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“Sam’s worried about you,” says Joaquín.
Bucky, who had been enjoying his day off up until five seconds ago, makes no effort to look up from his novel. He knows this—sending Joaquín to the Watchtower like a carrier pigeon—is just the latest trap in Sam’s attempt to get a reply from him, and he's not falling for it. Sinking deeper into the couch, he clenches his jaw and turns to the next page.
Joaquín's undeterred by his feigned disinterest, plopping down next to him. "You haven’t been returning any of his calls or replying to his texts. He thought that you must've died or something. Which is, y'know, kinda dramatic because it's literally been three days since he started contacting you again, and if you did die, it'd definitely be all over the news, but I digress."
"What's it to him?" Bucky scowls. "He made it pretty clear that he wanted nothing to do with me, so long as I'm on this team."
Surely Sam must have better things to do than order Joaquín to go bother him on a Thursday afternoon. There has to be some Avengers-related shit for the kid to do, like organizing files or planning meetings, something other than sitting thigh-to-thigh with him on the couch. Bucky doesn't even know why he's sitting so damn close, and he scoots down to the far end to get some personal space.
To his dismay, Joaquín doesn’t take the hint and scoots after him, continuing his yapping. "Look, I dunno what went down between you two, but Sam still cares about you. Like, a lot. He talks about you all the time, which admittedly does get a little overbearing sometimes, but honestly, I think it’s kinda cute—"
Bucky cuts him off by snapping his book shut—forgetting to mark the page with the bookmark that Bob had made for him—and shoots a glare over his shoulder. Joaquín’s got a gleeful look on his face. He's dangling the bait right in front of his face and Bucky's really close to biting the line. Part of his brain wants Joaquín to keep talking about how much Sam misses him, and the other part wants to punt the kid out of the nearest window.
It’s not like he meant to round up a team behind Sam’s back, it all just sort of happened. It's also not like he can go and abandon the New Avengers, because he understands this group of misfits better than anyone else. They reminded Bucky of himself; the strive for wanting to be better, to do some good that might mitigate a fraction of the damage they’ve caused—so how could he leave them? But, he also can understand Sam's perspective, how he worked so hard to prove to the world that he is Captain America and that he can lead the Avengers, and how Valentina's announcement threw all of that back into question. That shouldn’t have happened. The whole situation is just complicated. He did try talking to Sam about it, but of course, it didn’t go well; ending with a mutual agreement to cease contact, which lasted for fourteen months, then Sam broke the streak by messaging: Miss you, buddy.
Bucky’s just been upholding his side of the agreement, because he’s—and he's really trying to deny it—hurting. It's bad enough that he told Sam he loved him without getting a response back. It's bad enough that all he can think about while he's arguing with Sam in some stuffy board room is that he's got nice eyes and nice hair and nice hands. It's bad enough that even though he wants to be mad at Sam for being mad at something out of his control, he can't. And it’s bad enough that even without contact for a fucking year, his thoughts still drift off to Sam late at night.
There's no denying this—he likes Sam. Romantically. And it sucks because Sam definitely doesn’t feel the same way. So, Bucky's been trying to use the whole no contact, copyright lawsuit thing to push Sam out of his mind. Key word being trying, because moving on is hard, especially if you've got Captain America sending you shit like, I hope you're doing okay, Buck. Don't forget to drink some water, Buck. Sleep well, Buck. It's damn near impossible, and that's why he'd ended up chucking his phone down the garbage disposal the other day, watching the device get ground up like metal mashed potatoes.
He wishes that Sam would hate him. It would make things easier.
"Well," Bucky finally says, clearing his throat, "why don’t you fly on back home, and let Sam know I'm not dead. And that he can quit texting and calling, 'cause I threw my phone away."
*
"It's so over," Sam groans, burying his face in his hands.
"It's not," Joaquín insists. His blithering optimism is admirable. "For all we know, Bucky throwing his phone away was completely unrelated to you."
They're currently seated outside some café in Brooklyn, talking over drinks. Sam's got a coffee; two cream and two sugars. Joaquín's got a latte and is munching on a monstrosity of a pastry, a Frankenstein crossing between a cookie and a croissant. Apparently it's called a crookie, which Sam thinks sounds ridiculous, but whatever. Above, the clouds are so thick and grey, one could've mistaken them for dustbunnies. It's cold and moody, just like how Sam feels on the inside. To him, the situation seems obvious—Bucky is icing him out because he hates his guts.
They've argued plenty of times—about the right thing to do with the shield, or about what movie to watch after dinner, or about what goes first into the bowl: milk or cereal—but this time, it's different.
So maybe he'd been a bit too blunt about his disdain for the New Avengers, but c'mon. Working under Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, the very person Bucky'd been trying to impeach for a good while now. Working with John fucking Walker, who's still running around in a pseudo Captain America suit, complete with a shield and a little fuckass hat. Working behind his back, when Bucky was the first person, he told about restarting the Avengers, all those months ago. He's got every right to be pissed off, and he even though he knows better, he ended up breaking no contact first, because he has this problem that's been spanning for nearly a decade.
And the problem is that he's sort of in love with Bucky. Bucky, who hates his guts and threw away his phone just so he didn’t have to receive any more of Sam's messages.
He must look really sad and pathetic, because Joaquín starts reassuring him again that it's not over. "I saw the look on Bucky's face when I was all like, Sam cares about you and talks about you all the time. His face went soft for like a millisecond, then went all frowny. He tried to hide it, but I saw it."
"Hold on—that bit wasn’t in the script."
"I took some creative liberty," Joaquín shrugs. "To spice things up a bit, y'know. And it's not like it's untrue."
Sam sighs, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. This is what he gets for having Joaquín deliver a message for him. The kid's got a knack for running his mouth, especially if it involves embarrassing Sam in any capacity.
"You're gonna be the death of me, baby bird."
"Maybe," Joaquín says, grinning. "But, I'll be damned if I don’t get you and Bucky back together first."
Sam nearly spits out a mouthful of coffee. Did he just hear that right?
"Back together?" He chokes out. "What do you mean by, 'back together'?"
Joaquín stares at him, blinking quizzically. "Wait—wait, wait, wait. You guys weren't a thing?"
"A thing?" Sam croaks. His brain is spinning. He's never told anyone about his problem—in fact, he thought he did a pretty decent job of hiding it.
"But," Joaquín's sputtering, gesturing wildly, "but, you guys seemed like you were together. I've seen it! The way Bucky looks at you, when you're not looking. Or the way you smile whenever he talks. I've even talked to—okay, don’t kill me—the Not-Avengers about it, and they thought you guys were a thing too! I've been like, trying to wingman you this whole time! You're not—" he cries, "you're not exes?"
"No!"
The whole roster thinks they were a thing?
“Well, you’re at least into him, right?”
Sam hesitates for a second too long, and maybe makes a funny face, which completely gives away the answer. Joaquín's face lights up. “I knew it,” he crows triumphantly, as Sam struggles to retain his composure, fighting the urge to flounder like a fish out of water. “You like—“
Sam holds a finger up to try and cut him off, “Don’t.”
“You like him!”
Sam changes his mind—he’s now wishing that the ground’ll open up and swallow Joaquín whole. Fortunately, with the threat of rain looming overhead, no one’s around to hear the kid gloat about how his gaydar isn’t entirely broken.
“If I hear you blabbing about this to anyone, I’ll take away your wings,” Sam grumbles.
To this, Joaquín pantomimes zipping up his lips and throwing away the key. "Don't worry, man. I can keep a secret."
"I don’t know if I can wholly believe that."
"Ah, c'mon! Look, if I blab, I'll give you—" Joaquín goes to check his wallet, "—seventy-five dollars, and a partially spent gift card for Which 'Wich."
Sam doesn’t know what goes through this guy's head sometimes. "And exactly how is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Okay, for starters, that is literally all of my current savings! And secondly, Which 'Wich is great. They have the best sandwiches in Brooklyn!”
Sam just sighs, and sets his face back into his hands.
*
Despite the fact that Sam and Bucky don't talk, their teams do. More specifically, Joaquín and the younger members of the New Avengers talk. Like, often. So often, that Bucky's pretty sure he's dating one of them, and by one of them, he means Bob, because Yelena doesn't like people, not like that, and Ava's not into men.
Joaquín's pretty much a regular at the Watchtower. He comes by a few more times this week, and each time, Bucky lurks nearby, because he's sort of hoping that he's got more messages from Sam—but, nothing. Well, whatever. He did tell Joaquín to tell Sam to stop messaging him.
So, Bucky preoccupies himself with any and all tasks to take his mind off of Sam. Someone needs to take Yelena's guinea pig to the vet because it ate a rubber band? He's the guy for the job. Bob's run out of dish soap? He's already out the door and halfway to the nearest store. Ava wants someone to play this boring board game with her? He's there and plays for hours. Vents need to be cleaned? Even though it's technically Walker's duty, he's on it. Alexei needs help finding a manufacturer for his New Avengers merchandise line? You guessed it—he's got it handled. He even tried on the samples to help Alexei determine which material felt most like a baby seal bottom, which was definitely an interesting descriptor. He would've gone with, very soft.
His latest task is playing babysitter. It's sometime in the following week, and after their first successful mission in a while, which consisted of beating up some thugs who were illegally selling alien artifacts, the kids have decided to celebrate by getting drunk. (Alexei and Walker celebrate by going to bed early.) Bucky chooses to stay up, not for the alcohol—because even if he drank all of their supply and then some, he'd still be sober thanks to the super soldier serum—but because someone needs to make sure the other three don't burn down the Watchtower's living room. It's a nice place, okay, and he likes reading there because the sunlight streams through the large windows in the daytime.
Now, it's late and the only light coming from the outside is the faint glow of the city. Ava's splayed out across the length of the couch, still holding on to the mostly-empty bottle of Smirnoff that they’ve been taking turns drinking from. By the foot of the couch, Yelena's sitting there, her head resting on Bob's shoulder. Unsurprisingly, Joaquín’s here too, because he's not one to turn down free booze and a fun time. He's curled up on the floor, using Bob's lap as a pillow. And Bucky is watching all of this happen from the armchair. They've just been joking around for the past while, and he's honestly tuned them out.
"Bucky," Ava says at some point, dragging him into whatever conversation they're having. She's stumbling over her words. "Tell me the truth, would you?"
"Yeah?"
"Is it—is it true that you and Sam are exes?"
Joaquín giggles like that's the most hilarious thing in the world.
"What?" Bucky cocks his head, confused. That was definitely not the question he expected. "How did you even get to that conclusion—you know what? I'm not going to entertain that. No. We aren't exes."
"Ohhh," Ava mumbles, "is it 'cause you're still together?"
"No!" Bucky straightens up. "We aren't exes, because we’ve never dated to begin with."
Yelena lifts her head up. "I call bullshit. You're totally hung up on him."
"Yeah," Bob adds with a grin. Ah, shit. Even Bob's in on this. "I could tell you were sad earlier this week, when Joaquín left without talking to you about Sam."
"I did no such thing," Bucky protests as Joaquín goes, awwww, and Yelena swipes a tablet from a nearby console, commanding, "Pull up yesterday’s security footage around the time that Joaquín left."
The large screen at the other end of the room flashes on, mirroring Yelena on the tablet as she scrubs through the various recordings, searching for a specific moment that proves her point. Bob leans over her shoulder to watch, and so does Ava, who nearly falls off the couch while doing so. Joaquín flops onto his other side so he can watch the big screen.
Bucky hates them. So much.
Most of the footage is of Bob and Joaquín sucking face in the lobby, confirming Bucky's hypothesis—so they are dating. Cool. Ava finds the timelapse of them making out to be particularly humorous, and bursts into laughter. Eventually, on-screen Bob lets Joaquín go, and as they’re exchanging farewells, Bucky shows up in the stairwell. Joaquín notices and waves to him, before turning and leaving. Bob stares happily at his retreating partner, while Bucky is glowering.
"Ha!" Yelena declares, zooming into Bucky's frowning face. "There. You are sad. And mad."
"That proves nothing," Bucky huffs. "I could've been upset for a multitude of reasons."
"Oh, yeah?" Bob says. "Name one."
When Bucky can't figure something to say quickly enough, Yelena smirks. "I knew it! You're all mopey, because Sam dumped you."
"No," Bucky grumbles. "He didn’t dump me."
She wrinkles her nose. "I highly doubt that you did the dumping."
"There was no dumping. Like I said earlier, we never dated."
"I find that hard to believe."
"Stop." Bucky says. "I don't like the guy in that way. Never have and never will."
Joaquín loudly gasps. "You can't be serious."
"I am." He isn't.
"But, but, but," Joaquín’s wailing, "but Sam likes you! In that way and every other way."
Ava, Yelena, and Bob immediately burst into questions. Bucky hears none of them. He's too busy feeling like someone's crushed his chest and yanked out his heart, lobbing it twenty feet into the air. Breathing suddenly feels unnatural—in and out and fuck.
Sam likes him? Sam likes him. He likes Sam—and Sam likes him back. What the fuck?
Bucky grabs the Smirnoff from Ava, ignoring her shouts of protest, and drinks the rest in one go. It's one of the rare instances that he wishes he could get blackout drunk and forget this whole night ever happened, but he can't, so he settles for the next best thing and forces himself to go to bed. So what if the living room burns down? Who gives a shit about that anymore, who gives a shit about anything anymore. Sam. Likes. Him.
And he'd told Sam to stop contacting him.
Fuck, he's an idiot.
"Hey," Joaquín asks the next morning, terribly hungover. "Did I say anything weird about, um, Sam last night?"
Bucky doesn’t hesitate to answer. "Nope."
*
"Sam, I gotta tell you something.”
“Uh-huh, but first—what’s with the other guy?” Sam asks.
Standing in front of Sam’s desk in the new Avengers campus—designed and built by Hank and Janet—is Joaquín, who looks like shit if he’s being honest. Definitely hungover and definitely guilty of something. A few steps behind him and to the left, is Bob, who waves. He also looks like shit. But not guilty of something.
“Oh! Bob’s here for moral support,” Joaquín says, and Bob nods. “He’s also here to intervene in case you try to kill me.”
Sam stares at him, exasperated. "Okay, what did you do this time?"
He's mostly expecting something stupid, like Joaquín's stolen a car while under the influence. He was not ready for:
"I kinda, maybe, sort of told Bucky that you have a crush on him."
"You what?"
He says this loud enough that Shuri and Shangqi poke their heads through the doorway to his office to see what's going on. Bob waves at them, and they wave back. Sam chases the two out, because he does not need anyone else learning about his problem, not today anyways. Though, he knows as soon as he's closed the door, Shuri and Shangqi are definitely doing all they can to eavesdrop in on the conversation. They'll probably ask Hope or Scott to help out. It's a recurring theme with the members on his team—they love to know all of his business so they can use that information to embarrass him later on. Bunch of traitors, really.
Back behind his desk, Joaquín’s watching him like an owl, wide-eyed and ready to take flight. "I was really drunk, and Bucky was all like, I don't like Sam, and I was like, but Sam likes you! and then he drank all our vodka and went to bed."
Sam's head is going to explode. So Bucky knows? Bucky knows and doesn't feel the same. Forget waiting around for the ground to open up and swallow him while—he's getting out there and digging that hole himself.
"I'm sorry, Sam," Joaquín cries. "I really am! You can take my wings; my wallet—anything but my life."
Sam doesn't even know where to begin. "Let me get this straight: Bucky told you that he disliked me, and your first thought was to tell him that I like him?"
Joaquín nods like a bobble head.
"You are unbelievable."
"I know, I know. I screwed up. I'm sorry—"
"You get that I can never show my face to Bucky again, right?"
"I wasn’t thinking, Sam. I'm sorry."
Sam takes a deep breath, fighting to stay composed. He stares down at his desk: the stacks of paperwork, the World's (Second) Best Grandma mug—a gag gift from Scott—filled with writing utensils, and a framed picture of everyone outside the campus when it finished construction. It had been a brilliant day: the sun was out, and Bucky was there. Bucky was there, standing next to Sam, laughing at some dumb joke that Sam's forgotten the punchline to. But he remembers the sound of Bucky’s laugh, ringing through the air, and how his own chest had warmed. Joaquín’s on Sam's other side, as always, face lit up brighter than a Christmas candle.
He could never hate them, try as he might. (And believe him, he's trying really hard right now.)
"Give me your wallet." Sam finally says.
"What?"
"I said, give me your wallet," he says as he manages to crack a grin. "You owe me seventy-five dollars and a partially spent gift card, remember?"
*
Bucky writes a letter, of sorts. Ava and Bob had suggested it, citing that's what people do in romance novels and shit. Even though it ends up being only five words—Hey, Sam. Can we talk?—he puts a lot of thought into making the request sound natural. Casual. Not like his heart is fluttering in his chest and his hands are sweaty. God, it's like being fifteen and in love again.
Joaquín breaks out into the hugest smile ever when Bucky hands him the note and instructs, "Give this to Sam. Please."
*
"Can we talk?" Sam repeats, pacing around his office. "What does he mean by that?"
Joaquín watches him from the behind the desk, eyes darting back and forth as he sips on a milkshake. Through the window, Sam can see the lake, with the sun glinting off the silver surface. It usually makes him feel better, but in this instance, he's gonna need a lot more than shiny water to calm down.
"Well," Joaquín says, matter-of-factly. "I would assume that it means he wants to talk to you."
"Yeah, but what does he mean? What—what are we going to talk about?"
Joaquín squints at him, trying to figure if it's a rhetorical question or if he's genuinely clueless. "Probably about the very large secret that I accidentally revealed while I was drunk?"
Sam groans. He'd been hoping that wouldn’t be the kid's answer. He'd thought that he could escape the awkward, 'sorry, I'm not into you,' conversation considering Bucky threw his phone away, but apparently not. Unless he declines the talk, but that feels like a total dick move, so he barely considers it as an option. He can handle talking to Bucky about this. For fuck's sake, he's fought a giant purple alien, a league of super soldiers, and the president of the United States—he can get through one little conversation.
Hopefully.
*
About a week later, Bucky and Bob are hosting their biweekly book club meeting in the living room. Ava's there too, because she's never been to book club before, and she's fairly entertained by it.
"So, you're saying that they take over six books to get together?” Ava huffs. “That’s lame.”
“They also had their own spin-off,” Bob says.
“Even worse!” Ava cries. “All that waiting—and for what? Some boring kiss at the end?”
Bob shrugs. “More or less. But it's worth it."
Bucky's opening his mouth to explain to Ava that his favourite—though admittedly cheesy—romance series is anything but lame and boring, when their alert system pings that someone's at the door. He picks up the tablet that's been balancing on the edge of the coffee table to see who it is—and of course, it's Sam fucking Wilson.
"Who is it?" Bob asks, craning his neck over to see. "Oooh."
"Holy shit, it's Sam!" Ava exclaims. "I'll tell everyone to hide."
She phases into the neighbouring kitchen, where the rest of the team is prepping dinner, and Bucky can hear Alexei yelling in surprise. Then, Yelena and Walker's laughter. A few words are exchanged, then loud clambering noises follow as they're off to hide somewhere. Bob scoops up his books and flees to his designated corner.
Meanwhile, Bucky uses the tablet to let Sam in. A few moments later, Sam's standing in front of him on the carpeted floor for the first time in a year, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets. He looks—good. Well, he always looks good, but there's something different about him after all this time. More weathered, and stronger, too.
Sam's dressed in a familiar brown suede jacket and blue jeans, a nervous smile on his face. "Hey, Buck."
"Hey," Bucky echoes. He gestures for Sam to take a seat. Sam picks the couch, so he takes the armchair.
“It's been a while, huh?" Bucky says after they've settled down.
"Yeah," Sam's looking at him in a funny way. Bucky doesn't know if it's good or bad or something in between. "How've you been?"
"Okay, I guess," he answers. "And you?"
"I'm doing alright."
There's a break of silence, and Sam fiddles with his fingers. Bucky's unsure of how to navigate this conversation. Luckily for him, Sam initiates the next bit—the hard bit. Sam looks oddly vulnerable, in a way that Bucky's never seen before. Scared, almost.
"So, I'm guessing you want to talk about what Joaquín said," Sam starts.
Bucky nods.
"He said that I, uh, liked you."
Bucky nods again.
"And that's not untrue," Sam continues. "I do like you. But I heard that you don't feel the same way. So, I just wanted to let you know that there are zero hard feelings."
"Sam—"
"I'd still like to remain friends, but I understand if you don't want to."
"Sam—"
"If you—if you never want to talk again, I get it. I just wanted to—let you know—"
"Shut up," Bucky blurts. He's moved to the couch, next to Sam. It’s where he belongs. By his side. Like the sea and the sky, the sun and the stars, and all of the other poetic analogies he's read in those books of his. Sam's breath hitches as he moves closer.
"I like you too," Bucky murmurs. "I just lied 'cause I was scared. And Joaquín's sort of annoying."
"Oh," Sam says, and Bucky reaches for his face and kisses him.
Sam relaxes under his touch, like this is what he's been waiting for. Lips against his—soft, wet and warm. A slight salty taste. Bucky's hand on his skin, eyes half-lidded. The feeling of looking out on a glistening lake, stretching endlessly under the radiance of the sun, and the sky is blue and bright. So bright.
"Oh," Sam repeats faintly when he finally breaks away. Bucky's hands are still on his face, and Bucky can feel each and every shaky breath he takes as he blinks rapidly to assure himself this isn't a dream. "Um."
“Yeah,” Bucky says, heart shuddering away in his ribcage. It was a nice kiss. A very nice kiss. He wouldn’t mind having another, so he starts leaning in again—
And then the fire alarm in the kitchen goes off.
By the time Bucky and Sam stumble into the adjacent room, with Bob shuffling in after them with a fire extinguisher, Ava's already there. She's staring at a dish she'd yanked from the oven, smoke swirling out in droves. Bucky can't even tell what it was supposed to be—it's blackened and burnt beyond recognition. So much for dinner.
"Walker," Yelena groans as she enters the kitchen and spots the amalgamation lying on the counter, "I told you to turn off the oven."
"Okay, but in my defence, Ava was yelling at us to get get the fuck out." John says. "And if I'm being honest, I'm more terrified of Ava being mad, than you being mad."
The look on Yelena's face could only be described as murderous, but before she can start lunging for John's throat, Alexei arrives. "My beautiful baby!" He shrieks upon seeing the mess. "What happened?"
They all point at John.
As Alexei begins throwing kitchen tools—a spatula, then a soup pot, then a frying pan—and John starts running around to avoid being hit, Ava phases out, and Yelena grabs Bob and ducks out of the kitchen. Sam turns to Bucky, a mystified look on his face. "Are they always like this?"
Bucky sighs. "Unfortunately."
They head out when Alexei gets his hands on the meat cleaver, because they'd like to stay in one piece.
"There goes my nice dinner," Bucky snorts.
"Well," Sam says with a nice smile on his face, "if you've got no plans, I know a wonderful sandwich place."
Bucky perks up. "You buying?"
"Yeah. I've got a gift card I've been meaning to spend."
*
There turns out to be only a couple of cents left on the gift card. Whatever. Sam's got seventy five more dollars to use up anyways. The meal was nice—the sandwiches were indeed the best that Brooklyn has to offer, and Bucky was there next to him, chowing down three of them at once—but not as nice as what happens after.
Bucky walks Sam back to the Avengers campus. At the door, Bucky kisses him again, and he melts. This, this is what he wants. The dinner dates and late-night walks and Bucky, all flushed and in his arms. This and more. Even though they've got a ways to go in regards to figuring shit out with their teams, there will be no more miscommunication about this. Sam tilts his head, and pulls him closer.
Meanwhile, Joaquín watches this—his boss kissing his boyfriend's boss—all unfold from the security cameras. He pumps his fist into the air and cheers, then realizes no one's around to see him, and quiets down.