Okay, so.
This was Bucky Barnes.
Well, so was the Russian killing machine that ripped out his steering wheel and tries to kill his Star-Spangled best friend. Technically.
But this was really Bucky Barnes.
Sam should have seen this coming, honestly, but he didn't want to. He thought, no, hoped that the quick, hurried, middle-of-the-night rendezvouses he’d had with Barnes would have ended after Stark’s labcoats managed to get all of the HYDRA programming out of his head. He’d needed it to end so that he didn't feel like he was taking advantage of Barnes during an incredibly vulnerable time in his life. Even when Barnes was in his room and on top of him at 1:13 in the morning, breathing heavy and pushing into him tantalizingly slow, his counseling training was constantly yelling at him to sit down and talk to Barnes, not ride his dick as a coping mechanism.
Sam would have been fine with being a side piece in the soap opera that was Steve and Bucky. He would have been completely fine with Bucky keeping things strictly platonic between them. He would have been fine never feeling Barnes underneath his fingertips ever again.
But then the last round of therapy happened, and Barnes came back to the floor he, Sam, and Steve insisted on sharing in Tony’s extravagant tower, happy and slightly high on drugs, and found Sam on the couch watching TV.
Bucky plopped down unceremoniously next to him, too close for Sam’s heart to stop jumping. Sam couldn't bring himself to speak. Bucky flung an arm on the couch behind him and pressed into his side, huge and hulking and physical, and nosed at Sam’s neck. This man was going to be the death of him.
“They said they got everything out,” Bucky said lowly. Sam didn't dare tear his eyes away from the screen, convinced it was a dream.
“So now I'm stuck with just you?” Sam tested the waters, and hoped that Bucky was picking up more than the snark there. It wasn't just him being a smartass; Sam wanted to know if Bucky was actually interested in continuing… well, whatever they were doing.
Bucky laughed lightly and then went quiet long enough to make Sam look over at him, desperate for an answer. He fought the urge to shy away from Bucky’s (later, he’ll admit to himself, the right word to use was smitten) gaze.
Bucky’s arm behind him came down to fully encircle his shoulders. He let himself be pulled into a gentle kiss, and wanted to cry from how intimate it all felt.
“I'm afraid so, Sammy,” Bucky murmured against his lips, and Sam knew he was fucked.
Everything else fell into place quickly after that. Sam and Bucky kept fucking until Bucky initiated an actual exclusive relationship that included telling Steve.
“Well,” Sam mumbled tiredly into Bucky’s chest one night after a heated argument about telling Steve about them turned into athletic, angry sex and then post-coital, reconciliation cuddling. “I guess we could.”
Bucky hummed, chin propped on top of Sam's head as he drew patterns into Sam’s back. He always did the same curves and angles, and Sam had finally sat Natasha down one day to translate them as he drew them out. He didn't get an answer, though, and instead got a pointed look and a “someone’s got it bad for you, Wilson.”
Bucky didn't know that.
“If you don't want to, we don't have to, doll,” Bucky promised. Sam tried to bite down the giddy smile that surfaced at the pet name. He knew Bucky could feel it, and he didn't want to give the asshole the satisfaction. “It's just that you're important to me, and Steve’s important to me, and I want him to know how happy you make me.” And fuck, what was wrong with Sam? Why was he so scared of jumping into this thing with Bucky when Bucky made it very clear that he was all in?
Sam moved impossibly closer to Bucky’s torso, hand splayed out in his stomach. “When you put it that way, it makes it hard to say no.” He waved a hand around in the air tiredly before lowering it to drum against the tan, scarred skin over tight muscles. Bucky was quiet.
“Did you… did you want to? Because I understand if you don’t. It’s not fair of me to force you to do something you don’t want to. I didn’t even ask you if you were out to Steve yet, if you wanted to be out to the rest of them, and you know? I get it. Who would want to own up to someone like me, right?” Bucky huffed out a bitter, shaky laugh.
Bucky Barnes rambled when he was nervous. They never mentioned that in the history books.
Bucky Barnes also thought his boyfriend was ashamed of him, and Sam felt like shit.
He sighed. “Buck, you know I’m not embarrassed of you in any way, shape, or form. I could never be. You’re incredible, and I like you a lot.” Sam physically felt Bucky relax after that, and couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose. They usually weren’t this sappy. “I’m just not so sure that I’m going to be good at doing this in front of everyone. Ever since…” He trailed off, throat tight, and felt Bucky squeeze him. “I haven’t been good at PDA. Or basically anything outside of sex.”
Bucky snorted. “I don’t want you to necessarily climb me every chance you get in front of our friends and colleagues, Sammy,” Sam felt him hesitate, then shrug. “Unless you want to. It’d be kinda hot.” Sam rolled his eyes. Bucky Barnes was also an exhibitionist with a mile-long list of kinks. “But seriously. It would just be nice to have people know. That way I can kiss you whenever I want with no questions or weird looks. That is, if you’re comfortable with that.”
Sam grunted, eyes drifting shut. He was getting tired, and it was getting easier to agree with Bucky. He definitely was not thinking about how he had the perfect voice to read their future kids bedtime stories. Sex with Bucky had a habit of making him a bit soft inside.
“Yeah, babe. It means a lot to you.” A yawn escaped. “I can try for you.”
Of course he could. Sam could, and would, try for Bucky. Baby steps.
So the next morning, Sam tried.
He woke up before Bucky to start breakfast just to find Steve already in the kitchen, mulling over a newspaper and a disgustingly bland bowl of cereal (“the Depression fucked up my taste buds for good, Wilson; I could probably honestly eat a bowl of grass and not taste a thing”). He cleared his throat for semantics. Both of them liked to pretend that Steve was a normal person who probably couldn't hear Sam’s bones cracking in the room over.
Steve offered him a small smile. “Hey.”
Sam shifted from foot to foot, watching Steve for a moment before shuffling past him to the cabinets. It would be easier to talk while his hands were busy. “Steve, listen,” he started distractedly, pulling out pans. “I’ve been sort of been hiding something from you.”
He winced at the frown in Steve’s voice, and could practically feel his eyes on him. “Oh?”
Sam deliberately kept his gaze low as he made his way to the fridge. “Yeah, but it wasn’t anything that you did. I swear.” A grunt escaped him as he crouched down to rummage for eggs. “I just needed… time.”
Steve was quiet. “You know you can always talk to me, Sam.”
Was every super soldier in this damn house a camp counselor now? “I know, but-”
Bucky chose that moment to traipse lazily into the kitchen, still rumpled from sleep, but looking about ten times more relaxed than Sam felt. He couldn’t help but look over at Bucky as he straightened, who was looking tiredly between him and Steve. A small, knowing smile pulled at his lips as Sam sent him a panicked, wide-eyed look.
Sam gulped.
Not many people knew that Bucky Barnes had a “I’m up to some shit you won’t like” face.
He does.
Sam kind of hates him for it.
“Hey,” Bucky offers to Steve, who was staring at Sam with too much concern for Sam to lie his way out of this one. Bucky probably wouldn’t let him anyway.
Not that Sam wanted him to, and he didn’t know what that meant.
“Morning,” Steve muttered back, eyes still trained on Sam. His throat was closing up.
Bucky didn’t even register Steve’s watchdog behavior. He walked further into the kitchen, and past Sam, not even brushing his shoulder.
Sam thought, briefly, that he was going to die from the tension in the room if he didn’t kill Bucky for being such a nonchalant ass all the time, oh god he was so fucking infuriating sometimes-
A strong grip was pulling him backwards by his waist. He bumped into a solid, familiar chest, and squeaked a little as he felt his boyfriend’s morning wood. He couldn’t even bring himself to watch Steve react as he felt himself come home in those arms.
Sam turned to find Bucky smiling down at him with unguarded adoration, too much, in fact, and lowered his head. Bucky, ever the aggressor, had other plans, as he grabbed Sam’s chin and dragged him into a kiss that was way too heated for eight in the morning.
For the sake of the spectator, Sam tried to conceal his groan as Bucky grabbed his ass and swiped his tongue along the seam of his lips. Bucky didn’t.
Finally, while Sam could still prevent himself from rutting against Bucky’s leg, he braced his hands on Bucky’s chest and pushed to break the kiss. Bucky was staring down at him, breathless, flushed, and grinning.
He was the most beautiful thing Sam had ever seen.
“Hi,” Bucky finally said thickly after a beat. He was fully erect against Sam’s leg, and Sam didn’t know how they were going to move past Steve into the bedroom like this.
Sam chewed his lip as he eyed his boyfriend. “Hi.” Bucky raised his eyebrows, silently asking Sam if he’d gone too far.
Sam would be lying if he said he didn’t love Bucky Barnes.
He gave a slight, dismissive shake of his head before turned to face Steve again. He was watching them with an amused look on his face.
“Get off to watching us, Rogers?” Bucky teased, grip on Sam’s waist still tight.
Steve snorted. “Not your ugly mug, that’s for sure.” He raised an eyebrow at Sam. “Is this what you were hiding?”
Sam nodded, shrugging helplessly. Steve got up, pushing past both of them to set his bowl in the sink. He tracked his movements, waiting for Steve to yell at him and push them apart and fight Sam for fucking his best friend.
Instead, he gets a clap on the shoulder.
“Thank goodness you guys finally told me. You owe me ear plugs and probably a new couch.”
-
It gets easier from there.