side and he and James got kicked off the team. Isn’t that a riot?”

“Seriously?” Sam asks, laughing.

Peggy nods. “A bench-clearing brawl at four years of age.” Her voice is fond. “I don’t think either of them has changed a bit.”

There’s a loud, sputtering noise outside, like someone has started up a lawn mower. Peggy looks up and says, “Oh, that’s them now.” Sam sets his glass down and follows her outside, just in time to see Bucky stumble out of the passenger side of an ancient Volkswagen Beetle. A large blond man slides more gracefully out of the driver’s seat. It’s like watching people exit a clown car.

“I thought I’d need the jaws of life to get out of there,” he can hear Bucky gasping as Steve laughs gently at him. Then Bucky looks up and meets Sam’s eyes. Sam watches in fascination as a blush blooms across Bucky’s clean-shaven face.

They both approach and Sam’s finally introduced to Steve in the flesh. He thinks he’s polite and makes all the right noises because Steve grins at him before taking the stack of pizzas he’s holding inside. Before Bucky can follow, Peggy swoops in and takes the bags Bucky’s holding with a wink, leaving Sam and Bucky alone on the porch.

In boots, Bucky is several inches taller. Sam has to look up at him when they’re standing this close. It’s all a little much. Sam steps back to take a breath. He lets his eyes roam from the tight jeans to the slim-fitting black leather jacket and back up to Bucky’s pink mouth. Bucky licks his lips, reminding Sam of Alpine whenever Sam steps foot in the kitchen. He chuckles at the thought, and Bucky blinks at him.

“You never told me you were a model,” Sam blurts out, and Bucky blushes all the way down his neck. “Don’t get me wrong, the white-Jesus thing you had going on was working for you—”

Bucky wheezes. “White Jesus?” he mouths, red-faced.

“But who knew there was an old-timey movie star under all that hair?” Sam continues and watches in delight as Bucky somehow turns even redder. Before he can come up with something even more ridiculous, they’re interrupted by the arrival of a shiny black Corvette.

It glides into the driveway and pulls up next to the blue Beetle, eclipsing the smaller car. A gorgeous redhead and an equally gorgeous blond step out. Sam is going to have to get a picture of these folks to send to Sarah—she will lose her mind.

“Are these more comic book people?”

Bucky looks at him, confused. “Uh, no? I mean, Nat’s my model, but that’s not her day job. I’ve never met the guy before—oh jeez.”

“What is happening right now?” Sam asks as Bucky’s face goes on a journey that arrives at ‘dawning horror’.

“Damn it, Natasha,” he groans.

“That’s not really an answer.”

The redhead walks like a murder-bot. Sam completely gets why Bucky modeled a deadly assassin character after her. Up close, she’s just as sleek as the car she drives, not a hair out of place. The blond man is handsome in a more careless way, like he just rolled out of bed and hasn’t had his coffee yet. There’s a small white bandage covering the bridge of his nose. Sam can feel Bucky vibrating beside him and he wishes someone would tell him what the hell is going on.

The Winter Soldier marches up the steps and—in an unexpectedly smoky voice—says, “Clint, this is Bucky…”

She trails off when she spots Sam, hesitating for the first time. “And his neighbor?”

“This is Sam”, Bucky grits out. “And I told you, no more blind dates.”

“Oh.” She recovers quickly, turning to Sam with a wry smile. “I didn't realize Bucky was bringing somebody. It’s nice to meet you officially.”

“Blind dates?” Clint repeats, looking from Bucky to Natasha in confusion. “I thought we were on a date?”

“What.” Natasha says flatly, turning to him.

“You know?” Clint is gesturing between them. “You and me?” He brings both hands together to touch at the fingertips—minus the index fingers, which are extended—pulls them apart, and touches them together again.

Natasha looks at him incredulously. “I asked if you were attracted to men. You said yes.”

“I thought we were bonding! You know, like bisexual solidarity?” Clint puts his hand up for a high five. Natasha grabs his hand and pulls it back down.

“This is awkward,” Sam whispers. Bucky looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

Steve cracks open the door. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but the pizza’s still hot if you want it?”

“Aw, yes. Pizza,” Clint says, bounding past them all like a giant Golden Retriever.

“You matchmade yourself,” Bucky tells Natasha gleefully. She makes a sour lemon face and follows after Clint. Then Bucky turns to Sam with a grin so bright that Sam is blinded to anything else.

After they eat, Steve tries to propose Settlers of Catan, but Bucky shuts him down. “You are ruthless at that game.”

“So are you!” Steve protests.

“I match your energy,” Bucky retorts. He turns to Sam, then to Clint. “Either of you ever play?” When they shake their heads, he turns back to Steve. “Come on, Steve. We have new people here; let's not alienate them.”

“If you don’t care about winning, it’s actually hilarious,” Peggy says sotto voce. Louder, she says, “Natasha would wipe the floor with you both.”

Steve looks up like that’s a challenge, but Bucky just grins easily. “She’s right,” he says, turning to Sam, “because Nat cheats.”

Natasha looks affronted. “I do not cheat.”

“Loaded dice,” Bucky says sagely.

“We can play right now and you can test the dice yourself.”

“This is like watching a ping-pong match,” Clint says, breathless.

Sam watches in amusement as Steve stands up like he’s going to get the game.

“No,” Peggy says, putting her hand on Steve’s arm.

“Absolutely not,” Bucky says, pulling Steve back into his seat.

Instead, they start off with a couple of card games that everyone is familiar with. They progress to a game of Jenga that ends when Clint announces that he can’t be stopped—then immediately proceeds to knock the tower over so dramatically they have to scoop pieces out of the fireplace. Sam can’t remember the last time he laughed so hard.

“Hey, there you are. What are you doing out here in the dark?”

Bucky looks up to see Natasha peering out at him from the front door. She’s holding a red Solo cup in one hand, her dark coat draped over her shoulders like a blanket.

“I’m just getting some air.” Bucky makes a self-deprecating face he’s not sure she can even see. “I’m not used to so many people anymore.”

“I can go?”

“No, you’re fine.” He scoots over on the swing to make room for her. When she sits all the way back, her legs don’t reach the ground, so he pushes for them both until they’re swinging lazily.

She gets comfortable, arranging her coat around herself before saying, “I’m surprised you left Sam alone in there with those maniacs.”

“Well, you’re here,” Bucky says, “so he’s safe.”

She elbows him and he laughs. “Him and Steve started talking about football, so I’m letting them bond. His whole family’s in Louisiana. I don’t think he has many friends here.”

She nods and Bucky asks, “What’s in the cup?”

She peers into the plastic cup like she’s not exactly sure herself. “Clint made some sort of jungle juice. He handed it to me right before I came out here.”

“He seems…nice.”

“You really don’t have to say it like that,” Natasha says. “He is actually nice. He’s also new in town and doesn’t have any friends here either.”

“Oh, so this was like a ‘killing two birds with one stone’ thing.” When Natasha looks like she’s about to protest, he continues, “I’m not even mad, watching that Uno reverse was the highlight of my month.”

“Oh, I thought your hot neighbor was the highlight of your month.” Natasha’s voice is sly. Bucky wonders how much gossiping has been going on during the five minutes he’s stepped away.

“You’re just sore because you think you’re the love guru.”

“I do not think I’m the love guru,” Natasha says. Bucky can practically feel her rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry I made things weird—I just want you to be happy. Is that so hard to believe?”

Bucky lets that sink in and bumps her shoulder with his. “Okay,” he says softly. “I forgive you, dumbass.”

She drops her head on his shoulder. “Thanks, buttface,” she whispers, and he snorts into her hair.

After a few minutes, Natasha says, “Who hits on a woman by telling her he’s into men?”

“Bisexual solidarity,” Bucky says, snickering and jostling her.

“Shut up, oh my god.” Natasha sits up and takes a hesitant swig from the Solo cup. “This isn’t half bad.”

“A few more of those and Clint will start looking good to you.”

Natasha looks at him quizzically. “He already looks good to me. I just thought he was gay.”

“Huh. And here I thought you were throwing spaghetti at the wall.”

“What? He’s cute. You thought I’d set you up with someone I didn’t think was cute? And he’s fun. You need a little fun in your life.”

“Quit trying to sell me. The guy is already half in love with you. Maybe you need some fun in your life.”

“Maybe,” she says doubtfully. Then more firmly, “He doesn’t even know me.”

“So? Let him get to know you. The real you. Not the hot chick that drives a muscle car.”

“I am a hot chick that drives a muscle car,” she drawls. “Although most people would argue that Corvettes are technically sports cars.”

“Most people would not argue that,” Bucky counters. “And you know what I mean.”

Natasha sighs. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” She kicks his leg. “Try this,” she says, handing him her cup. “It’s weirdly good.”

“I like your friends,” Sam says in the car on the way home. Something about the dark makes him keep his voice low.

“They like you too.” Bucky’s voice is equally soft. Sam wishes he didn’t have to pay attention to the road, because he’d like to look at Bucky’s face. He contents himself with a side glance, the glow from the streetlights dancing across Bucky’s profile.

“You think so?”

“Are you kidding? Steve found someone who’ll talk football with him. You’re his new best friend.”

Sam laughs.

“I’m yesterday’s news, Sam.” Bucky pauses. When Sam glances over, Bucky’s yawning into his fist. “It’s fine. I’ll go on somehow.”

“I was kind of nervous,” Sam admits. He might have panic-changed his shirt three times before rushing out of his apartment. (Which he definitely won’t admit.)

“You shouldn’t be, everyone loves you.” And then, his voice raspy with sleep, Bucky says, “You're so easy to love.”

Sam draws in a breath, but when he looks over Bucky’s head is pressed against the window and he’s snoring softly.

Chapter Text

Sam pulls into his parking space and shuts off the ignition. When he looks over, Bucky is still slumped against the window, his eyelashes a dark smudge against his cheek. He puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“You smell nice,” Bucky mumbles, blinking awake. He looks soft and a bit rumpled, and Sam wants to kiss him so badly. Instead, he says, “We’re home.”

Bucky sits up and rubs his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

“It’s alright.” Sam’s voice is thick; he clears his throat. “C’mon.”

It feels strange to wait for the elevator together. Sam’s spent so much time talking to Bucky through a window, it’s odd to be out in the real world. And he keeps noticing how much taller Bucky looks in clothes that actually fit him. (He’s all leg—it’s very distracting.) They reach Bucky’s apartment first, and as Bucky digs for his key, Sam tries to think of something to say. He’s usually pretty quick-witted, but nothing comes to mind, not even a dumb joke. He watches in agony as Bucky turns to him, gives him an awkward little smile, and ducks into his apartment. All before Sam can even mouth a “good night”. Sam stares at Bucky’s closed door, feeling like an idiot.

Sam turns and slumps back to his own apartment. He thinks about texting Bucky and then immediately rejects the idea. If Bucky passes out without responding, Sam’s going to be up all night agonizing. (He’s probably going to be up all night agonizing anyway.) Instead, he slips off his shoes by the door and heads to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. He’s barely drunk half of it before he hears an obnoxious caterwauling outside his window. He grins and sets his glass down.

When he opens the window, Alpine greets him with a loud “mrrp”, leaps inside and starts to wind around his legs. He smiles down at her helplessly.

There's a bang on the metal grate of the fire escape. Sam looks up to see Bucky coming into view—wide-awake now, breathing hard and hissing Alpine’s name. His jacket is gone, and his shirt is partially unbuttoned; Sam can see a bit of chest hair peeking out of the open neck. He drags his eyes back up to Bucky’s face.

“Jesus.” Bucky startles when he notices Sam. “Sorry!”

“It’s fine.” Sam ducks his head, hiding his grin. At his feet, Alpine’s doing her best to coat his socks in a layer of white fur. “My girl wanted to see me.”

“Yeah, she was going crazy.” Bucky mumbles. “Kinda wanted to see you too. I forgot something.”

Sam looks back up. It’s hard to tell in the dim light, but Sam thinks Bucky might be blushing. He’s biting his lip and his hair is sticking up crazily, like he’s been tugging at it. Sam’s face is starting to hurt from smiling so hard; he leans against the window frame. “Oh yeah? What’d you forget?”

“This,” Bucky says, his voice barely a whisper. Bucky clutches Sam’s jacket and tugs him closer. When they’re nearly nose to nose, Bucky asks, “Is this okay?”

“Yes,” Sam breathes out, and Bucky kisses him.

If it wasn't for the awkward way they are both hunched over, Sam halfway out a window, it would be perfect. He groans when Bucky pulls away; resists the urge to pull Bucky through the window like a neanderthal.

“Sorry,” Bucky says, a wry smile on his face. “That was killing my back.”

Sam straightens, careful to avoid concussing himself on the window rail. “No apologies necessary. Best kiss of my life.” Bucky beams at him and they both stare at each other stupidly.

They’re interrupted by a loud, vibrating sound.

“Is that my cat?” Bucky peers in through the window. “Alpine, you sound like Steve’s car.”

Sam looks down to see Alpine curled up on his foot, rubbing her face against his ankle, and purring up a storm. There’s a cloud of white fluff settling in the surrounding air.

“Oh jeez,” Bucky says, his voice sheepish. “I owe you a lint brush.”

Sam throws his head back and laughs.

“So, where’s your neighbor?” Natasha asks when they get back from yoga class. “He’s usually at the window by now.”

“Ha. Ha.” Bucky responds dryly, and Natasha’s lips twist into a satisfied smirk.

He sprawls on the rug next to Alpine and reaches out to boop her pink nose. “One of Sam’s nephews was having a birthday party and the other was playing in a baseball game. He caught a good deal on a flight, so he took an extra day off. Went to surprise them.” Alpine rubs her face against his hand, and Bucky scritches under her chin.

“That’s sweet,” Natasha says, dropping to sit next to him.

“He’s a sweet guy.”

Alpine investigates Natasha’s yoga pants next. When she’s satisfied, she trots over to the window and jumps up to sit on the ledge and wait. After the second day of no Sam, she’s finally stopped wailing outside his window. Thank god.

“She’s pining,” Bucky tells Natasha.

Natasha laughs. “She’s not the only one.”

“Shut it, you.” Bucky pulls out his phone and snaps a picture, captions it “Alpining” and tweets it out. Natasha shakes her head at him, but he knows she’ll end up retweeting it, because Alpine is freaking adorable.

“When’s he due back?”

“Sometime tonight, he’s supposed to work tomorrow.” Bucky double-checks his messages—no new calls or texts. “He’s probably on the plane.” He scrolls up through Sam’s old texts and grins, turns the phone towards Natasha to show her the picture. Sam’s nephews are hilariously engrossed in the stack of graphic novels Bucky had sent along with Sam. “They were a big hit. Sarah said she would have got them comic books ages ago if she knew they’d take a break from video games to read.”

“Sarah? Wait—you spoke to Sam’s sister?”

“Yes? Stop making that dumb face at me. She FaceTimed so the kids could say ‘thank you’. You’ll be happy to know they were very excited that I know the Winter Soldier personally.”

“Aww, that’s cute,” Natasha says, looking pleased. After a moment she asks, “How’s the arm feeling?”

“It’s okay.” Bucky shrugs. “It’s never gonna be a hundred percent, you know that.”

“You’ve been using that scar cream I gave you?”

“Yes, mom.”

Natasha rolls her eyes. “You tell him yet?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“You know the longer you wait, the more of a thing it’s going to be.”

Bucky groans. “Ugh. I know.”

“Rip the Band-Aid off.”

“How am I supposed to do that? Hey Sam, wanna see my gross scar?”

“It’s not gross; it’s your arm. Besides, he’s not going to care.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely do.”

“I recall you telling me you only pretend to know everything.”

“I was lying. I didn’t want to spook you.”

Bucky snorts.

“You should have seen the heart-eyes he was giving you over at Steve and Peggy’s.” Natasha pokes his side with her socked toe, and he swats at her. “Besides, didn’t you say he works at the VA? As a counselor? He’s definitely seen worse.”

Bucky knows she’s right, about this at least. Still, the thought of it makes him want to hurl. “I can barely look at it myself.”

“So…show me.”

“What?”

“Practice on me. You know I don’t care—” Her face breaks out into a grin.

“Don’t say it—”

“Show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” she sing-songs.

Bucky makes a face.

“Here, I’ll go first.” Natasha starts peeling her leggings down.

“Jeez, Nat.”

Natasha ignores him and kicks them off, then she pushes him over when he pretends to cover his eyes. They both start cackling when they notice Alpine glaring from her perch on the windowsill. (Alpine turning away in disgust makes them laugh harder.)

Bucky looks back at Natasha. “Those underpants are ridiculous.”

“Clint bought them for me.”

“That’s moving fast,” Bucky says faintly. Or is it? It’s been a few weeks since the party, Bucky’s days tend to run together. Maybe he’s moving slow.

Instead of answering, Natasha blows a big, obnoxious bubble with her chewing gum and pops it. The scars on her knee are just a couple of shiny lines down each side of her kneecap. “It’s hardly fair, you barely have a scar at all.”

“Because I used the scar cream. Stop stalling and take off your shirt.”

“Fine. You’re such a bully. Does Clint know this about you yet?” Natasha leers and he puts his hands up. “No. Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know.”

Bucky pulls his sweatshirt off and shivers—tries not to curl up like a pillbug. Natasha eyes his arm clinically. “That discoloration is going to fade after a while. And it’s good you wear long sleeves, keeping the sun off it will help keep it from scarring worse.” It’s nothing his physical therapist hasn’t said already, but somehow it’s comforting to hear Natasha repeat it.

“How’s PT going?” she asks.

“Okay. I’m working on my grip.” He squeezes his left hand into a fist. “If I wasn’t right-handed, I’d have to learn how to draw all over again.”

“Am I interrupting something?”

Bucky clutches his sweatshirt to his chest. Sam’s standing outside the window, a bemused smile on his face. Alpine yells at him, and Sam looks down at her and grins. When he opens his arms, she leaps up and starts to rub her face all over his chest. Oh, to be a cat.

Bucky cuts his eyes over to Natasha. She shakes her head slightly—she didn’t plan this—then she turns back to Sam. “We’re showing each other our scars,” Natasha explains, like that’s a totally normal thing for them to be doing. If she’s embarrassed by a near stranger seeing her in her underpants, she doesn’t show it.

“Can I join in, or is this a private party?” Sam asks, because he’s apparently as insane as the rest of Bucky’s friends.

Bucky freezes, but Natasha waves Sam in.

Sam squeezes through the window, looking more graceful than he has any right to. He sets Alpine down and she takes a moment to scent Sam’s ankles before trotting off into the kitchen.

Sam kneels down across from them and whips off his t-shirt. An angel choir starts singing—or maybe that’s just in Bucky’s head.

Natasha presses close to Bucky’s ear. “Close your mouth,” she says in a low, amused voice, and Bucky complies, his face flaming.

“Okay, I’ll start,” Natasha says, somehow still managing to control the room in Pokémon underwear. (What the hell, Clint.) She points to her knee. “Torn ACL. Bye bye, ballet career.” She punctuates this sentence with a snap of her gum. Doesn’t mention that she was only fourteen the first time she tore it—a fact Bucky only knows after copious amounts of vodka. Bucky bites his lip and looks at Sam.

Sam nods and points to a small scar near his waist that Bucky didn’t even notice. “Caught a piece of shrapnel getting shot down over Kandahar. I made it. My partner didn’t.”

“Jesus, Sam,” Bucky murmurs.

Natasha and Sam both look at him patiently. He swallows. Holds out his bare left arm for a second before tucking it back under his sweatshirt. “I was jogging to the gym. A car jumped the curb, ended up right on top of me and crushed my arm.” He says this to Sam, since Natasha already knows the whole story. “They tell me I’m lucky I didn’t lose it.” His voice wavers. He wonders how long it’s going to take for him to sound as matter-of-fact about it as Sam and Natasha.

“That must have been hard,” Sam says, his voice gentle.

Bucky shrugs, glancing over as Natasha stands and heads towards the bathroom. He turns back to Sam. “I’m just being vain. I didn’t lose my career—I didn’t lose a person. Sam, I’m so sorry.”

“It was rough. I’m not gonna lie. But it was also nearly twenty years ago, and this isn’t the struggle-Olympics.” Sam nods towards Bucky’s arm. “You were laid up for a while?”

Bucky nods. “After the first surgery, I stayed with Steve and Peggy for over a month. Natasha drove me to PT when they couldn’t.” Bucky hears the click of the front door shutting and looks around. The bathroom light is off—Natasha and her ridiculous underpants are gone.

“She left,” Sam says, smiling slightly. “Gave me the dorkiest thumbs up. I can’t believe I used to think she was cool.”

Bucky snorts. “This was a super weird thing for you to walk in on, huh?”

“Not as weird as last time, with the mask and the knife.” Sam says, making a stabbing motion with his fist. “Sorry, I didn’t text you, my phone died.”

“It’s good to see you. Even if this was totally embarrassing.”

“It’s good to see you, too,” Sam says. “And baby, you’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.” Sam’s eyes rake across his bare chest. Bucky thinks he’s still too skinny to be bothered with, but Sam sure seems to like looking. It makes him feel brave and a little bit reckless. He drops the sweatshirt to the side and leans back on his elbows, biting his lip. He grins when Sam immediately follows, crouching over him.

“You’re so cute,” Sam says, pressing a kiss against the corner of Bucky’s mouth. Bucky feels like he’s melting. He puts his arms around Sam’s neck, sinks back, pulls Sam down on top of him.

Sam kisses him again, pulls back to ask, “I’m not crushing you?”

Bucky tugs him back down. “This is better than my weighted blanket.” Sam’s laugh is nearly as good as his warm, bare chest pressing against Bucky’s.

Sam can’t remember the last time he just necked with someone. They kiss until Sam’s lips are sore. When Bucky finally admits it’s getting difficult for him to breathe, they sit up and Sam holds him close. It’s embarrassing how much he missed Bucky. (So much so that Sarah noticed and insisted on a video call—leaving Sam alone with her phone while she put the kids to bed.)

They’re just kind of breathing into each other’s necks and without thinking, Sam runs his hands down Bucky’s arms. His fingers skate back when he feels the scar tissue. “I’m sorry.” He presses his lips against Bucky’s other shoulder. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s okay.” Bucky’s voice is muffled, but he’s close enough to Sam’s ear that Sam can hear him just fine. “It kind of buzzes—there’s some nerve damage. They tell me I should get most of the feeling back eventually.”

“You don’t mind—”

“I like when you touch me.” Bucky’s voice is a whisper against Sam’s neck. Sam shivers, presses a kiss against Bucky’s cheek, and then yawns right into Bucky’s face.

There’s an excruciating moment of silence. Then Bucky says, voice as dry as the Sahara, “Sorry to bore you.” He ruins the effect by giggling almost immediately.

“My flight was delayed,” Sam explains. “It's been a long day.”

“I was joking,” Bucky assures him, giving Sam a light squeeze. “Go get some sleep; you have work in the morning.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me.” There’s nothing that Sam wants more than to wake up with Bucky in his arms. Whether in Bucky’s bed, his, or right here on the rug. But they’re not quite there yet. “Don’t forget to lock the window—the front door too,” Sam says, pressing another kiss against Bucky’s cheek. He stands, wincing when his knees remind him of his age.

Bucky acknowledges this with a sleepy smile and Sam gives him a stern look. “Do not sleep on this rug all night.”

“Mmm,” Bucky says, looking like a man about to pass out on a rug.

“Sweet dreams.” Sam grins at him before leaning over to pick up his discarded shirt. He tucks it into the back of his jeans before ducking out onto the fire escape.

“I don’t know if sweet is the word you’re looking for,” he can hear Bucky call after him and Sam feels like he’s walking on air.

Chapter Text

Sam raps the window once before ducking inside, then takes in the scene. Bucky is barefoot in front of a canvas and an easel, Alpine slung across his shoulders like a scarf. (Has been for some time, judging by the amount of shedded fur.) She turns to Sam and greets him with a flick of her tail.

Bucky peers over the mountain of white fluff. “Hey Sam,” he calls cheerfully before returning his attention to the painting.

Sam takes a step closer.

He manages to peel his eyes away from Bucky’s strong hands and forearms. Bucky’s dressed in sweatpants and a threadbare tee; both are covered in paint splotches, and the shirt has tiny holes across the back and shoulders. Sam watches as Alpine adjusts her back foot, adding to the constellation.

Sam swallows, his throat clicking dryly. “I’ve never seen you paint before.” He watches in fascination as the vague wash of color grows more detailed. Turns into something real.

“First time in a long time,” Bucky admits, flashing him a smile. “The tablet’s easier ‘cause I can lie down if I have to.” He adds paint to the brush and flicks his wrist across the canvas. “Feel good now, though.”

Sam’s eyes dart towards Bucky’s scarred arm. I could have lost him. He thinks about a world where they never met. Waking up feeling heartbroken and not knowing the cause. I could have lost him and never even known it. He's glad Bucky can’t see whatever his face is doing.

Taking a cleansing breath, he says, “Can’t imagine having a ‘parrot’ on your shoulders would have helped.”

“I’m thinking about getting her one of those BabyBjörn carriers.”

Sam thinks about Bucky tooling around town with a cat strapped to his chest and grins. He turns his attention to Alpine. “Where’s the love?” he asks, holding out his hand until she deigns to grace him with a headbutt.

“I don’t know why she likes this so much.” Bucky shrugs, and Alpine readjusts with an impatient sigh that makes Sam’s grin widen. “But if I don’t let her on my shoulders when I’m painting, she turns herself into a tripping hazard.”

“The cutest little speed bump,” Sam coos, and Alpine slants her eyes at him.

“I’m almost done here. We can order takeout later?”

“Take your time,” Sam tells him, then adds, “Baby,” just so he can watch the tips of Bucky’s ears turn pink. Satisfied, he sprawls onto the couch to enjoy the view.

They’re boyfriends now, apparently. Last week—when Bucky had inadvertently climbed into the background of a Wilson family FaceTime call—Sarah had yelled, “Get your boyfriend a key, Sam!” And well, Sam hadn’t corrected her, had he? Instead, the following day, Bucky was presented with a freshly made copy. “In case I forget to unlock the window,” Sam had explained, sounding uncharacteristically nervous. Bucky had, of course, kissed the hell out of him. Then he rummaged through the junk drawer until he found a spare key to trade. They still do the window thing, mostly because it's fun. (But it's good to know that Bucky can avoid potential disaster when he wants to surprise Sam with takeout.)

Bucky has never had a boyfriend before. Sure, before the accident, he didn’t have any trouble picking up guys. He worked hard in the gym, and it showed. But casual hookups never seemed to translate into real relationships. (For some reason, most guys wanted to meet at a bar, not at Steve's house for board games.)

“I am kind of boring.” At Sam’s disbelieving look, Bucky snorts. “I spend all day drawing and talking to a cat. I go to the gym, and—if I’m feeling adventurous—the pizza place next to the gym.” Even before the accident, he had given up on anyone sticking around.

“Bucky—”

“And the only reason I don’t get delivery is ‘cause they always get lost trying to find the apartment. Which is super weird, actually? The grocery people don’t have a problem.”

“Baby, you are not boring.”

“If you say so,” Bucky mumbles.

“My blood pressure says so. The first time we met, you set my kitchen on fire.”

“Oh my god, don’t remind me.”

“So hot, you set off the smoke alarm.” Sam flashes a gap-toothed grin, clearly pleased with himself.

“You are so cheesy. Come here; I’ll show you hot.”

“Now who’s cheesy?” Sam counters, but shuts up when Bucky pulls him into a smoldering kiss.

Afterwards, Bucky’s voice is sly when he asks, “So how’s your blood pressure now?”

Bucky wakes up when the mattress shifts. Sam had spent the night, and Bucky had made it all the way through without a nightmare. Sam kisses him good morning, and Bucky sighs into it before immediately falling back asleep.

He wakes up with a mouthful of cat fur, Alpine having claimed the warm spot that Sam had vacated.

He shuffles into the kitchen to find a note under his favorite coffee mug. Sam’s block letters declare that he’s going for a run. This announcement is punctuated with a little heart drawing that has Bucky’s own heart beating embarrassingly fast. God, he’s such a sap.

Bucky’s not ready to start running again; he’s not sure if he ever will be, but surely a walk down to the corner store couldn’t hurt? Rip the Band-Aid off, as Nat would say.

While his coffee is brewing, he makes a grocery list, leaving Sam a note in return in case he beats Bucky back home.

The walk itself isn’t bad at all; the weather is nice, and he doesn’t flinch too much whenever a car passes. Everything is sunshine and roses until he makes it inside the store, the bell over the door tinkling cheerfully as he enters. He takes a shopping basket, grabs a few things from the front, and heads towards the refrigerators in the back. He’s looking down at his list when he runs into a brick wall. “Oof. Sorry!” he apologizes, glad he hadn’t picked up the eggs yet.

He looks up into the face of someone he hoped he’d never run into again. “Brock.”

“Bucky.” Brock manages to make it sound mocking, and Bucky remembers the first thing Brock had said to him when they met. “Isn’t that a little kid’s name?” Flustered, Bucky had offered “James” as an alternative. Plenty of people called him that, after all, including some of his closest friends. But now he’s annoyed with himself for being such a pushover. Brock insisted he had just been joking and then launched an hour-long charm offensive. Bucky would have ignored the name thing and slept with him anyway if Brock hadn't started a weird and unnecessary argument with the server. Bucky cringes at the memory of his (previously) low standards.

“You stopped going to the gym,” Brock accuses, hands on his hips and insufferably indignant.

Bucky blinks. Brock had cornered him at the gym, bitching about being ditched at the sports bar. It had been a few days before the accident, and Bucky had forgotten. To Brock, it probably looked like Bucky had been ghosting him.

Bucky lets out a sigh. And the morning had started off so well.

“EMERGENCY MEETING!”

Sam squints at his phone. “Isn’t that from a video game?” he texts back. He remembers his nephews were wild about it a couple of years ago. Drove Sarah crazy.

His phone chimes. “CODE RED,” it reads.

“Uh, okay.” Was this some sort of meme he was supposed to get? Usually, Clint just sends him pictures of cute dogs.

Another text, ”HURRY,” followed by a pin drop. Sam checks out the map; he recognizes the address as a bodega down the block from his apartment. He was almost finished with his run anyway. He jogs down the sidewalk, curious as to what this is all about. Maybe he’ll get to pet a dog.

The bell jingles overhead. Sam greets the bored-looking cashier, who grunts out a “hey” without looking up from his phone. The aisles are cramped and gloomy, which is why he prefers the grocery store near the VA Center. Still, Sam spots Clint right away, crouching on the scuffed linoleum behind a case of Oreos. He looks back towards the cashier, who doesn't seem to notice or care. Perhaps they’ve met Clint before. He heads towards Clint, who pulls Sam down beside him. “Be cool. Follow my lead,” Clint whispers.

“Man, what is this? You LARPing or something?”

At Clint’s confused look, Sam gestures toward the bow and quiver of arrows strapped to Clint's back.

“Oh! No, I teach an archery class at the Y.”

“So you’re not planning on shooting anything?” Sam double-checks.

“Do you think I should?” Clint asks, far too seriously for Sam’s liking.

“What? Are you insane? They have cameras all over the place.”

“Yeah, but only the one pointing at the register is plugged in,” Clint informs him with a shrug. He pulls an arrow from his quiver and nocks it so fast that Sam barely has time to blink.

Sam grabs Clint’s arm before he draws the bow. “No shooting anybody!” he shout-whispers. He glances over his shoulder. The cashier is still scrolling through his phone. Either he’s completely oblivious or has decided he doesn’t get paid enough to get involved in Clint’s shenanigans.

Clint lowers the bow. “I’m not shooting anyone. I’m gonna hit that 2-liter of Pepsi,” he says, gesturing with his chin.

“I mean, that’s a relief, but it’s still a ‘no’.”

“Then go do the fake-boyfriend thing.” Clint’s voice is slightly grumpy, like he had his heart set on flooding the store with cola.

Sam feels a headache coming on. He likes Clint, he really does. But sometimes their conversations feel like he’s navigating his way out of a funhouse maze. “With you?” he asks, with more patience than he feels.

“Noooo,” Clint says, like Sam's the crazy one. “With Bucky.”

“With Bucky?” Sam repeats slowly. “I’m dating him, Clint. I can’t be his fake boyfriend ‘cause I’m his real boyfriend.”

“Fine—then I'll do it.” Clint stands, slips the arrow back into the quiver, slings the bow across his back, and marches into a labyrinth of precariously stacked boxes.

“What the hell?” Sam mutters. Then he hears Clint say, voice silky, “Hey, honey.”

Is Natasha here? Is this some kind of prank? A secret-LARPing thing? Are secret-LARPs a thing? The mind boggles. Sam scrambles to his knees and peers around the shelf.

“Clint?” Bucky’s very confused voice rings out across the aisles.

“Who are you supposed to be? Robin Hood?” Another man’s voice sneers.

“Bucky?” Sam springs to his feet and follows Clint’s path towards the voices.

“Sam?” Bucky’s voice is higher now, tinged with something close to hysteria. Sam reaches him just as Clint wraps an arm around Bucky's shoulders and declares, “I'm his boyfriend. Who are you supposed to be? Wish.com Punisher?”

“What?” The man and Sam say in stereo.

“It’s an online retail marketplace where everything is kinda janky,” Clint explains.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky mutters.

“This is your boyfriend?” The man gestures at Clint with disgust.

“I’m his boyfriend,” Sam says at the same time Clint says, “That’s right.”

“His other boyfriend,” Clint adds helpfully. Then he winks at the large, angry stranger, and Sam finds himself caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh.

The man’s eyes bug out, and Sam looks towards Bucky. For a moment, he looks like his soul is trying to leave his body. Then he whispers, “Wish.com Punisher,” to himself and starts snickering. Sam elbows past the man to put his arm around Bucky’s other side.

“You gonna stand there all day?” Clint asks the sour-faced man, “You’re blocking the chocolate milk.”

The man’s expression is a particularly hilarious mix of confused and angry, emotions that Clint seems particularly adept at inspiring. Sam would feel sorry for the guy if he hadn’t just been looming over Bucky in a dimly lit corner. They watch as he sputters, impotently furious. With a final glare, he turns on his heel and trips over a box of granola bars, spilling them across the aisle. Sam can feel Bucky shaking with silent laughter next to him, and he bites his own lip to keep from laughing out loud.

They watch in silence as the man picks himself up and stomps away, stiff-legged. After a moment, the door chime reports his exit with a cheerful jangle.

“My work here is done,” Clint announces, disentangling himself from their group hug. He picks out a bottle of chocolate milk, sketches a salute in Sam and Bucky’s direction, and heads towards the checkout.

“Wow,” Sam says. “That sure was something. You okay?”

“No kidding. Yeah, I’m fine.” Bucky grins. “I’m gonna have to call Steve later; there’s no way I’m gonna fit all that in a text.”

“So—and I’m almost afraid to ask—” Sam bends, picking up the crumpled box. “What’s a ‘punisher’?”

“Ugh.” Bucky starts scooping up granola bars. “Nat set me up with Brock ‘cause he looks like the guy who plays the Punisher. It didn’t work out ‘cause he’s an asshole—in case that wasn’t obvious.”
“Comic book character,” he explains at Sam's raised eyebrows. “There was a TV show—Nat must have given Clint the rundown.”

Sam takes all that in, ignores the dumb flare of jealousy. “Someone has a little crush on a comic book man, huh? That’s cute.”

“No, shut up. It’s ruined for me forever,” Bucky says dramatically, and Sam grins.

“What are you doing here anyway? I thought you went back to bed.”

Bucky lifts the shopping basket. “I’m making you French toast.”

“You can cook? This relationship is built on lies. Does your other boyfriend know about this?” Sam dodges a playful swipe from the basket.

“Don’t get too excited; I’m only good for breakfast.” Bucky steers them toward the eggs. “And collecting boyfriends, apparently. Who would have guessed?”

“Are you drawing me?” Sam turns away from the stove and gives Bucky a wary glance. “That better not end up on your Twitter.”

Bucky murmurs something that sounds suspiciously like, “Naw, this one’s for me.” He raises his voice before Sam can question him further. “For someone who wanders around in a towel all day, you’re kind of a prude.”

“Okay, first of all, I don’t wander around in a towel all day.” He ignores Bucky’s widening grin and continues, “I get home from work and start dinner, take a quick shower, check on dinner, dress, eat. Boom.”

“Boom,” Bucky repeats, laughing.

“And I’m not a prude.”

“Clearly. Hey, I’m not complaining.”

“My sister follows you, Buck. It’s not prudishness; it’s self-preservation. Now, stop staring and set the table.” Sam turns back to the stove to hide his smile.

“You do it on purpose,” Bucky grouses, but he puts his tablet down and starts opening cabinets and drawers.

“I like drying off first,” Sam explains, his voice mild. And that’s true—he hates the feeling of fresh clothes on damp skin. But also, he does do it a little bit on purpose. So sue him. Bucky’s eyes are just as hot on him now as when they first met—Sam knows what works, and he’s sticking with it.

After Bucky lays out the silverware, he wanders over and drapes himself against Sam’s back, pressing his nose into Sam’s neck. “Smells good,” he says in a voice that makes it obvious he is not talking about dinner.

Bucky’s fingers start dipping into the edge of the towel, and Sam grunts. Pretends to be annoyed. (He can feel Bucky’s smile against his skin, so clearly not his best acting job.) Sam flips the chicken over and pauses to slide Alpine across the floor with his foot. She immediately gallops back to rewrap herself around his ankles.

“It’s like you two don’t want to eat,” he complains, but it sounds more fond than exasperated, even to his own ears.

Bucky keeps brushing up against Sam until the damp towel gives up the ghost and lands on Alpine. She lets out an unholy shriek and scrambles out of the kitchen, dragging the towel along with her.

“Sorry girl!” Bucky yells.

“So you’ll apologize to the cat and not to me, huh?” Sam covers the pan and shifts his sensitive bits farther away from the heating element.

“Well, the thing is—” Bucky presses back in, the soft, worn fabric of his sweatpants a tease against Sam’s bare skin. “I’m not sorry. You’re a goddamn work of art.” He whispers the last part right against the shell of Sam’s ear, and Sam shivers.

Bucky’s left hand is back to exploring Sam’s chest, the right dipping lower and lower. Sam sucks in a breath as his nipple is tweaked. At the same time, fingertips brush against the neatly trimmed hair of his lower abdomen.

“This is so unsanitary,” Sam protests, but he lets himself be manhandled against the counter.

“Sure.” Bucky snorts. “Kinda like when I caught you drinking juice straight outta the bottle.”

“That is completely different.”

Bucky laughs at him. “It’s not like we’re throwing dinner parties over here.”

“If we ever get a place big enough to throw a dinner party, we’re not desecrating the kitchen,” Sam states. Like he’s not gonna roll right over the minute Bucky makes eyes at him. Like his own hands aren’t currently groping Bucky right back.

“That reminds me; I've been meaning to ask you something—” Bucky stops mid sentence and sniffs the air. “Uh, I think—” He’s cut off when the smoke detector starts blaring.

Sam startles. “Goddammit.” He glares over at the stovetop and then back at Bucky, who’s trying and failing to suppress a smirk. “You’re laughing. My chicken’s gonna be dry, and you’re laughing.”

Later, after salvaging dinner (gravy covers a multitude of sins), Sam points his fork at the wall that divides their apartments and jokes, “When we knock down that wall, we’ll have plenty of room for your dinner party, Buck.”

“Or,” Bucky adds. Pauses. Clears his throat. “The house across the street from Steve and Peggy is going up for rent soon.” Sam's eyes widen, and Bucky continues quickly. “I mean, you mentioned your lease is coming up. I—I could sublet my place in the meantime. If—if you want.”

Sam smiles as he sets his fork down. “Yeah, Buck. I want.”

“You sound happy,” Sarah says when he tells her, and Sam realizes he is. He never noticed how much he was just existing before.

“Guess you're not coming back home to join the family business.” She doesn’t sound mad about it.

“This is my home,” Sam says firmly. And for the first time, he believes it. “And besides, the boat’s your thing. I’d only get in the way.”

She laughs. “I wouldn’t turn down the help. But yeah, I know you don’t love it like I do. I’m happy for you, bro.”

Bucky’s in his boxers, getting ready for bed. He trips over moving boxes twice before turning the light back on to look for his phone charger. Maybe he already packed it? Tomorrow morning, they’re picking up the rental truck. Bucky doesn’t think he’s going to be able to sleep; he’s so excited. Steve’s been texting him all week—he’s glad that Sam and Steve get along because it looks like Steve’s planned their itinerary for the next couple of months. (He’s already coordinating with Sarah over holiday custody.)

Finally, Bucky sees his charger, still plugged into the wall by the window. When he looks up, a figure is standing on the fire escape.

Bucky shrieks.

Sam laughs at him, and Bucky puts his hand over his heart in exaggerated relief.

Sam pushes the window open and drops Alpine inside. “Your cat got out,” he says, ducking inside after her.

“Yeah, she does that,” Bucky says, leaning into Sam for a kiss. “Lucky me.”