How Can I Ease The Pain?
Sam was at his wits end. Seriously, Bucky had been acting like a moody little shit (well, a moodier than usual little shit) for weeks now and Sam was sick of it.
For months after the cookout on the docks, things had been good between them. They were texting regularly and training together regularly and working together regularly - everything was fine. So fine in fact, that Bucky had broken the lease on the sad little apartment he would never have dared called a home, and moved down to Delacroix, just a stone's throw from Sarah’s place.
So, yeah, things had been just about as close to perfect between them as Sam could have ever imagined, but then slowly but surely, they… just weren’t.
Bucky stopped texting as much, and stopped coming around the house as often, and anytime they were together and weren’t actively engaged in a mission, he clammed up like it would physically hurt him to speak.
And. Sam. Was. Sick. Of. It.
So, one day he waited until the house was empty, and texted Bucky, “Come quick! I need you.”
Bucky was in the house about five minutes later, frantically calling out Sam’s name.
“I’m in my room. Hurry,” Sam yelled back, and Bucky was there in seconds; knife out, eyes murderous.
“What’s going on?” He asked, frowning as he surveyed Sam’s room and didn’t see any signs of trouble.
“Jesus, put that away,” Sam said, instead of answering, and moved to stand in front of the door.
“You made it sound like an emergency,” he muttered, but flipped the knife back into its holder.
“It is,” Sam said, then locked the door to his room.
One good thing about old ass houses: they have old ass doors that you lock with old ass skeleton keys. They were perfect for creating dramatic scenes like the one Sam was going for.
“You do know I could just wrestle that key from you.”
Sam snorted. “That would require you to touch me, and you haven’t so much as patted me on the shoulder during the past month.”
Bucky blushed, but still managed a rough, “Fine. I’ll just break the damn thing down.”
That time Sam laughed outright. “I’m supposed to believe you’d break something in Sarah’s house? Yeah right. Not with the way you’re always sucking up.”
Well, Sam had him there, so he didn’t even bother to reply.
“Look,” Sam sighed, “sorry for misleading you to get you over here, but drastic times call for drastic measures.”
“What?”
Sam rolled his eyes at the confused look on Bucky’s face, and folded his arms across his chest.
“You’ve been grumpy lately, even for you, and your foul mood seems to be directed primarily at me and I want to know why.”
“Wilson, it’s nothing.”
“Don’t give me that.” Sam dropped his arms to his sides and took a step towards him. “For months we’ve been cool, friends even, and now suddenly we’re not?”
“What?” Bucky reeled back as if he’d been struck. “No. Sam, you know we’re friends. Come on.”
“You come on,” he shot back. “If there’s a problem, if I did something, just tell me.”
Sam hadn’t done anything, except be himself. His sweet, funny, kind, welcoming, wonderful self.
And Bucky had let it go to his head.
A few months of having Sam as a constant presence in his life, and Bucky had packed up his stuff then followed Sam home like an eager puppy.
Then a few weeks of being in Sam’s presence all day every day, and Bucky was alarmingly close to embarrassing himself and making some sort of declaration.
Bucky’s crush came fast and hard, and it was more difficult to hide every day that he spent with Sam. So, he had pulled back and tried to keep his distance, to save himself the heartache and save Sam from learning the truth and then having to let him down gently.
But apparently all he’d done was make them both miserable.
Christ.
“Bucky, man,” Sam tried again. “You know you can tell me anything right?”
He looked so earnest, so downright sincere, just like he always did.
So, Bucky opened his mouth and spilled his guts.