haha yikes

Captain Rogers was all square-jawed and determined during their missions after Bucky fell, and for the most part the other Howlies pretended they bought it, but Gabe had never found much use in pretending. He eased up off the damp log he’d been perched on, listening to the other Howlies talk about the latest batch of letters from their families and girls back home. He hadn’t gotten a letter from his ma, and had almost opened his mouth to tell Bucky that maybe no news was good news, but-- well. “A walk,” he answered when Dugan asked him where he was going. He waved off a few half-hearted offers for company. He’d been in constant motion since the train, hadn’t really stopped. Gabe Jones fought hard, but he felt big. He needed to... he needed to... shit, he didn’t know. Say goodbye. Punch a tree. Cry, maybe. It hadn’t really sunk in. Bucky wasn’t much of a talker, although Steve said he’d been much different before the Army. But he’d recognized the soul of another man that felt a little bit apart from the others, and the two had become friends. Steve had quietly joined them, and Gabe had realized that America’s great warrior was really fucking lonely. He never quite fit in either. Once Steve had kinda shyly showed Gabe a drawing he’d done of him. From the side, his lips quirked in a small smile as he read a book. Gabe thanked him and carefully tucked the drawing deep in his pack where it wouldn’t get wet. The drawing had been awfully tender, he’d thought, but maybe that’d been Rogers’ artistic style. Gabe had found a poem in one of his precious books that had reminded him immediately-- too immediately-- of Rogers. Before he could stop himself, he’d torn out the page, meaning to hide it somewhere in his tent, but he stopped himself. He might have misread this whole thing, and that’d lead to a whole mess of trouble in several worrying ways. He’d settled for leaving one verse under one of Rogers’ spare helmets. Steve’s eyes were soft the next time he saw Gabe, and he looked like he was about to say something-- but then they fell under attack and all thoughts of long eyelashes and soft lips contrasted with rough stubble were forced from Gabe’s mind... Now, Gabe swore quietly when his boot slid into the stream; he hadn’t been paying much attention to where he was walking. He looked up when a quiet voice called his name. Rogers. “You okay, Cap?” he returned, walking a little further. Steve Rogers was standing in the stream-- more of a tiny river, really-- water only coming up to his shins. He’d taken off his boots and socks and rolled his pants up. “... the hell you doin’, Steve?” “Hell if I know.” “Mind if I join you? Seems a good way to cool off your feet, at least.” “Freeze them off, more like,” Steve grumbled, but he gestured for Gabe to join him. Gabe fumbled a little with his laces, painfully aware of the strange intimacy of the moment. The voices of the other men were barely audible, the fire nothing more than a tiny dancing light between the trees. Steve hadn’t been kidding-- the water felt icy and Gabe swore under his breath, slipping and stumbling over the smooth river stones on his way over to Steve. Steve looked down at him, his mouth turned down at the edges-- not with hard-eyed determination for once, but sadness. Maybe he’d come out here to let himself feel, too. Gabe huffed out a breath, trying to pretend his feet weren’t cramping up in protest from the cold water, and felt his face heat up as Steve kept staring at him. “Wanted to say ‘thanks,’ but I never had the time ‘til now,” Steve said suddenly, looking down at his hands. “Thanks for what?” “Au fond de cette coupe où je buvais la vie... peut-être restait-il une goutte de miel?” Steve stumbled over the words a bit, but Gabe’s eyebrows shot up a bit nonetheless. Roughly translated, it was ‘At the bottom of life's cup that I drank, perhaps there was a drop of honey mild?’ The last two lines of the poem excerpt that Gabe had given him. “Your accent is terrible, Cap,” Gabe muttered, startling a laugh out of the other man. “I know, Peggy cringes every time I speak French to Denier. I ... that ... that was real nice of you, though.” Real nice. Gabe wasn’t sure what to make of that. “I read it every day,” Steve continued, softer now. “Helps. Some days it’s too much, but-- that helps.” Gabe nodded, murmuring that it was no problem. Steve was fumbling awkwardly in his pockets, pulling out a small crumpled-up paper bag. “I, uh. For the poem. I got you-- I heard you like chocolate.” He didn’t need to add that it was Bucky that had mentioned it. “Chocolate?” Gabe couldn’t help lighting up a little; he was used to making do with little, but chocolate was one of his great pleasures in life, and the idea that Steve had gone to the trouble of getting the hard-to-find treat for him... “Awfully romantic type of gift, Cap,” Gabe said jokingly. His heart was racing and he wasn’t sure-- it couldn’t be-- “So’s a poem,” Steve said wryly. “And don’t call me ‘Cap,’ we’re not in the field.” “Poem was thanks for the drawing,” Gabe smirked back. “Another romantic sorta gift, I might add.” Steve just hummed thoughtfully. “You gonna share that chocolate?” “You mean the chocolate, or...?” Gabe raised his eyebrows comically high, making Steve groan. “I mean the damn chocolate, Gabe.” Steve paused a little too long and Gabe felt a thrill go through him. Aha. “That was a pretty good drawing, Steve. When’d you do it? Don’t think I remember posing for that one,” Gabe said, muffled around a mouthful of sweet, if slightly gritty, chocolate. Steve tried for nonchalant, he really did, but his voice betrayed his nerves. “Was easy when the fella’s face is always in your damn mind.” “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

“Cap, you got somethin’--” Dum Dum started, stopping abruptly when Gabe raised his hand to wipe at the chocolate at the corner of Steve’s mouth, Steve leaning into the touch. There was the smallest hitch in the conversation around the fire, and then the silent equivalent of a shrug as the chatter started up again. Morita did nothing but mouth “Took ya long enough” at Gabe when Steve quietly took his hand as they sat beside each other. It still wasn’t easy. Gabe still turned to tell Bucky something at least once a day. Steve... Steve wasn’t even ready to look at the pain head on yet. Steve left another sketch-- this one much more detailed. Gabe, in darkness, the features of his face lit up by faint moonlight. The tenderness that had gone into drawing his mouth alone made his heart hurt. In faint pencil underneath were the words ‘une goutte de miel.’ A drop of honey. A little bit of sweetness. When Steve tentatively lifted the tent flap later, Gabe pulled him into a kiss and the world hurt a little less, was a little kinder to them as they fumbled with each others’ buttons, laughing nervously. “Least someone’s gettin’ laid,” Morita muttered in the morning, taking in their dishevelment and matching tiny smiles. Less than a month later, Gabe stood next to Peggy Carter, frozen in place. They’d just heard Steve’s voice for the last time.

Sam got back first; his missions had been Stateside; something about the changing of the seasons really brought out the weirdo costumed villains. Sam had just fought an embarrassingly short battle against “Leaf-al Weapon,” and aside from general bruising, he’d have to contend with the inevitable YouTube videos of him getting dozens of pinecones fired at him. He’d already gotten messages from Steve and Bucky; Steve would be back that night, Bucky, tomorrow. He’d at least have a good few hours to shower, nap, maybe even finally break open the nice whiskey Director Fury had given him for his last birthday...  The first thing that Sam noticed was that the rain had blown in through the open living room window. The second, was that the place smelled really weird, kinda... fishy? Sam eased his heavy wing pack off his shoulder and heaved a huge sigh before moving over to the window and sliding it partially shut. So much for relaxing -- he spent 20 minutes mopping up the water and praying it wouldn’t fuck up the hardwood too much. He snapped a picture of the mop leaning forlornly against the wall next to the window, sending it in a text to Bucky with the message “Thanks, man.” Okay, maybe skip the shower and go right to the nap part of his plan. When Sam pushed approached his open room door, he reeled back a little. It smelled like... tuna? What the hell? He barely had time to wonder if something had happened to his emergency rations before he got his answer. A pair of eyes glinted in the darkness near the floor, and Sam steeled himself for fighting an angry raccoon (because that was what his life was like nowadays) when a mew pulled him up short. A cat? A cat wasn’t necessarily less dangerous than a raccoon if it was feral and scared, but... Sam liked cats. Sure, he was the Falcon, but he appreciated the way that cats liked you on their terms. He could dig it.  He cautiously flicked on the light and blinked at the intruder. It was small, just a kitten, really. Its coat was grey as the sky outside, the iconic ‘M’ of a tabby on its little forehead.  “Hey, little dude,” Sam said softly. The cat looked away and lifted a leg to clean itself with gusto. “Ah. Not a dude,” Sam amended. He moved slowly, but all the same the cat hunched defensively, its ears flattened. Sam stopped by the closet, not moving any closer to the small animal, and checked the cardboard box in the corner-- ah. Sam had an emergency food stash (they all did; old habits died hard,) and one of the things he always had was vacuum-sealed packages of tuna. It seemed the clever little thing had found it and chewed through the packaging to get to the food inside. That explained what it’d been eating, anyway... but... “You been poopin’ in here, cat?” Sam asked, turning to look at his companion. She’d edged away from him, but was no longer scared-looking, merely blinking at him now. Sam was pretty sure from his experience with his sister’s pets that if the cat had been relieving herself in his room, he’d’ve known immediately. That stuff stank.  Just in case, he checked his room, telegraphing his movements so as to not frighten the cat-- but she seemed to have forgotten about her nerves pretty quickly, because she hopped nimbly onto the bed and just watched him.  “Ooookay, well... you’re weird. Dunno what else I expected,” Sam muttered. After a moment’s thought, he pulled out his phone.  Human foods for cats Sam grimaced as he scanned the results; seemed like most things in the house wasn’t great for cats, especially kittens. Not even cow’s milk was great for them! Sam felt lied to by all those Saturday morning cartoons. He was halfway to Googling “nearby pet stores” when he paused. He should be looking for animal shelters, not a place to buy cat food and cat toys. The object of his deliberations was now sitting loaf-style on his duvet, watching with half-closed eyes. Her tail flicked now and then to show her interest, but otherwise she seemed relaxed.  Dammit, she was cute, big golden-green eyes and a pink little nose. Dammit dammit.  “Stormy,” he murmured, slowly extending his hand for her to smell. He was rewarded with a tentative sniff, which he took to mean she approved of the name.  There was one little problem: their apartment building had a strict no-pets rule. Sam muttered under his breath as he found a soft old sweatshirt, carefully arranging it into a little bed for Stormy.  “Okay, girl... you can sleep here for tonight and tomorrow we gotta find somewhere for you to--” He was interrupted by her looking away from where he was gesturing, putting her chin on her front paws, and closing her eyes.  The cat had gone to sleep in the middle of his sentence. In the middle of his bed.  “No,” Sam said firmly, crossing his arms. The cat didn’t even stir.  “No, you can’t sleep on the bed. No. I’m not getting cat hair on my sheets.” Stormy’s response was to put a paw over her face. Sam felt his shoulders sag; he was tired, he wanted a nap before the whirlwind of energy that was Steve Rogers got home, and this cat had the audacity to be in his bed being adorable. Not okay.  “Okay. You can sleep in here, but you. Are. Not. Sleeping. On. My. Bed.” --- “Sam? Sam, I-- oh.” Steve poked his head into the room through the half-open door and stilled, a fond smile softening his features. Sam was curled up on his side with his back to the doorway, snoring softly. He must have been really tired to have slept through the jingling keys and heavy footsteps that had announced Steve’s arrival.  Steve carefully backed out of the room, closing the door most of the way so that the hallway light wouldn’t bother Sam. Sam didn’t stir, but unnoticed by Steve, a small form slipped from the protective cocoon that Sam had inadvertently formed around her, crept to the edge of the bed and nimbly leapt to the floor. When Sam woke with a start in the early hours of the morning, the little cat was nowhere to be found. He felt surprisingly disappointed; he’d been half-dreaming of jingly cat toys, purring and soft little paws.  After a quick but thorough check, Sam had to admit to himself that she’d probably slipped back out through the open living room window, off to wherever her real home was.  He’d planned to get her a little collar and everything. Dammit. The expression on his face as he settled back into bed was pretty close to a sulk. 

“Mornin’,” Sam yawned hours later, shuffling into the kitchen. Steve, who was frowning at a food package of some kind, looked up with a smile.  “Sam! You’re up. I thought you might miss the whole day, you were sleeping so late.” “It’s 8:30, Steve.” “I know; I’ve been up for 3 hours already.” “I’m so sorry to hear that,” Sam said dryly, leaning in to kiss the side of Steve’s head. “Way back in the 1960s, they invented this thing called ‘sleeping in,’ it’s a real damn shame you never got to try it.” “Wiseguy.” “One of us has to be, Cap. What you got there?” the last question was regarding the large canvas tote at Steve’s feet. Steve glanced down, a strange look of alarm passing over his features before he could school them.  “I got these... uh... hhhhealth snacks. They’re healthy... and you can eat them and-- they’re good!” Steve tore open the package in his hand and popped a few dark green biscuits into his mouth. Sam watched as Steve flinched, grimaced, and chewed like a man eating sawdust.  “Looks... tasty,” Sam deadpanned. Steve nodded, entirely unconvincingly.  “They’re good! And really healthy.” “Tell me one thing, though--” Steve looked strangely alarmed again. “Yeah?” “Are they healthy, though? You’ve only mentioned it 5 times, I think.” “Oh, ha ha, Wilson.” “And anyway, I was asking about all of that stuff,” Sam continued, gesturing again at the shopping bag. Steve bit his lip and shrugged his shoulders in a would-be casual way.  “Oh. I uh--” “Is that... rice?” Sam asked, moving towards the bag. Steve gratefully seized on the assumption, touching Sam’s arm to get his attention.  “Yeah, yes! Yes. Rice! I’m... bringing rice... to the potluck this weekend.” “Rice.” “Yep!” “A bag of rice?” “Ye-- no. No, of course not. I’m... going to watch the YouTune to find recipes?” “Are you asking or telling me, man?” Sam teased gently. He knew Steve was a little bit embarrassed about his horrible cooking skills-- especially since Sam and Bucky could throw down in the kitchen.  “I’m gonna cook a rice dish. For the potluck.” “Okay, baby. I mean... we got plenty of rice here--” “This is special rice.” “O...kay. And that?” Sam asked, gesturing to the large boxy shape straining the seams of the bag. “Is that a--” “Shelving unit!” Steve almost shouted. “It’s. A little bookcase. Got it on sale!”

“Yeah, you’re always saying you need more space for your books,” Sam agreed, smiling fondly. “Sure am. I’m gonna... watch YouTune--” “YouTube.” “YouTube, yes. I’m gonna watch some... in my room. With the door closed. I need to focus. For the recipe.” “Steve, you don’t have to make up some story if you just want some alone time to jerk off, man. We’re all adults here.” “Wh-- I’m not! Not right now! I’m really gonna--” “Mhm. Okay, whatever weirdo stuff you’re doing, have fun.” Sam leaned up to kiss Steve on the mouth, and then made a face.  “Those health snacks taste rank, man.” Sam could have sworn he heard a weird jingling noise as Steve walked away with the bag. --- “Sammy,” Bucky groaned, slumping his considerable body weight on Sam’s shoulder. Sam absent-mindedly pat the top of Bucky’s head, hmmm?ing in response. “I missed you.” “You also missed like 10 showers, Barnes. Jesus.” “I was travelling for a week! No time for luxury.” “Basic hygiene? Not a luxury.” “Yeah, yeah. I’ll shower after you hug me.” “Ohhh, no. Ohhhh no no no no no.” “Take one for the team, Sammy. I been starved for affection and all.” “You were only gone for a month,” Sam grumbled even as he got to his feet and held his arms out to Bucky. “I was gone for a whole month,” Bucky sighed, sinking into Sam’s embrace and breathing him in (Sam was subtly trying not to breathe Bucky in.)  “Okay, I feel better. Thanks, Sammy. I... I really did miss you.” “I-missed-you-too-now-shut-up-and-go-shower.”  Instead, Bucky made a big show of kissing Sam’s neck and jawline, being as noisy as possible while Sam pretended to hate every second.  “Now that I’ve marked you with my scent--” “Aw, nasty.” “--gonna go see how Blondie’s doing.” “Mmm, I wouldn’t,” Sam said thoughtfully. Bucky’s eyebrows crept up.  “Why?” “Steve’s acting weird.” “... gonna have to narrow that one down a little.” “Weirder than usual. I think he wants a little alone time or somethin’.” “Oh. Well-- yeah, okay. I’ll go shower and... you can make me a late breakfast?” “Try again.” “I’ll go shower and we’ll make breakfast together?” “Ding ding ding.”

Steve heaved a huge sigh and then made a face as he smelled his own breath. He’d gotten so caught up in reading the ingredients on the bag of cat treats that he’d had to eat the damn things to hide them from Sam. They were disgusting, and even though Steve had frantically rinsed out his mouth in the washroom, the taste lingered.  “The things I do for you,” he smiled gently down at the small grey cat curled up on his desk. The kitten, which he’d named ‘Slate’ because of her grey coat, raised her head and watched inquisitively as Steve set out the litter box he’d just bought. She sat all the way up when he hefted the small bag of litter (that he’d claimed was rice to throw Sam off) and filled the box, and before Steve had even finished taping the bag shut, she had trotted over to the litter box -- “Oh, wow,” Steve winced, covering his nose. Such a small animal shouldn’t be able to make such a stink, he thought wryly as he slid his window open a little to air out the room. Slate finished her business, kicked litter over it (Steve was relieved) and then became intensely interested in attacking Steve’s shoelaces as he tried to untie his sneakers. He found himself immensely charmed (even though her tiny claws were really sharp.) He’d never thought himself to be a cat person, but she was rambunctious and clearly unafraid despite her small size. He could relate to that.  Listening to her ridiculous mmnyam nyam nyam nyam sounds as she wolfed down kitten food from a bowl Steve had pilfered from their kitchen just made him even more sure. He’d have to find a way to convince the other two to let him keep her. --- Bucky rapped loudly on the door, still towelling his hair from his shower.  “Steve? Hey, Sam says you’re jerkin’ it to some cooking videos or something--” “What?! I’m not!” “--but I’m lettin’ you know I’m back. You coming out soon?” Bucky heard a lot of shuffling and a very quiet “Shhh sh sh sh, be good” and ... decided he didn’t want to know. He was tired and wanted to play grabass have a nice breakfast with his guys. Whatever weird shit Steve was getting up to could wait.  “C’mon, Steve... Sam said he’d make his blueberry pancakes.” Sam didn’t have super hearing, but he still made a sound of protest from the living room, and Bucky corrected himself again. “Sam said I could help him make blueberry pancakes.” Bucky shrugged and was about to turn away from the door when it finally opened a crack, letting out the overwhelming smell of Steve’s scented candle. Steve was wearing a hoodie, which wouldn’t have been unusual except for the fact that it was the middle of summer and the man almost melted into the floorboards if the temperature crept above 30 degrees. He had his hands stuffed into the pouch pocket, looking shifty.  Bucky only took another moment to decide not to ask, yet again. He just wanted pancakes.  Sam, on the other hand, paused in the act of washing blueberries.  “Why the hell are you wearing a hoodie, Steve?” he asked. Steve was already sweating a little and his whole posture screamed I’m hiding something oh god please don’t notice.  “You feeling okay?” he continued, a thread of concern in his voice now. Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, knowing the signs when he saw it. Steve had probably gotten a bad tattoo or something, and was waiting for it to fade before the other two saw it. (It wouldn’t have been the first time, sadly.) “Yeah, just a little chilly,” Steve said, entirely unconvincingly. Bucky turned a flat look upon him then, crossing his arms.  “You’re chilly, Steve.” “A little.” “It’s August.” “Sure is! Autumn’s around the corner.” “You’re sweating.” “Because I’m warm now. In the hoodie.” “You think I was defrosted yesterday, Rogers?” “Jesus, Buck.” “What’re you hiding, Steve?” “Yeah, man. You’re fooling exactly no one here,” Sam interjected. His Single Unimpressed Eyebrow Raise couldn’t be beat, and Steve felt the sudden urge to blurt the truth-- partially spurred on by the fact that Slate, hidden in his hoodie, had just nipped hard at his fingers. She wasn’t happy being bundled up like that, but Steve didn’t trust her alone in his room. There were too many electrical cords to chew, too much paint to get into, too many irreplaceable objects to knock off of tables and break. “What’s with the third degree, guys?” Steve asked, scowling a little.  “Okay, fair. If you wanna act like a weirdo, that’s your right,” Sam said reasonably.  Steve was in the middle of agreeing when Sam continued: “But you’re on pancake duty now.” Steve slowly took his hands out of his oddly bulgy pocket and began shuffling over to Sam. Slate, no longer being gently held in place, immediately started squirming; but luckily Bucky was too busy getting the rest of the ingredients to notice, and Sam was measuring out buttermilk with intense concentration.  “You okay, Steve? Really?” he murmured. Steve opened his mouth to say ‘Of course--’ Unseen to the other two men, Slate leapt out of Steve’s pocket and darted down the hallway-- Steve whirled and tried to catch her-- -- and the bag of flour he’d been sifting into the bowl flew into the air, coating almost everything in a fine white powder. Sam, looking oddly artistic with his long eyelashes now dusted a stark white, slowly lowered his measuring cup and just. Looked at Steve.  “I’m going back to bed,” he said calmly. “Because this has to be a nightmare.” “Steve, what the hell was that?” Bucky asked rather less calmly. He’d just washed his freakin’ hair! “Shit-- I’m sorry, guys. I’ll clean it all up, I promise.” “That much is obvious,” Sam said, using his hands to fluff flour from his hair. Bucky grinned at him.  “You finally look your age, Wilson.” As Sam puffed up like an angry cat, Steve quickly scanned the floor for Slate. He saw a clear set of little pawprints in the flour and he hastily used his foot to scuff them, not wanting her presence to be detected.  In the end, the three of them cleaned up the kitchen together, and Steve finally stopped being weird, peeling off his hoodie. Sam declared that shirtless sweaty Steve Rogers was grounds for partial forgiveness for the flour incident. Bucky kept getting distracted; he could have sworn he kept hearing the faintest patter of small footsteps on the wooden floors down the hall.  Steve spent the rest of the evening peering under the couch and in corners, giving entirely unconvincing answers as to what he was searching for. 

When Sam finally emerged, yawning widely and rubbing at his eyes in an adorable way that made Bucky very briefly regret being such an asshole, Steve wasted no time in being a tattletale, because blah blah truth and justice and being a goddamn spoilsport. “Sam, don’t drink that; Bucky’s messed with it,” he said calmly. Sam was too out of it to do more than hmm? questioningly, easing into the chair at the kitchen table. Bucky looked incredibly innocent as Steve reached for his own coffee cup, which, if Sam had been more awake, would have been a hint-- Steve gagged and sprayed his coffee onto his newspaper, eyes watering; Sam jolted more awake, looking baffled.  “What the hell, Steve?” he rasped, his sleep-hoarse voice horrible and not at all endearing in the slightest.  “You put salt in my-- you jerk--” Steve’s speech was a little hard to follow, his tongue lolling from his mouth in disgust as he hurried to the sink to spit and rinse his mouth.  “This ain’t the bathroom, Rogers, that’s nasty,” Sam muttered, raising his own cup. Bucky busied himself looking as though he was distracted by Steve’s dramatic gargling to pay attention to Sam, but he was listening for the telltale gag. He never heard it. Instead, Sam hummed contentedly as he sipped his coffee, sliding back in the chair and unlocking his phone to check his texts. Bucky blinked, no longer hiding his interest. The man had just downed a mouthful of disgusting salty coffee without so much as a flinch. Bucky felt a little bit of admiration for Sam’s poker face. Or he did, until he took a gulp of his own coffee and promptly spit it all over himself. Wilson had switched the cups. Right under Bucky’s nose. Bucky was genuinely impressed-- or would be, once his mouth stopped tasting like a used coffee filter dunked in ocean water.  “Better luck next time,” Sam said  cheerfully, taking another long sip of his (or rather, Bucky’s) coffee. He flashed a small, gap-toothed grin smile at Bucky that made him feel... kinda weird. It was probably the bad coffee reacting in his gut. That had to be the explanation for the fluttering in his stomach.

“I’m not callin’ you that, Barnes.” “We’re sharing the shield, Sam. That technically makes me Captain America too.” “Okay-- one: I’ve been Captain America longer than you. And two: we can’t both have the same call sign.” “We can be Cap1 and Cap2,” Bucky grumbled, kneeling beside Sam on the warm concrete. They were both on the rooftop of an old apartment across from an office building, waiting for a signal from Steve to crash a meeting between Hydra lackeys and A.I.M. interns. A low-level threat, to be honest, but any meeting between the sometimes at-odds groups was never a good thing.  “I’d better be ‘Cap1,’ kid,” Sam scoffed. His red-tinted goggles were settled on top of his head, the dark red fingers of his gloves lightly resting on the famous shield resting between them. Bucky thought of putting his own hand on the shield just to be a jerk, which led to the thought of interlacing their fingers, which was a baffling turn for his line of thinking to take, what the fuck “I’m not a goddamn kid-- and I’ve known Steve longer, so I’d be Cap1,” Bucky shot back without any real heat. Sam huffed out a quiet laugh, his eyes dark and warm like sun-warmed earth and why was Bucky thinking of this  “You’re acting like a kid. I’m Cap1. End of.” “Technically, I would be ‘Cap1,’ Sam would be Cap2, and Buck would be Cap3,” Steve said, his voice a little tinny over the comms.  “If we wanna get technical--” Sam started, before stiffening and throwing himself flat. Bucky was nonplussed for a beat too long and Sam reached up, grabbing his hand and yanking the other man down into an awkward splayed position.  “Nearly got spotted,” Sam said, breathing a little heavily with adrenaline. Bucky’s pulse was racing, too, and it had nothing to do with the bored-looking A.I.M. scientist that had glanced in their direction mere seconds ago. It had everything to do with Sam’s fingers wrapped around his hand-- even if his elbow was throbbing from it banging into the goddamn shield.  “All good? No movement by the west entrance. They’re still outside smoking.” Steve heaved a sigh that crackled over the comms; the man was really bad at staying still for periods longer than 20 minutes.  “They’re not shootin’ at us, so I don’t think they made us,” Bucky offered, trying to distract himself from Sam’s proximity.  “Okay, good. Maintain positions.” “We know how to run a simple surveillance op, man.” “I know, I know. Sorry. Hey-- you were saying ‘if we wanna get technical’ just now. About the ‘Cap’ thing?” Steve was clearly bored, trying to entertain himself by chatting with them as they waited for A.I.M. (or Hydra) to do something punch-worthy. Sam turned his head and locked eyes with Bucky for one long, strange moment. Then, almost as if he’d zoned out, Sam shook himself and released Bucky’s hand, grinning a little abashedly. It was still a nice smile, Bucky thought miserably, even if their faces were pressed against the dirty concrete roof.  “Yeah, Rogers. If we wanna get technical, Isaiah Bradley is Cap1.” “Shit. Shit, you’re right. I-- sorry.” “S’okay. Everyone forgets.” There was an awkward pause.  “We could always ditch ‘Cap’ altogether,” Bucky suggested. “I’ll be W.S., you be Falcon, Steve can be...” “C’mon guys, don’t--” “Nomad,” Bucky and Sam finished in perfect unison.  “It’s not all that bad. I was just throwing out ideas--” “Yeah, you wanna be ‘Nomad,’ you gotta leave the apartment more than once a week. You gotta, y’know... roam.” “It’s a symbolic name, Bucky.” Steve was sounding distinctly disgruntled. He’d given up the mantle of ‘Captain America’ some time ago, and when he had suggested the name change to his two best friends they had cried laughing. They’d sworn to bring it up at every opportunity, and had been pretty damn vigilant about it.  “Symbolic of you being really bad at picking names, maybe,” Sam muttered. The roar of machinery cut through the casual mood and the three men went silent as they took in the sight below them. It was hard to see exactly what the thing was, but the small group of scientists and lackeys had gathered around to watch the demonstration. Whatever it was, it had a lot of flailing metal tentacles  and blades. Probably not for helping little old ladies across the street, then.  Steve was already halfway towards the group, his triangular shield deflecting a few scattered laser blasts from the few guards that had attended the gathering. Sam jumped to his feet, his wings unfurling in a flash of proud crimson, but when he glanced down to pick up the shield, Bucky heard it. The unmistakable fwip of something small coming fast towards them.  “Get down!” Bucky called, roughly shoving Sam out of the way. He got shot in the ass for his trouble.  “You two don’t need to come down, I got them all!” Steve called cheerfully mere minutes later. He was almost drowned out by the screech and clanking of tearing metal; after quickly knocking out the A.I.M. and Hydra representatives, he’d gone about dismantling the machine with great ease.  “Barnes, you ok? Barnes?” Sam was standing above him, and he was really handsome, and his mouth was real nice even when it was turned down with worry like it was now, and his arms were really good, and Bucky’s butt kind of hurt. A lot.  “Barnes, fucking say something.” “Hhhhahahahaha.” “Okay, you’re-- what? Man, is that -- Barnes, you got a bigass dart sticking out of your asscheek, you seriously can’t feel that?” “Ow,” Bucky agreed amicably. He barely flinched when Sam reached down to pluck the dart out, just lost in suddenly feeling really good.  “You touched my ass,” he said, making Sam roll his eyes.  “Yeah, Bucky. Only way to get the damn thing out. Sit still so I can check your vitals.” “S’okay that you touched my butt. I wanna touch your butt.” “I’m gonna ignore that.” “It’s big. It’s a big butt.” “Shut up, Barnes,” Sam murmured, checking Bucky’s pulse and seeming somewhat satisfied with the result.  “And what’s wrong with big butts, anyway?” Sam asked as he gently held open Bucky’s eyelids to check his pupils. They were blown wide open, which wasn’t great. Even if the dude did look like he was having a grand ol’ time.  “Why’re we talking about butts?” Steve interjected.  “Your idiot friend decided to play the hero. Got hit by a dart and now he’s loopy,” Sam sighed. He sounded exasperated, but he still mouthed Thanks at Bucky, who gave a wobbly thumbs-up. Far from being concerned, Steve let out a hastily-smothered bark of laughter.  “Is he okay?” he managed.  “Dunno--” Bucky tried to sit up, still looking like he was on cloud nine. “I’m fine and so’s my butt and so’s Sam’s butt and listen, hey Sam, big butts are great! They’re fine. Like Mr. Stir-a-bunch says, ‘I like big butts’--” “It’s ‘Sir Mix-a-lot’ and I will literally pay you in gold to not sing that,” Sam said, horrified.  “I got some information out of one of the scientists,” Steve cut in.  “By ‘got some information,’ did you mean ‘threaten to punch them until they talked’?” Sam asked.   “No! Well... a little.” “We gotta talk about your interrogation methods sometime, Rogers. What’d they say?” “My methods are effective, Sam. Anyway-- they said that it’s a truth serum and they were going use it on the others in case they turned on each other. Supposed to make you say whatever’s on your mind, so they’d spill their secret experiments and the like. Real honour among thieves, here.” “--you other brothers can’t deny, with a-- wait, can I say ‘brothers,’ Sam? Sam?” “I mean... I guess it’s not the worst thing you could sing from a rap song, Barnes. Also, shut up. We gotta get you to a hospital to make sure you’re not dying.” “Okay. Something somethin’ round-thing-in-your-face you get sprung, wanna pull up tough--” “Steve, I hope to god you have the Jeep ready to go because I’m about to throw your friend off the roof.”

Bucky remembered all the lyrics on the way to the hospital, and he regaled the unamused doctors with several renditions of Sir Mix-a-lot’s magnum opus. 

“I hate that song,” Steve groaned several hours later. “It’s stuck in my head.” Bucky was draped heavily across them on the couch, out cold as his enhanced body fought off the effects of the dart. The doctors had cleared him and attempted to give him some shots to counteract the effects, but he’d shown real fear, flinching away from the needles and latex gloved hands. He’d been advised to let his body do its thing, instead. (No doctors were harmed by a panicking drugged-up supersoldier.) “Yeah, well, at least he wasn’t pointing at you every time he said ‘baby got back,’” Sam groused. His legs were falling asleep under Bucky, he was tired, and he kept finding himself humming snatches of the same song that was haunting Steve.  “S ‘cause Steve don’t got back. He’s got... he’s got a back. Back-back. Not butt-back,” Bucky mumbled, his voice muffled from being wedged into a pillow on Sam’s lap.  “Again with the butt thing. I got a perfectly serviceable butt, thanks,” Steve said, a little huffy. (’Nomad,’ clipping coupons, and his comparatively flat ass-- all favourite topics of teasing for Sam and Bucky.) “Yeah, serviceable. Sam’s got a ‘donk--” “No. We’re cutting off your access to the Internet.” “--built for comfort,” Bucky finished, cutting across Sam. “I can’t fucking wait for this stupid drug to wear off,” Sam sighed. Steve had a barely-concealed look of glee; he was getting some pretty good ammunition for driving Sam crazy in the future. Ahh, friendship. “The drug? I feel fine,” Bucky said, shuffling upright. His voice certainly sounded less dreamy, and his eyes were clear and focused. Steve immediately smacked him in the back of the head, making Bucky yelp.  “You’ve been asleep on us for two hours.” “You’re comfortable!” Bucky grinned a little. “Sam’s thighs--” “I’m going to bed,” Sam said loudly, getting up. Bucky sat up a little more, fending off Steve’s old-man grumbling with a dismissive wave.  “Hey, Sam.” “What, man?” “You got real nice arms too.”  “Fuck off.” “And... thanks.” Bucky’s voice was a little quieter, and Sam flashed him a brief smile.  “Oh, don’t worry... you’ll owe me.” Bucky felt his stomach do that thing again, and it couldn’t have been coffee this time. He felt Steve’s eyes on him the entire time he watched Sam leave the room. “What, Rogers?” “You forget how to flirt or something, Buck? That was pathetic.” “Shut the hell up, Steve. You know I can’t remember shit any more,” Bucky sulked. Steve just waggled his eyebrows, not buying his friend’s fake woe-is-me act.  “For the first time in my life, I’m better at flirting than you. You can’t blame me for wanting to bask.” “Better? Says who?” “Says her,” Steve said, holding up his phone. Bucky read the messages on the screen for a moment, his eyes widening slightly. He sighed, braced himself, and explained ‘spam bots’ to his friend. No, no one was that pretty and funny and still single. He was just trying to save his friend from getting scammed, but Steve was adamant, shooing Bucky off to bed. “Rogers, if that woman is the real deal, I’ll give you twe-- no, fifty bucks.”

B.B.: [21:35] You got a nice smile S.W.: [21:36] at least uv moved on frm my ass. thx. ur rly weird but thx. B.B.: [21:37] Sorry.  S.W.: [21:37] np. cant sleep? B.B.: [21:37] Nah. You? S.W.: [21:38] nope. S.W.: [21:38] got n e other corny shit to tell me? mayb it wll put me 2 sleep B.B.: [21:38] I got plenty S.W.: [21:40] ok. shoot. B.B.: [21:41] Really? S.W.: [21:41] yea.  B.B.: [21:42] sometimes you wrinkle up your nose when you laugh really hard and it’s cute S.W.: [21:43] jesus lmao. ma used 2 call me her little bunny wen i was a kid cos i did taht S.W.: [21:43] how much can i pay u to forget u evr read that B.B.: [21:44] All the money in the world wouldn’t make me forget that

B.B.: [21:46] you talk to me like we’ve been friends for years and I tried to kill you and it makes my chest hurt sometimes S.W.: [21:46] i still hav nightmares about u  Sam regretted sending the message almost immediately; he was exhausted from their long day, and was perhaps a little too honest. But it was true; he’d had dreams where him getting thrown across the room meant he didn’t get up. Or that he was trapped in his body, watching Bucky murder Steve. Or that it hadn’t been his steering wheel that the Winter Soldier grabbed, but Sam’s own neck. Or-- “Can I come in?” Sam hesitated. He wasn’t sure he was up to heavy emotional labour, but putting off the talk would just keep him up with anxiety all night.  “Yeah.” Bucky poked his head into the room, looking rather more tired than Sam had expected.  “Think my body’s crashin’ after the whole... dart thing,” Bucky offered. Sam hummed thoughtfully and beckoned him further into the room.  “Been a long day, Barnes. Longer even for those of us that had to hear ‘Baby Got Back’ 20 times today.” “You’re the one that said me n’ Steve should watch VH1 to catch up with pop culture.” “And never have I regretted anything more. Sit down, man.” “Where? No chairs in here.” “What kind of maniac has chairs in their bedroom?” “Me. Steve. Normal people.” “Just sit on the bed or the damn floor, Barnes, I’m sick of craning my neck to look at you.” Bucky sat gingerly on the edge of Sam’s bed, suddenly seeming shy.  “Do you really have bad dreams about...” Me nearly brutally murdering you a bunch of times? “Yeah.” “Oh.” There was a distinctly uncomfortable pause and Sam hugged himself, mentally casting about for something to say. “I don’t think you’re gonna hurt me.” again. “I know you now. You’re not that guy anymore.” “You sure about that?” Bucky asked, his voice a little bit harsher than he meant. Sam frowned.  “Yeah.” “How?”  “Well, for one-- you haven’t tried to kill me for singing in the shower yet,” Sam muttered. Bucky let out a surprised huff of laughter.  “I haven’t what?” “Every single person I’ve dated says I’m the worst singer they’ve ever heard.” “Well... you’re better’n me.” “Hmm. I-- you know what, Barnes? You’re right.” “My gift to you. Someone that’s a worse singer than you.” “Pass.” “I won’t hurt you, Sam.” The comment seemed to come out of nowhere, but Sam had been waiting for it. “I know.” “I don’t wanna. I-- I never did.” “I know, man.” “I’d die before I do again.” Sam sucked in a sharp breath.  “That’s... pretty heavy, Bucky,” he said carefully. Uncharacteristically, Bucky was maintaining steady eye contact with Sam.  “Nah. ‘S true. Before I hurt you or Steve again, I’d--” “Okay, I get it. Thanks.” Awkward as it was, Barnes was clearly trying to offer comfort the only way he could manage.  “Can we go back to you telling me weird compliments instead?” Sam joked weakly.  “I used to be real poetic, y’know. If I was tryin’ to go with you I’d probably say something about your eyes.” “Jesus, Barnes. You had that one ready to go?” “Been wanting to say it for a while.” “That dart was a hell of a drug, huh?” “It’s not the dart and you know it.” “It’s not the... okay, the only other option is--” “I’m trying to flirt with you, okay?” “Oh. Yikes.” “Is that a ‘yikes, no, stop’ or...” “It’s a ‘yikes, you’re bad at this.’ I’m okay with the concept of you flirting with me, it’s the execution that’s lacking.” “What? Okay, hold on to your horses--” “Dude.” “Just let me... okay. Your eyes are like when the sun’s going down in the summer and the sky’s all orange and the air’s still kinda warm and right at the edge of the horizon there’s the little strip of darkness. ‘S almost black.” Sam blinked a few times, at a loss for words, but Bucky wasn’t done yet.  “That damn horizon -- always made me want to go to it and get lost in it. Like I could catch the sunset... like I could touch it. That’s what your eyes are like.” “You’re such an asshole.” “Me? Why?!” “Because that was good.” “You’re... mad because my flirting was good.” “Yes, and now I’ve gotta let you take me out to dinner.” “Oh, you do, do ya?” “Yeah. Dammit, you might even get a kiss out of this.” “This before or after the dinner?” Bucky asked, raising his eyebrows hopefully. Sam pretended to think it over.  The soft little sound that Sam made when Bucky nipped at his neck made getting shot in the ass with a dart more than worth it.

Steve’s date turned out to be tiny, smart, funny, and gorgeous. Flawless brown skin. Large dark eyes sparkling with mischief. And a beautiful mouth that was spreading into a slow smirk-- “So,” Sharon Carter said, “I hear we’re owed fifty bucks.” She laughed when Bucky scrambled for his wallet, and said he could buy them all ice cream instead. “Wonder if I can date her instead,” Sam murmured later on as he and Bucky walked behind Sharon and Steve. The sun was going down, and they’d decided to take a walk on the beach to enjoy the last warm rays.  “I wouldn’t blame you, but she seems pretty gone on Rogers,” Bucky snorted. Sam shoved him lightly.  “I’m messing with you, Barnes. Who else is gonna tell me corny shit about how my eyes look like the sunset?” Bucky looked at Sam, who didn’t look away or roll his eyes for once. Bucky wanted to touch his face, still awestruck after all this time by the way the light made his skin glow with warmth, touching his lips, his eyelashes. His eyes. His eyes, which were amber shot through with gold one moment, deep dark mahogany the next.  “Who wouldn’t?” Bucky responded.

“Yes, at my house… place.” Peter didn’t care that the amusement was plain in the older man’s voice; he was just glad that Captain America “Call Me Steve” seemed charmed rather than irritated. Because Peter Parker was a frickin’ nerd. “I gotta ask my Aunt,” Peter mutters now, frowning a little. He’d promised her -- no more lies. And he wanted to keep it; she was too important to him. Captain America “Call Me Steve” nods as though that’s the most understandable thing in the world. “I can put in a good word,” he says. “It’s just a little get-together, us and the gang... thought you deserved a burger just as much as any other Avenger.” Any. Other. Avenger. Peter’s mouth feels dry; Mr. Stark hadn’t officially asked him to join yet, but he’d provided backup for a couple of their missions without much trouble (there was that time that his webbing got caught on that flying saucer, but...) and the team seemed to like him. Even if they did ask him about his homework a lot. (Aunt May says yes, sure, of course. She sounds a little bit breathy when Captain America “Call Me Steve” hands Peter his phone back.)

Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier is staring hard at Peter, and Peter is wondering if this is his last night on earth. The man has barely blinked in the last 15 seconds (Peter counted), and while his facial expression isn’t exactly threatening, it has a calculated blankness to it that is a little bit unnerving. Peter just wanted to play Monopoly, is that so bad? “Kid,” Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier says, finally leaning back in his chair and taking a huge swig of his beer, “what’re you, 13?” “I’m gonna be 16 soon,” Peter says, bristling a little. Everyone’s always calling him a kid; he’s fought off bad guys and is hardly ever late for class and he’s only 2 years off from being able to drink in Quebec, Canada! Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier nods, looking suddenly ... happy? “You’re good at jumping over stuff, right?” The question puzzles Peter, but he’s already nodding, knowing that this was yet another chance to prove himself. Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier leans in closer to Peter, glancing around conspiratorially. “Cap’s got a trampoline,” he says in a low voice. “Yeah, I know. Previous neighbours left it. The point is--” Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier is fucking insane. Peter is so excited. “Nice one, kid!” Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier yells. Peter can barely hear him over the air rushing past his ears. It had seemed like a good idea for Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier to throw Peter as hard as he could at the trampoline, for Peter to use his natural acrobatic talents to turn the resulting upward spring into an awesome midair flip. They wanted to see if Peter could get airborne. For science.  

Captain America “Call Me Steve” looks really worried. It’s hard to tell from up here.

Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) is the best. Just.. the best guy. He’d pushed past Captain America and Bucky Barnes to shimmy up the street lamp, helping Peter get untangled from the dangerous wires with no indication that the pair of them could get electrocuted at any second. But then, Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) wasn’t scared of anything, he didn’t have any powers (Peter wasn’t 100% on that, because some of the stunts Sam Wilson [a.k.a. The Falcon!] pulled with those wings didn’t seem possible no matter how long Peter thought about it) but he ran kept up with Captain America “Call Me Steve” no problem. And now he was bandaging Peter’s arm. He’s the best. Peter decides he’s gotta let Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) know. “I know, man,” Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) says, shaking his head. “You told me like 4 times. Not arguin’, though. You got a hell of an adrenaline high right now, huh?” Peter likes that Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) calls him ‘man,’ and not ‘kid’ or some variation thereof. “You can’t let Barnes talk you into stupid shit,” Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) says, and Peter also likes that he doesn’t censor himself, he talks to Peter like he’s any of the team. He braces himself for a lecture, though. He and Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier had been pretty stupid even if it was totally worth it. Instead, Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) is saying, “You can’t arch your back that much when you’re at the apex of your jump or you’ll overshoot your target. Next time--” Next time! There’s a next time! “--I’ll show you a coupla tricks I picked up from flying. Bet you’ll stick the landing better next time.” Sam Wilson (a.k.a The Falcon!) is nice and funny is bandaging Peter’s arm and is just as crazy as Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier.

Peter can’t help it; he knows he looks a little bit sad when it’s time to go home. He’d had so much fun; Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier and Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) made great Monopoly game partners, both of them ruthlessly trying to destroy the other. Peter had sneakily used their distraction with each other to win the game. They were both impressed. Captain America “Call Me Steve” had given Peter the biggest burger he’d ever held in his hands. It was perfectly done and Peter didn’t even mind that it had pickles because Captain America “Call Me Steve” had made him a burger! For him! Specifically! And now it was time to go and he would probably never get to hang out with them like this again-- “You busy next weekend?” Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) is asking, leaning against Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier. He’s got a beer in his hand and his aviator sunglasses are hanging from the collar of his t-shirt and he’s so cool. “No,” Peter says. His voice doesn’t squeak. Score. “Ask your Aunt May if you can come over; we’re doing sushi,” Captain America “Call Me Steve” says, sauntering over and standing close to Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!) Peter says he will, already excited because he knows Aunt May will say yes. Captain America “Call Me Steve” tells him to bring his history homework, if he needed help with it. Peter laughs, thinking he’s joking. He’s not.

Update #1: Bucky Barnes, formerly Winter Soldier loves Say Yes to the Dress, but don’t tell anyone.

Update #2: Peter just came back from movie night with Bucky Barnes, Sam Wilson (a.k.a. The Falcon!), and Captain America “Call Me Steve” Rogers. He’d been brave enough to bring Mary Jane. He also realized that it was something like a couples movie night, sometime around the time Sam Wilson leaned his head on Steve Roger’s shoulder. He also makes another realization when Bucky Barnes drapes his arm across the back of the couch, easily resting against the other men’s shoulders. Oh. Oh, okay. Peter thinks that’s really modern of them, especially considering two of them are, like, 100 years old. Later on, Peter kisses MJ for the first time. Bucky ruins it by turning on the porch light and whooping. Steve apologizes, but he’s got that ‘Haha Not Really’ look. Sam laughs until he cries, and threatens to Snapchat the look on Peter’s face (he doesn’t.) MJ covers her face, but she’s laughing too. Peter hopes it’s not at his kissing skills (later she tells him it’s not. He chooses to believe her.)

Update #3: It’s kinda weird having three sorta-kinda-dads who are all varying levels of Fucking Irresponsible (Sam’s words, shortly before dive-bombing Bucky into the pool), but Peter (and later, MJ) never misses a Sunday night dinner at the Wilsonrogersbarnes residence. Unless there’s, like, giant robots to fight or something? But then they go for dinner after anyway. Peter’s pretty psyched about the whole thing; Steve’s gonna let him throw the shield later on!

“What what what what, Barnes, what?” Sam grit out, finally looking up. He was sleep-rumpled, his face still creased from his pillow and his mouth twisted into an unhappy sort of semi-pout. It was 4am (too early), it was overcast (pressure headache), and most importantly, it was Saturday (Sam’s day off.) “What happened to the Spice Girls?” Bucky repeated, reaching over Sam to grab the tub of cream cheese instead of asking like a polite, well-mannered human being. “Uuuuggggh,” Sam replied, his groggy irritability taking over for a second. Then he heaved a sigh. Barnes had stayed up all night because of... well, who knows, the guy was clearly wired in that ‘48 hours without sleep and I feel great!’ kind of way. He was just trying to make conversation with Sam. “They broke up? I think? Or-- wait, there was some kinda reunion thing? My sister lost her damn mind over it.” “Aww, hell, did they really break up?” Bucky asked, looking despondent as he slathered an upsetting amount of cream cheese onto his bagel. “Think so, man. Sorry.” “Damn.” Bucky paused, and then perked up again. “Wanna watch their videos on YouToo?” “Youwhat?” “Y’know. YouToo! Videos, and ... well, just videos.” “YouTube, Barnes. Tube.” “What th’ hell’s it called that? YouToo makes sense, like... I’m watchin’ a video, and you too.” “Barnes, shut the...” Sam trailed off, idly sucking the last of the overly sweet cereal milk off his spoon. (He didn’t notice Bucky ardently watching him.) “You know, I don’t know why it’s called YouTube? Maybe something to do with TV or...” And that’s how they spent 10 minutes Googling the history of YouTube, and almost 2 hours watching Spice Girls videos (Bucky fell asleep about 40 minutes in, slumped heavily against Sam. Sam allowed it; the guy seemed exhausted.)

“What, like a learning exchange?” Sam asked, his eyebrows raised. It was the next Saturday, this time 5am, and he’d found Bucky wide awake again. “Well, I dunno. I guess. I ask you bout lotsa stuff, and I thought... I could tell ya stuff.” “Stuff.” “I know stuff!” Bucky said, slightly defensive. Sam hid a huge yawn behind his hand, waving the other dismissively. “Yeah, I know you know stuff. What kinda stuff you wanna teach me?” “Dunno. What you wanna know about?” Sam thought for a moment. 50 Ways To Garrote Your Man-- While Keeping Your Hair Perfect! Perfecting Your Thousand-Yard Stare and Other Makeup Tips How Punching Nazis Can Help YOU Get the Ridiculously Hot Body of Your Dreams!! Sam blinked. That last one had come out of nowhere. He cleared his throat. “Uhhh. I dunno, always wanted to learn French...” “Languages?” Bucky asked, furrowing his brow. Sam felt a stab of worry; he wasn’t sure how Barnes felt about his multi-lingual ability, considering how he’d gotten it. But Bucky’s face was lighting up now. “Yeah, I could do that. You uh... if you got Saturdays free, we could do an hour? I’m. I c’n teach. I used to tutor my little sister.” The man was quieter now, getting the far-off look that he and Steve got sometimes. “That’d be pretty cool, Barnes,” Sam said, feeling a little hot in the face for some reason. Bucky nodded, seeming to come back to himself. “Okay! So. Got another culture question for ya. Then we can do some a’ the French basics. Yeah?” “Oui.” “Wilson, it’s one word. How’d you get the accent so janky? Jesus, I’m gonna have my work cut out for me.” “Fuck you, Barnes.” “You wish. Okay-- Backstreet Boys vs. N’Sync. What was up with that?” Sam and Bucky smoothly ignored the You wish, even though there was just the faintest hint of pink in Bucky’s cheeks for a few minutes.

2:08 am. Saturday. 4 months later. Sam pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyelids, seeing spots when he finally eased off. He’d been given more ‘homework’ by freakin’ Barnes; translating a long list of phrases without the help of a dictionary or Google Translate, which Barnes would check over in the morning. Sam was exhausted. He’d actually picked up the basics blazingly fast -- not that he was paying attention to the praise that Barnes heaped on him, shut up -- and had come to look forward to his Saturday mornings. (Steve had been banned from the language lessons for interrupting every few minutes with a ‘Well, actually, in this particular dialect--’ comments.) A message flashed on his screen; his sister, 4 hours ahead of him, was awake. He opened his camera and waved to his younger sister, who saluted him with her cup of coffee. Since it was early, they typed instead of using audio: Sarah W. 💗: Sammy sammy sam sam S. Wilson: jfc sis ur hyper today Sarah W: 💗: I have a long weekend!! Going 2 the spa S. Wilson: u fancy Sarah W 💗: do u have your HON HON HON FRONSH LESSON today S. Wilson: lol u know i do Sarah W 💗: R U GONNA TELL LE PROFESSOR YOU WANNA SMASH S. Wilson: obv not jfc Sarah W 💗: if you don’t I WILL S. Wilson: Sarah NO Sarah W. 💗: SARAH YES S. Wilson: how do u make bold?? S. Wilson: o nvm i figured it out Sarah W. 💗: tell him LUI TOUCHER LE PÉNIS Sam couldn’t help it; he let out an ungainly wheeze, shaking with laughter at his desk. “L...lui... toucher... le pénis,” Sam read aloud, actual tears starting in his eyes. His sister was ridiculous. “Christ, Wilson. ‘Him touch the penis? That’s pretty bad grammar,” Bucky said from the doorway. Sam just barely refrained from yelping, instead whipping around to stare at the source of the voice. “What the hell, Barnes!” “Your door was kinda open,” Bucky shrugged. “And your light was on. Figured you’d want some company.” As he spoke, he moved further into the room-- much like he had many times over the last few months. Sam and Bucky had become late-night companions (not like that, Sarah, oh my god), since they both had trouble staying asleep all night. Maybe they’d fallen asleep tangled together more than a few times on Sam or Bucky’s bed. No big. “I was just talking to Sarah,” Sam said, still laughing a little. It was only when Bucky smiled and said “How is she?” that Sam remembered that Bucky and Sarah occasionally exchanged pleasantries. Bucky’s eyes widened slightly as he read the conversation. Sarah, watching with wide eyes, waved and gave Bucky a thumbs up. Bucky grinned at her. “Listen, Sarah is wild, Barnes. I don’t--” Sam started. “If you wanted to ask something like that, you’d say...” Barnes leaned forward and murmured it into Sam’s ear, afterwards huffing out an almost shy laugh. Sam, feeling distinctly feverish as he had with increasing frequency around Barnes lately, repeated the phrase. “Pretty good, Wilson,” Banres murmured. He paused. “If you were serious, the answer is yes,” he continued in French. Sam frowned for a few moments, mentally translating. When it clicked, he sort of-- twitched. “Really?” “Yeah.” Bucky bit his lower lip briefly before switching back to English. “I’ve been sleeping fine the last couple months. Just been gettin’ up early to see you.” “Jesus, Barnes. We’re a couple of idiots,” Sam said, laughing slightly. “So have I. We coulda been sleeping in all this time, man.” “Dunno. I don’t mind.” Bucky’s eyes were on him, intense and searching. If you were serious, the answer is yes. Slowly, tentatively, the two men edged towards each other and found that the answer was an emphatic oui. Sarah W. 💗: OMG SAM UR MAKING OUT WITH HIM Sarah W. 💗: Sam do u know u still have your camera on Sarah W. 💗: EW EW EW OK BYE

“The mountains must be beautiful this time of year,” Steve had murmured against Sam’s neck late at night, his arm pulling the other man close to his chest.  “This again,” Sam muttered sleepily. “Steve, why are you so obsessed with this?” “I never went as a kid,” Steve said mournfully. Sam made an unimpressed snort.  “Me neither. Try again.” “It ...looks like fun?” “Paying good money to buy a tent and camping supplies, leaving my warm apartment-- which already HAS sleeping and cooking and showering amenities, might I add-- to get my ass bitten by mosquitoes and bears?” When Steve spoke, his voice shook a little from repressed mirth. “Are the bears and mosquitoes in cahoots, or--” “I’m leaving you.” “C’mon, Sam,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to his lover’s skin. “Please. I promise it’ll be fun.” “... don’t make me regret this, Rogers.”

Sam sincerely regretted meeting Steve Rogers sometimes. The object of his annoyance was currently trying without success to tie a tarp over their tent. Because it was raining (of course.) And their tent was leaking (fantastic.) And it was leaking because Steve Rogers was still a cheapass despite having a pretty sizable bank account (Sam understood why, but shut up.) “Okay, I think I got it!” Steve called, sticking his head into the tent and positively beaming. Nothing -- not the bad weather, not the shitty tent, not even the absolute swarm of mosquitoes that adored him-- nothing was dampening his spirits. He clambered ungracefully into the tent, dripping water, and then shook his head to get the water out, spattering cold drops of rain all over Sam and his sleeping bag. Sam shot him a poisonous glare that Steve totally missed. And what was the point of glaring at someone if they didn’t notice, really?  “How you holding up, Sammy?” “Don’t call me ‘Sammy,’ Rogers.” “Aw, geeze. You’re grumpy, huh?” “Die.” “Great! Okay, let’s get some dinner going...” Sam tried to hold on to his bad mood, he really did. He was damp, he was cold, and he could only think that right at that moment, he could be home with ESPN and some good whiskey, but noooo. But Steve was... he was so damn happy to be out here with Sam, fussing over him and setting up their little heat stove, rubbing his arms to warm him up, making him hot cocoa... Sam softened a little.  (Steve’s wet t-shirt being plastered to his ridiculous torso helped to cheer him up, too.) “What’ve we got to eat?” Sam asked, his voice slightly muffled from the sleeping bag being pulled up near his mouth. Steve rifled through their supply pack, pulling out a somewhat baffling assortment of food.  “We’ve got... Spam, beef jerky, raisins, I think this is a potato, and... Skittles? You like Skittles, right? Oh hey-- a carrot!” “Rogers, did you just close your eyes and grab random shit off the shelves at the supermarket?” “Uh...” “Rogers, did you not go to the supermarket?” “I spent a lot of time looking for a reasonably-priced tent! I ran out of time!” “Oh my god, you just took whatever was left in our pantry.” “I was ... being resourceful?” “You were in the war, man, how do you not know how to pack supplies?!” “I wasn’t in charge of the supplies, I was in charge of punching holes in Nazi tanks!” “Ohhh. My god.” Sam shuffled out of his sleeping bag and made his way over to Steve, who was looking decidedly sulky (but only because he really had fucked up on the food.) Sam sat on his haunches near him and placed his hands on either side of Steve’s face.  “I love you, but you’re an idiot.” “....you love me?”  Sam blinked. He hadn’t meant to...  “Well, yeah. Guess so.”  Steve positively glowed, leaning forward to kiss Sam soundly on the lips. “Me too. The love thing, I mean. But about you.” “You’re a disaster,” Sam muttered, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice. Steve shrugged, still smiling like a dope as he watched Sam unzip a small section of their pack.  “Lucky for you, some of us thought to go to the corner store yesterday.” “I read somewhere that raisins can go in stew,” Steve offered, trying to be helpful. Sam considered for a second.  “Why not? Chuck ‘em in.” The beef(jerky), carrot, potato, and now raisin stew ... smelled surprisingly good. Sam had come through with a few ready-to-heat pouches of soup, and they’d decided to combine the things that seemed least troublesome into some kind of soup-stew-meal-thing.  “I bet I can find some wild onions!” Steve said suddenly. Sam looked up, frowning.  “It’s pitch black and storming out. Onions aren’t worth all that--” “I can see fine. I’ll be right back, okay?” “You don’t know how to pack for a camping trip, but you can spot onions at night during a storm?” “Yup. Not the first time I’ve done it.” Sam shook his head and went back to stirring the stew.  Picking onions shouldn’t take two hours. Sam was damn sure of that. He chewed fretfully at his lip, glancing at his phone again. He’d called and texted Steve several times; the storm wasn’t letting up, and Sam was slowly becoming more and more worried. Rogers could take care of himself, but he was also a magnet for trouble.  Sam heaved a huge sigh and squared his shoulders, coming to a decision. Turning off the heat of their little camping stove, Sam put on his jacket and shrugged into the heavy pack. Would he ever get a break from saving Rogers’ dumb ass? Sam was immediately soaked to the bone upon exiting the tent, the cold water trickling down the back of his neck. Camping was the worst.  Sam used his hand to shield his eyes from the rain, squinting to see if he could pick out where Steve had wandered off. Using the flashlight in his pack, he swept the ground in front of him, looking for a familiar boot print-- and behind him, he heard the sound of tearing fabric. Whirling on the spot, Sam aimed the beam of the flashlight at the tent, and nearly had a heart attack when the cold flash of an animal’s eyes caught the light. Bears.  Seriously. Bears. Sam was a brave man, but knowing that if he’d stayed another 5 minutes in the tent, he’d be a dead brave man made him feel a little faint. One of the massive animals gave an inquisitive huff and moved towards him, and Sam bolted the other way. Usain Bolt who?

“Sam? You okay?” “It’s raining, you went missing and aged me 5 years, our tent got attacked by bears, and I just fell off a cliff.” “Yeah, that hill up there’s a doozy. Wait, bears?” “A doozy. I accepted my death on the way down, Steve. This is how I was gonna die. Running from bears, in the rain, falling off a cliff.” “The fall wasn’t that long.” “Let me be dramatic. Please. It’s been a shitty night.” “I-- you’re right. I’m sorry, Sam.” “Thank you. Also, fuck you for dragging me camping.” “Noted. I’ve got some good news, though!” “What could possibly be good news at this point?” “I see lights over that way,” Steve said, pointing. Sam noticed even in the dim beam of the flashlight (which had somehow survived the fall) that he was covered head to toe in scratches. Steve never got the hang of falling with grace, which was something Sam had had to learn fast during the trial runs of the Falcon wings.  “If that’s not a decent hotel, I’m going to murder you,” Sam said matter-of-factly, offering his hand to Steve to pull him up.  “Fair,” Steve nodded, leading the way towards the lights. 

The front desk attendant looked terrified as the sopping, bloodied and limping men stumbled into the elegant lobby of the hotel. Steve’s patented Captain America Smile, Sam’s charming witty banter, and a Stark black credit card got them a pretty nice room.  “Ooowww!” “Holy shit, Steve, you’ve been thrown off of buildings. You’ve been thrown through buildings. You’ve been shot more times than I can count. Quit whining, they’re just scratches.” “I gotta act stoic in front of the troops. I mean, the team. The serum made me stronger, not immune to pain. And there are a lot of damn scratches and you’re pouring vodka all over them.” “Gotta disinfect them,” Sam said cheerfully. He’d already tended to his own surprisingly few cuts (see? learning to fall properly paid off), but since his field kit had been lost in the bear attack (seriously. bears.) he had to make do with the overpriced tiny bottles of vodka in the minibar and the boxes of band-aids that the woman at the front desk had worriedly pressed into his hands upon them checking in.  “I’ll heal up in a few hours, Sam, geeze.” “Sorry, did the serum make you immune to infection? Because I seem to remember someone getting a pretty nasty infection from a splinter because oh, the serum.” “Point.” “Damn right,” Sam muttered. He dabbed at the last (and worst) of Steve’s scrapes, gentle with his hands even as he grumbled about how foolish his boyfriend was.  “Sam,” Steve said quietly sometime later, halfway through tucking into a hamburger mercifully provided by room service.  “Hmm?” “I uhm, when I fell off the cliff...” “Yeah?” “I just. I thought of you. I was worried about you and-- and I thought, ‘What if I never see him again?’ It made me feel sick.” Sam looked at him for a long moment before putting aside his mostly empty plate and scooting closer to him. He took Steve’s hand in his, threading their fingers together.  “Yeah, Steve. Welcome to being in love.” They passed the tiny vodka bottles back and forth as they told each other about their camping mishaps while apart. It turned out to be a lot funnier on the retelling than when it had actually happened. That, and vodka made everything hilarious.