Chapter 8
They're flipping pancakes on a warm Sunday morning. It’s a Good Day, for the both of them, because it was a Good Night. A quiet one. The early morning sunshine is spilling through a window that Sam was happy to open. The radio is playing Bucky’s station, and he’s singing quietly, swaying his hips in a way that tells of forgotten rhythm. Sam has to hide his smile at Bucky’s dance moves. He loves him.
The realization hits Sam like a train.
Bucky wanted to make him breakfast but didn't think he was capable of pancakes, Sam’s favorite. His heart was already warm from Bucky’s pure desire to do something kind, so of course he offered to teach him. The batter was mixed, and someone got flour everywhere. Blueberries were Bucky’s new favorite fruit and Sam has always been partial to sweetness, so they were mixed in. The same goes with the probably stale chocolate chips found in Sam’s cabinet; he couldn't resist Bucky’s puppy eyes.
Sam stands behind Bucky, guiding his arm as he attempts to flip the pancakes. Bucky doesn’t think his arm is capable of anything good, of anything nice. Sam wants to do anything he can to convince him it is. The first couple of tries don’t…work out so well. The trajectory was all wrong, a bit too much force. But Sam convinces Bucky that he used to be a shit cook. His first pancakes ended up on the ceiling. His mom hadn't been to happy with that.
The heat of the stove and the heat of Bucky’s body and the heat of the sun from the window all make Sam feel warm. So warm. He holds Bucky’s metal wrist with a confident hand. A perfect pancake. Bucky smiles. You did that, Sam told Bucky. Not without you, Bucky tells Sam.
For a moment, Bucky’s smile falters. A memory, Sam can recognize by now. But Bucky shakes it off, and attempts a pancake on his own. He looks at the skillet like it was a puzzle he had to solve, a target he had to decipher. He gripped the spatula tight.
And flipped. A perfect pancake.
Bucky turns to Sam, and smiles like the sun. Pure joy, utter happiness. The stove is hot, Bucky is hot, the sun is hot. But Bucky’s smile? Sam feels aflame. He’s burning, he’s burning he's looking right into the sun, and he can’t survive. You know what they say about Icarus.
The irony of that loops and loops in Sam’s mind throughout breakfast. Bucky’s giddy, breakfast is delicious, stale chocolate chips and all, but Sam. Sam is in love with Bucky.
He flies, he flies, and Bucky’s the sun. Sam has been getting close, too close. Ones with wings are destined to fall, and with a sun like Bucky? Sam knows he won’t be able to stop himself.
But he can’t. He wants to. But he won’t.
*
Sam loves Bucky. And suddenly, everything is different.
He doesn’t falter in his kindness, in his presence. Sam is much too kind. Every moment causes physical pain, but he soldiers through it. They huddle together on the sofa on a night on insomnia. A blanket is shared. Close. But not close enough. Sam wants to pull Bucky into his arms and press a kiss to his forehead. Bucky shudders from all the contact with strangers on the street. Sam has his six, but what he really wants to do is hold his hand, touch the spot that relaxes him. But he's sure Bucky wouldn't want to hold his hand in public.
And it hurts. It makes Sam sick because he shouldn't feel this way about Bucky. All Bucky wants from him is for him to be a friend. Someone to get him through the bad nights. Bucky never signed up for Sam’s inappropriate crush.
But sometimes, sometimes a part of Sam hoped. When Bucky grabbed his hand of his own volition on their first trip to the grocery store together(Bucky had been equal parts amazed and horrified, at the variety and the prices). When Sam fell asleep on the couch, and Bucky carried him to his bed. Usually, Sam wouldn't even wake up.
But his feelings weren't fair.
For starters, Bucky spent so much time with him, that he was bound to have some sort of Stockholm syndrome. Not the mention the fact that Bucky has only recently regained himself as a person. Though it wasn't necessarily Sam’s place to determine, he doubted that Bucky was ready for a relationship.
And then there was Steve.
They were so obviously in love, even if they didn't know it yet. It wasn't their fault, it was different back in the day. Steve’s entire being lit up when talking Bucky, and Bucky’s smile wasn't much different.
Bucky smiles at you like that too, a traitorous voice in Sam’s head told him.
Stockholm syndrome, remember? the logical part of him responded.
Sam was guilty. The part of him that only wanted him to be happy, the part Sam has spent years repressing wanted Bucky bad enough to consider breaking the worlds greatest love story that spanned nearly a century, wanted Bucky.
Steve wasn't here now. Steve didn't even know Bucky was living with Sam. He could make his move, and maybe, maybe Bucky would want to be his. And Sam would be Bucky’s.
But Bucky would always belong to Steve, and Steve to Bucky. There had to be some reason that they kept dying and living, to be together. He couldn't break that up.
He wouldn't stand a chance.