A Bunch of Nothing

"Some people are just friendly, Buck. It's rare, but it happens. It doesn't mean she's coming onto me."

"Oh, yeah? And how often do people who are 'just friendly' touch your arms over the course of a conversation, hm?"

Sam can't argue that part. The interviewer had reached around the table to touch him so many times over the course of the hour that he'd started to worry that there was something on his sleeve that she was trying to knock off. (There hadn't been, for the record. Sam has always been a meticulous lint-roller.)

Instead, he just shakes his head and says, "She's getting married, Buck. Her fiancée is in the NFL and he bought her a ring that cost like half a million dollars; everyone knows that."

As Sam starts to moisturize his face, Bucky comes up behind him, arms snaking around his waist as he rests his chin on Sam's bare shoulder.

"You didn't notice it, did you?" asks Bucky, catching Sam's eye in the mirror.

"Notice what?"

Bucky's smirking now, which is how Sam knows he's in trouble. "Her ring. You didn't notice."

"There was nothing to notice," says Sam, but he thinks back to last week anyway, tries to remember if he'd noticed anything weird about her jewelry.

"Exactly," says Bucky. "There was nothing to notice because she took off her engagement ring."

"No, she didn-" But Sam cuts himself off, thinking about all the times that she reached over to touch him, all the times he should've been blinded by an obnoxiously big diamond reflecting the studio lights.

"Well?" asks Bucky, his grin triumphant. "Who's imagining things now, Samuel?"

"Still you," says Sam. "She could've taken her ring off for any reason. That thing's huge; it probably gets in the way of her note cards or her mic or something. This has nothing to do with me."

"That's weird," says Bucky, "because the comments are pretty sure that you're the only guest she's taken it off for in the year that she's been engaged."

He takes a half-step back then, grabbing the jar of scar balm off the counter and steadying Sam with one hand as he begins applying it. Sam lets his eyes drop closed for a moment, savoring the firm press of Bucky's fingers against the sore muscles in his back, the practiced swoops that they make along old and new scars from a lifetime of flying.

"That's on you for reading the comments," says Sam. "You know no one in the history of the world has ever been right in the comments section."

"I don't know about that," Bucky murmurs. "Sometimes they get it right."

Sam snorts. "You sure about that?"

"Didn't the people in your Instagram comments figure out that you weren't single from the background of a selfie?"

"Who said they were right, though?"

Bucky narrows his eyes. "Very funny."

"I am, aren't I?" asks Sam, blinking innocently at a scowling Bucky in the mirror. "Maybe it'll help me find a boyfriend one of these days."

"I'm breaking up with you," Bucky says flatly, before turning on his heel and heading back into the bedroom.

"You could just get me my own engagement ring instead," Sam calls out after him, grinning when Bucky stops in his tracks. "I promise to keep it on during podcasts and everything."

Bucky grumbles, but it sounds like his default kvetching and not a specific complaint, so Sam just shakes his head and zips the tent back up once Bucky is in. He waits and watches as Bucky takes off his shoes and puts them at the far corner of the tent, then does the same with his sweatshirt. There's raindrops on his sweatpants, too, but thankfully, those stay on.

"Should I ask you where AJ is right now?" asks Sam, once Bucky is settled atop Cass's sleeping bag. "If you managed to lose him, Sarah's going to kill us both, you know that?"

Bucky makes a face at him. "Where would I even lose him, Samuel? We're in my back yard. There's a fence."

Sam shrugs. "How should I know? He's crafty."

There might be a smile dancing around the corners of Bucky's mouth, but he presses his lips together then, so Sam can't quite tell.

"He couldn't sleep," Bucky says after a moment. "Said he hurt his side at soccer practice the other day and sleeping on the ground wasn't helping, so I took him back inside the house. He's up in the guest room, cuddling with Alpine and Fig."

"You're such a sucker," says Sam, but even he can hear how fond it is.

"Oh, is it just me?" asks Bucky, eyebrows raised. "Should I just pretend that I didn't see Cass reading on the couch when I took AJ in?"

"That's different; he was just being polite because he didn't want to turn the lantern on and keep me up."

"Sure, Sam," Bucky says, grinning now. "That's what happened."

"It is," lies Sam. "So how did all that end in you showing up at my tent, huh? Are you here to ask permission to sleep inside, too?"

"Nope. Just needed a sleeping bag that wasn't waterlogged."

He raises his eyebrows. "Waterlogged? What did you do, cut a skylight in your tent?"

Bucky clears his throat, looking away from Sam. "Someone, uh, may have forgotten to zip up the tent when AJ and I went back into the house."

Sam lets out a laugh before he can stop himself. "So you flooded your own tent and now you're here taking advantage of my hospitality?"

"I don't know how hospitable you've been, Sam. So far, you've mostly just made fun of me," says Bucky, but he's smiling.

"That's part of the hospitality package."

Bucky snorts. "Very generous of you."

"I try," Sam says, as he sits up, beginning to unzip his sleeping bag. He lays the sleeping bag out so it's flat, scooting to the side and waving Bucky over. "Here, unzip Cass's, too, and we'll put them side by side."

Bucky's eyebrows furrow, but he does as he's told, laying Cass's sleeping bag out so it overlaps with Sam's. It's only once they've made one continuous sleeping surface that it occurs to Sam that Bucky could've just...slept inside Cass's sleeping bag. His shoulders may be broad, but it's not like they would've ripped the sides open, and it would've probably have been more normal than Sam essentially making them share a bed.

Before Sam can fret too much over it, though, Bucky is talking.

"You're not gonna get cold like this?" he asks, gesturing to the flattened sleeping bags. "I thought your southern bones didn't tolerate anything below sixty-five and sunny?"

"They don't," says Sam, reaching behind him to reveal not one but two rolled-up blankets. "But for some reason, I keep choosing to live in places that get cold, so I came prepared."

They're both still sitting up, and it's only when they both go to shake out their blankets that Sam realizes how close together they are. They shift when they bump elbows and then their shoulders knock into each other instead. Sam tries to angle himself to make more space, but then his knee is nudging Bucky's thigh, their calves pressed together, and all that Sam can feel is the heat radiating from Bucky, the kind of warmth that leaves Sam with the embarrassing impulse to curl up close against him and stay there.

He ignores that impulse, obviously, and makes himself lie down instead, pulling up the blanket just so he has something to do with his hands. For half a second, he lets himself think that this might not be so bad, and then Bucky lies down, too, his shoulder touching Sam's, and Sam has to bite his lip to hold back the noise that wants to spill out of his mouth.

They stay like that in the space for a moment, close and quiet but for the patter of rain coming down on the tent. Sam lets himself think that maybe this is it, that now Bucky will just roll over and go to sleep and he can stay awake regretting all of his choices.

Naturally, that's not how it goes.

Naturally, Bucky reaches up to turn off the lantern and then turns to look at Sam, the weight of his gaze palpable even in the dark.

"Do you have enough space?" he asks, hushed even though there's no one around but them. "Do you need me to move?"

Sam shakes his head, then realizes Bucky might not be able to see it. "I'm okay," he says, just as soft. "You?"

"I'm sleeping in the dirt and I got played by a twelve year old earlier tonight," Bucky says, his voice dry. Then: "But yeah. I'm okay. Better than okay, actually."

Finally turning his gaze from the arched top of the tent, Sam looks back at Bucky. "Really?"

He feels more than sees Bucky's shoulder lift into a shrug. "Really. I've been in a lot of places a lot worse than this, you know."

"Okay, so it's not a Siberian gulag, but we are still sleeping in the dirt, Buck."

“We have blankets,” says Bucky. Then, as if he can sense Sam’s look if pure skepticism, he shrugs again. “I’m just saying, we ate a good meal tonight and it's warm in here and I've got you with me. Not a lot to complain about."

Sam feels his face get warm, but he tries to shake it off, infusing enough teasing into his voice that he hopes it covers up the longing there. "That's all you need for a better-than-okay kind of night? Food and a blanket and me?"

At first, there's no reply. Then, he feels Bucky shrug again, and when he speaks, Sam thinks he can hear the smile in his voice. "I'm not that hung up about the food and the blanket, honestly."

The flush feels like it suffuses Sam's whole body this time, his breath catching in his chest. He can't think what to say, terrified that it might ruin this moment, so instead he just slowly slides his hand over until his fingers brush against Bucky's.

For a moment, Sam feels pure terror, worried that even this was too much for the fragile thing between them. Then Bucky's hand shifts just a touch, his fingers tangling with Sam's own.

It's the tiniest amount of contact. They've had more during sparring sessions, or while hugging, or while patching each other up, but this is different somehow, a tiny fire of its own burning bright and miraculous where the two of them are connected.

“—I guess they don’t make ‘em like that anymore,” Sam finishes for Sarah, and they share a grin over the memory of it.

“She might’ve been right,” Sarah continues. “I can’t think of anyone I dated who could pull off something that smooth.”

“What about Dad?” asks Cass. “Not even him?”

When Sarah laughs, it’s soft, full of the warmth that’s always colored her when she talks about him. “Your Dad never did anything smooth in his life,” she says, grinning. “That’s why I liked him so much the second we met. He cared too much to be cool about it.”

Sam remembers Aaron that way, too, all nervous energy on the wedding day and bouncing enthusiasm on the way to the delivery room. His breath catches a little with the ache of loss, and almost immediately he feels Bucky lean into him, the warm and reassuring press of his shoulder into Sam’s.

He opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say, but he's saved the trouble by Bucky.

"It's probably gone a little out of fashion now, too," Bucky says. "Like hats and suits and pomade. Used to be that if you were walking with someone and you wanted 'em to know you cared, you would make sure you walked closer to the street, so you were the first to deal with any trouble that came your way."

Cass turns around fully, looking up at Bucky with interest now. "What kind of trouble would come your way?"

Sam can think of a few things that might've come Bucky's way, depending on who exactly he'd been walking beside all those years ago, but Bucky just shrugs and smiles down at Cass. "Puddles, mostly. You never know when a car's gonna drive too close to the curb and soak you from head to toe."

The boys absorb this information for a moment. Then AJ says, "I'm glad you do that with Uncle Sam. His Cap suit is so white; if he got splashed with a puddle, I don't think it'd ever look the same again."

Vaguely, Sam registers Bucky explaining the suit's self-cleaning nanites to the boys and the boys asking if they can have self-cleaning clothes so they never have to worry about laundry. It's distant, though, pushed from his mind by something far more pressing.

He can still feel the heat of Bucky beside him, shoulder right up against Sam's, the little jostle that Sam feels in his arm when Cass makes Bucky laugh at something. It occurs to him then that he's gotten pretty used to Bucky being on his right like this, steady and alert and—more importantly than all the rest—safe.

Sam makes himself rejoin the conversation then, bumps his shoulder against's Bucky's and makes a crack about his stealth suit and how he should just switch to it full time, and when Bucky does the expected thing and pouts about it, he reaches over and pats Bucky's hand placatingly.

"Just kidding, Buck," he says. "I would never dream of getting rid of your masterpiece."

"You already abandoned the helmet that came with it," grouses Bucky. "How are you supposed to avoid a concussion without the helmet?"

Sam keeps his hand where it is on top of Bucky's, the hum of vibranium so familiar now. From the way that Bucky stills, just for a second, Sam knows that he's noticed.

"Who needs a helmet?" asks Sam, keeping his voice light. "I've got you, don't I?"

"No," says Sarah, at the same time that Bucky tells him they'll work something out. It's Cass who finally gets them out the door, leading the other two out and distracting Sarah from cake negotiations by asking if he can drive them to the church.

Bucky closes the door behind them and turns to head upstairs, realizing in the now-quiet house that he can't hear much movement at all.

"Sam?" he calls out, pausing by the bedroom door. "What's going on, you good in there?"

In lieu of a response, he gets a drawn-out sigh, and then he hears Sam's voice, heavy with something Bucky can't quite identify. "Maybe I should just skip this thing, Buck."

He's not sure what he expects to see when he pushes the door open, but it's not Sam sitting on the bed, still in his boxers, white button down hanging open behind his sling. Sam won't even look up at him when he enters, eyes on his lap as he picks at a loose thread on the quilt with his uninjured hand.

"You should go," says Sam. "Make my apologies for me. Y'all are gonna be late if you don't get moving."

"I sent the others on ahead of us," says Bucky, crossing the room. Sam still won't look up at him, so instead he puts himself in Sam's line of sight, kneeling on the ground in front of him and peering up into Sam's face. "Look at this suit, Samuel. I went to all this effort so you could show me off on the dance floor and now you want me to show up without you?"

The corner of Sam's mouth quirks up, his hand moving from the quilt to Bucky's shoulder, brushing something off of the fabric. "I'm sure you could find plenty of people who want to take you for a spin on the floor, Buck."

"Maybe, but the man who I want to take me for a spin doesn't even have his pants on yet," says Bucky. He rests his palms flat against Sam's bare thighs as he leans in closer. "I know you're proud of your legs, but how's anyone supposed to pay attention to the bride and groom if you're parading these around, huh?"

There's another twitch to Sam's lips, like he's biting back a smile. "Really? You're saying the issue would be my legs distracting people and not the fact that I'd be showing up to the church in just my boxers?"

Bucky shrugs. "I don't know; spending that much time around your thighs sounds like a religious experience to me."

Sam cuffs him gently on the shoulder, but more importantly, he laughs quietly, and Bucky feels a wave of relief wash over him. When he leans up a little further, Sam lets himself be kissed, resting his forehead against Bucky's when they pull apart.

"So tell me," murmurs Bucky, "how bad did you mess up your arm when you tried to get into this shirt with no help?"

"I didn't mess anything up!" says Sam. When Bucky raises his eyebrows, he adds, "It's just...a little more sore than it was this morning. That's all."

"You know you're allowed to ask for help, right?" Bucky says, as he takes the front of Sam's shirt in his hands. "I can manage a couple buttons, Sam."

"It wasn't a big deal," says Sam, lifting his uninjured shoulder in a shrug. "I would've figured something out eventually."

Bucky is quiet for a moment, concentrating on doing up Sam's buttons without wrinkling the shirt. "I know," he eventually says, stopping to smooth the placket before he continues. "I'm just saying you didn't have to."

He feels Sam's palm come up to rest against his jaw, leaning into the touch before turning to kiss the heel of his hand.

"I know," Sam says, soft now. "I know. It's just not always easy to remember."

"I'll just have to remind you, then," says Bucky. He releases the front of Sam's shirt and stands, looking around the room until his gaze lands on the pale blue jacket and suit pants draped over the ironing table in the corner. "Pants next, Cap, come on."

"What do you mean pants next?" asks Sam, looking down at his chest. "You gave up halfway up the shirt, Barnes. Come back here and do up these buttons."

"Why?" asks Bucky, turning back towards Sam. He lets his gaze linger over Sam's collarbone, the chain around his neck and the barest hint of chest hair peeking out from behind his undershirt. "I think it looks good."

"That's because you've been sleeping on the couch for a week and the horniness is starting to affect your judgment," Sam says, his voice flat. "If you don't button up this shirt, then I will. I don't care how sweet all the aunties in the parish are; I try to walk into church with that much of my chest showing and I'll be hearing about it for weeks."

"Fine," grouses Bucky, returning to Sam's side so he can do up the rest of the buttons. "But when we get married, we're going to do it somewhere other than a church so I can ogle you as much as I want without either of us being fussed at."

He's focused on buttoning the shirt without jostling Sam's arm in the sling, so Bucky doesn't quite notice the look on Sam's face until he's finished with all but the last one, looking up just in time to catch the mischief in his expression.

"What?" he asks, eyes narrowed.

Sam's grin widens. "'When we get married', huh? You've already decided for both of us?"

Bucky's face goes hot, but the look on Sam's face makes him want to smile, too. "Well, someone had to make the call, Samuel. I'm not getting any younger, you know."

"And what, living in sin isn't what you want out of your hundred-and-twenties?"

He laughs. "Maybe I just want a nice ring, you ever think of that?"

The four of them--Steve included--were a strange constellation that Sam was still working out. It always surprised him to see a new side of Bucky every time someone else joined the conversation. Who he was on the couch with Sam watching baseball was not the same as who he was beside Nat or Steve. Sam hadn't been prepared to get all these pieces of the other man, or to have to lay them together like a stained glass portrait.

Nat didn't talk about the Red Room often, unless it was relevant to a mission or injury. But she had offered up the information on the Winter Soldier's tenure: his role as a trainer and a test, the ways he bested them or they bested him, what a sad thing he was when his handlers left him in a corner somewhere.

The ballet had been a passing thought. She never delved into it. Sam could only guess at its purpose--strength conditioning, enforced femininity and grace, lithe unassuming bodies to shove into gnashing jaws. She never spoke of dancing with the Winter Soldier, but she'd never said she hadn't.

Sam found, watching them now, he wasn't really surprised. Bucky was light and nimble on his feet. Sam had always given credit to gymnastics and tumbling, but he could see the dance now too. The contained strength of him, the way he read Nat's body and intention. Bucky could be an excellent teammate. He was intuitive and protective when he wanted to be. Now, while bullets weren't flying and nothing was trying to eat them, Sam could see it all on display as Bucky caught each of Nat's leaps and opened himself up so she could spin out of his arms again. The musculature on display beneath those tights had his mouth going dry.

It wasn't any dance Sam knew. He wouldn't consider himself well-versed in ballet to begin with, but he was almost certain they were just moving together. No music, no choreography, just the two of them.

"Do you dance?" Nat asked suddenly, stopping a spin by falling to her heels again.

Sam barked out a short laugh. "Definitely not." Sarah hadn't ever wanted to be a ballet dancer and it's not like Delacroix had been pushing kids into the arts. When she'd wanted to do tumbling, they'd had to drive all the way up to New Orleans for classes. "I would've told you if I did," he added. "I'd have loved to dance with you."

"Come," she said with a grin and an outheld hand. "Dance with me."

And Sam, knowing nothing about ballet, stood from the stack of mats and took her hand. "I really don't know what I'm supposed to do," he warned with a smile.

"That's okay, I already know you can catch me," she said. She raised their hands above her head and began to spin beneath their arms, using his hand as her pivot point. Their fingers tangled and untangled. She was like a dancer in a jewelry box, spinning and spinning in perfect form. He was pretty sure he'd never seen one this pretty before though.

Then she collapsed down to the ground and Sam immediately began to follow after her, trying to catch her, even though she'd fallen faster than he'd been able to see. But he realized what she'd done just a second later and saw that it was intentional.

"Oh, I can do that one." He copied her, sinking down with one leg folded beneath him and the other stretched out ahead of him, bending at the hips to lay his chest against his thigh. Above them, Bucky made a pitiful sound and Nat and Sam exchanged knowing grins. He was easy to tease and, though they didn't do it often, it was a shared hobby of theirs to do it every now and then.

But Bucky got his due back when he lifted Sam with an arm around the waist like he weighed nothing. Sam clutched at Bucky's arm before accepting that the other man wasn't going to drop him. Whatever surprised noise escaped him was only that. Surprise.

"That doesn't count as dancing," Bucky huffed, voice low and enticing. Sam had always been like a moth to a flame. Battering himself up against the heat no matter how many times it scorched him. Falling in with Bucky Barnes felt the same way. The warmth was worth the burn.

"Oh, 'cause you do so much more," Sam egged on. "Just a pair of strong arms to catch her while she does all the work."

Nat had risen from the stretch and was leaning back on her hands, legs folded like a 4, smirking at them. "A pretty face too," she added. "That always helps." And then, as if she was taking mercy on him, she asked, "Do you remember Spartacus?"

"Contrary to what you think, I haven't danced in almost forty years," Bucky said. He was still holding Sam like an afterthought, their hipbones almost stacked together at their sides, but Sam could feel the way his breathing stuttered when Sam shifted closer.

"But you're still so good with me."

"You make it easy. You're--"

Sam looked up at Bucky, searching for the reason he'd cut himself off so sharply. But he didn't find an answer. Bucky just put him back down and then took several strides away from them. Sam sank down to sit beside Nat again.

The floor beneath them was some kind of sprung floor, with enough give to cushion sparring sessions and the like. Even so, the way Bucky moved felt unreal. It began with a pass of spinning leaps and leaping spins. He got higher than Sam had ever seen him jump before, except when he was intentionally trying to leap into a second story window. Sam knew the kind of core strength Bucky had, but watching him control his body as he spun in the air wasn't like watching him brace himself against a raging combatant or out of control truck. The intention, the power, the restraint over his own body, the way he was clearly giving up the freeform dance to something he seemed to know down in his bones-- It was an entirely new side of him.

The next leaps, where his legs extended out or tucked upwards also shifted the context of fighting moves and positions Sam knew. It wasn't a flying kick. It was lighter and, again, so much higher. He was so far from the ground. There was no tuck-and-roll landing, no instant bounce into the next attack. He landed from one leap, then lifted into another.

Nat spun a finger, just for Sam's benefit. He only had to wonder what was happening for a second before Bucky began to pirouette rapidly. The strands of his hair that had escaped the ponytail he had tucked against the nape of his neck flew around his face too, creating a halo. The tight pirouettes opened into broader spins, but they didn't stop. Around and around and around. Then he stopped suddenly, perfectly centered to them.

Nat quietly clapped and Bucky gave a half bow. "See, I knew you'd remember it. Any excuse to show off," she said.

Bucky wouldn't have let it go if Sam had said it, but now he just ducked his head a little and pulled her to her feet. "There was a lift in this one."

"There are many," she agreed.

It was Sam's turn to lean back on the balls of his hands, legs stretched in front of him. This little group they'd formed had filled a space in his life he wasn't aware he'd been missing. He liked the noise and chaos of the four of them, but he liked this too--being quiet, watching, but not feeling left out.

And it wasn't a bad view either.

"Do you remember the back to back one?" Bucky asked.

"I was always scared you'd drop me. Your arms were too big to wrap around."

"You did fine." There was a fondness to Bucky's voice. Not quite soft, but warm nonetheless.

They stepped away from each other, long gliding strides, then came back together in a series of leaps and spins. Bucky stopped first, his back to them, arms raised and curled like a body builder. Natasha leaned against him, back to back, and dropped her arms over his shoulders. Without shifting the way they were tangled, Bucky began to spin and Nat raised her feet enough not to hit the floor. After a few rotations, when Nat was just beginning to get air beneath her, the spinning stopped and they leaned against each other again.

Bucky's right shoulder had gone a little red from exertion or friction, but he was grinning as he spun around to face Nat again. "How high did you get?" he asked.

It made her laugh and Sam sank into the sounds of them chattering and leaping and spinning. From what he could glean, the show had a lot of pointe work, but also plenty of leaps for the male dancers too. The pirouette sequence from earlier made more sense. The ballet was heavy on the athleticism of the dancers. The chemistry before him, though, was not scripted.

"You should do the big lift with Sam," Nat suggested, after Bucky had thrown her halfway across the room and she'd landed as lightly as if she'd been stepping off a stair.

"I can't do a lift," Sam objected.

"It's only impressive to people who know ballet," Bucky said at the same time.

"Sam knows all about the human body. He'll be impressed," Nat insisted.

"Sam knows Thor. He won't be that impressed."

"Sam is sitting right here," Sam interrupted. "What's the big lift?"

Nat tiptoed over to pull Sam to his feet, her strength at odds with her outward delicacy, as always. "All you have to do is jump, like you're swandiving off a cliff's edge. Like your wings are gonna open behind you. Don't think about it."

Sam wanted to point out there was no edge here. If he leapt up in the air, he was more likely to twist an ankle and make a fool of himself than he would with the wings, 40 stories in the air.

"Engage your core," she added, spinning him to face the right direction. she patted his ass encouragingly ("You can do that again," he offered) and then took over his spot on the stacked mats.

Bucky looked as skeptical as Sam felt. In the low light of the gym, he was the perfect image of the brooding, conflicted main character. His calculating eyes moved from Sam to Nat and then back.

"Come on," he finally sighed, half waving a hand. "Let's get this over with."

The first time Sam had strapped on the wings and been told to stepped off a diving board, there had been no hesitation. He'd barely let them finish buckling him in before he was free falling. The first attempt had been so short. His stomach had gone out from under him, then the wings snapped open and wrenched him painfully upwards again. He hadn't even touched the inflatable down below.

He had far more reservations now. He was going to look like an idiot or make some noise that they'd never let him live down. But, he realized, this time it wasn't an inflatable below him. It was Bucky. Bucky, who would catch him. Or at least pad the fall.

"Alright," he breathed. He gave himself two skipping hops before he leapt into the air as high as he could. Core engaged.

Bucky caught him at the hip with only his right hand. It wasn't as sudden and painful as the wings. It was almost like he wasn't there at all. Sam thought he should still be falling.

Sam let out a breathless laugh, clutching at Bucky's forearm as Bucky held him aloft, elbow locked. It was like flying. Every strained muscle was engaged in a familiar way. Even as Bucky began to move, with elegant, sweeping steps, Sam stayed stable.

"It's more impressive when it's not a super soldier doing it," Nat laughed when Bucky had walked in full circle around the little space they'd created for themselves.

"Still pretty damn impressive," Sam said. Bucky tossed him up a little, enough to free his hand, then caught him again to help Sam land on his feet gently.

"What do you mean you don't dance," Nat asked, a teasing lilt to her voice. "To hear Steve tell it, you can cut a rug well enough."

"He said cut a rug?" Bucky asked with fond derision. "People still say that?"

"My parents said it all the time," Sam offered. "Especially with their friends."

"Don't make me feel even older."

Sam and Nat shot the same grin to each other. "My parents are younger than you," Sam dug in, just because he could. "But, yeah, I can cut a rug," he admitted with a casual shrug. "I love to dance. You know that isn't what I meant. You just wanted me to say that."

Nat shrugged casually back. "I'm just saying, I've never seen you dance."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever they call dancing now ain't dancing anyway," Bucky piped up.

"Oh, you think I mean that kind of dancing?" Sam asked, raising his eyebrows. "I didn't, but I can show you that, if you want." He held out his hand to Nat, who took it readily. "The best part is, with the right partner, you don't even need to practice."

Nat easily spun into his chest, letting him tug her close, his arms crossing over her chest. "But the practice helps," she added, trailing her hand down the side of his face over her shoulder.

"Do you two have a lot of practice together?" Bucky groused. He was pacing in a long arc around them, arm crossed, faced pinched. Like a petulant tiger.

"Oh, a bit," Nat sighed. "A good partner is hard to find."

Sam smiled into her hair. He dropped his hands to her hips, feeling her move and letting his hips follow. "Yeah, we got pretty lucky, huh?" he asked, then spun her around so they were forehead to forehead, chest to chest, hip to hip. She slid a thigh between his and hooked her fingers behind his neck to keep him close. Like Sam was about to go anywhere else.

"This is not dancing," Bucky grumbled, still pacing, still staring. It had unnerved Sam at first--the constant attention--but he'd gotten used to it. Look up from a bowl of cereal and find a glower in the dark of the hallway. Turn around from the laundry and straight into judgement or curiosity or interest depending on the day. In the field, it was nice to have an extra set of eyes on him. Someone would ask his location and Sam rarely had to answer anymore. There'd be Barnes, barking out a last known like the person was an idiot for losing him in the sky.

He liked it right now. He liked it a lot right now.

"Don't be so civil, James," Natasha scoffed. "It's so 1940."

"I'm not civil," Bucky answered from between his teeth. Sam wanted to know what was uncivil in that moment. What wanted to break through the boundaries he'd so stringently set for himself.

"Maybe you're just boring," Sam suggested, glancing over his shoulder. He meant for it to be light and teasing, but when he found Bucky's heavy, hungry gaze, he knew it was only reflecting his own. Boundaries broke like a dam, fissures breaking loose in his chest.

Nat turned his face back with two fingers on his jaw, leaned up to kiss the corner of his mouth, had him opening up on instinct.

The damn broke.

Faster than Sam was expecting, Bucky was behind him, holding onto his hips tightly, long fingers sprawling across the taunt span of his lower belly. His face was pressed to the back of Sam's shoulder, the beginning of his neck, like he wasn't sure he could. Even though he had before, even though he knew Sam loved it.

Nat was grinning, so close their noses were almost brushing. "We do make great partners," she said.

"Well, I've got good taste," Sam agreed. "And you are definitely good taste."

Bucky made a noise--maybe a scoff or a grunt or a whine--but Sam couldn't decipher it. Didn't want to. Bucky was moving his hips in a familiar way. The dance was familiar. The man was familiar. And here they were meeting seamlessly.

Sam let go of Nat's waist to reach over his shoulder for Bucky's hair. "You're pretty good for someone who doesn't think this is dancing."

"It's not dancing," Bucky repeated. "I'm good at a lot of things that feel like this that aren't dancing."

"Prove it," Sam challenged with a sigh.

In a dark gym, tangled together, they did.