Back Stabbers
Bucky hated this feeling. It almost felt like the flu: his stomach was nauseated, his head was pounding, and if anyone had been standing next to him they would’ve definitely heard him huffing and puffing. Only, Bucky wasn’t coming down with anything. No, the only thing making him sick was how close to each other Sam and Steve were standing.
As he stared down at them on the sidewalk from where he was spying through the window blinds, he yet again cursed the serum running through his veins that, among other things, gave him superhuman eyesight. Because he didn’t want to see this - wished he couldn’t see this: Steve looking at Sam like he hung the moon, Sam looking back at him with a soft smile gracing his face.
A smile that was supposed to belong only to Bucky.
Bucky continued watching though, his heart clenching with each word and every grin they exchanged, until Sam let himself in the door and Steve headed down the sidewalk towards his motorcycle after staring after Sam just a beat too long.
When Sam made his way into their apartment a couple of minutes later, a large part of Bucky wanted to yell instead of giving his customary greeting. He wanted to rant and rave and scream about broken trust and longing looks and not so innocent touches. He wanted to hurl every accusation that was floating around his mind straight at Sam and demand an explanation.
He didn’t though.
Instead, he did what he always did whenever Sam showed back up from one of his and Steve’s private missions… or sparring sessions… or museum dates:
He held Sam tight, and hoped he was wrong.