Chapter Text
“I don’t know about this, Sam,” Steve says dubiously. “I feel a little uncomfortable asking for a favor from a complete stranger. Mechanics have to make a living too, you know. Plus, it’s not like I can’t afford it.”
Sam lets out a long-suffering sigh. He should’ve known this was coming.
“I’m sure they’ll survive, Steve. If they really think they’ll go bankrupt from charging you a few bucks less, then they’ll let us know. There’s no harm in asking, is there?”
“I guess.” Steve still doesn’t seem convinced, but Sam hadn’t expected him to be. He knows him too well by now.
Sam first met Steve about a year ago. It was a bit of a shock, to say the least, when Actual Captain America suddenly showed up at his veterinary clinic in Cobble Hill, carrying a large dog bridal style in his arms and looking like he was close to tears. The dog was an old, sick golden retriever that was no longer eating, and Sam had had no choice but to put her out of her misery.
Steve had been devastated. “I got her a month after I came out of the ice”, he’d choked out, just about managing to hold back the sobs that were threatening to rack his broad shoulders as he explained how he’d found Sheila in a shelter and how she’d helped him preserve his sanity in this strange new world. Dogs were one thing that hadn’t changed since the 1930s, and Sheila had become Steve’s trusty companion when he hadn’t really been able to trust anyone else.
Steve’s employer, SHIELD, tried to forbid him from keeping her, but Steve had threatened to strike if they’d take her away from him. In the end, SHIELD had decided that national security was more important than keeping their offices pet hair free (though not by much) and let Steve keep his mangy dog. They probably weren’t going to be mourning Sheila’s demise too hard.
As a vet, Sam was well-aware that he couldn’t just take in every sad, lonely puppy that found its way into his clinic, but he’d made an exception for Steve. And not just because the guy was Captain America, for god’s sake. He’d asked Steve if he had anyone he could call, someone to look after him tonight, but that had only led to a fresh round of tears as Steve told him he hadn’t really made any friends during the three years since he’d been found in the ice.
It was just too much; this big, blond, blubbering mess of a man who was seemingly all alone in the world. He may have been one of the strongest men alive, with his 6’3 and his bulging muscles that his t-shirt struggled to contain, but right then, Steve seemed to be feeling about as small and vulnerable as a new-born retriever pup. So, Sam had given Steve his personal phone number and said that he was welcome to call him anytime, if he ever needed somebody to talk to. Steve had looked at him with huge, watery eyes, unable to wrap his head around this kind gesture from a complete stranger who hadn’t even asked him for his autograph, and then thanked him profusely while blushing and tripping over his words.
Steve had called him that same night, just when he was about to get into bed, to ask Sam (again) whether he was sure that his dog hadn’t suffered. Sam had assured him (again) that she hadn’t and then talked to Steve for a while, asking about his plans for the next couple of days to reassure himself in turn that Steve wasn’t about to off himself. Sam wasn’t sure if supersoldiers could even off themselves, but he wasn’t going to take the risk.
When it became clear that Steve didn’t have anything planned except for attending ultra-secret SHIELD meetings (that Sam was pretty sure Steve shouldn’t be telling him about in the first place), he’d sighed inwardly and told Steve to meet him at a nearby diner for a coffee the day after tomorrow. He wondered for a moment if it was a good idea to pick up another charity case, especially one this high-profile, but he couldn’t help it. Much like Steve himself, Sam had never been good at standing by futilely when people – or animals – were clearly in need.
Over the months that followed, Steve and Sam had gradually struck up a friendship. Once Steve had somewhat recovered from his most recent loss, he actually turned out to be a really great, friendly guy. Of course, he was stubborn as all hell, and – surprisingly, for someone who was literally a superhero – extremely insecure, though more so about the ‘real’ Steve Rogers than about his Captain America persona. But underneath all that he was smart, witty and charming and, above all, he was kind. Sam genuinely had a hard time understanding why Steve didn’t have more friends, although it all began to fall into place when Steve explained to him how SHIELD basically treated him simultaneously as a fossil, a national treasure, and a secret weapon, instead of like the traumatized human being he really was.
Sure, Steve had the Avengers who he got on with well enough, but they were all superheroes; a little damaged, a lot complex, and generally speaking just not the most easy-going bunch in the world. Steve, when he’d been defrosted, was basically a twenty-five-year-old man who’d been a tiny, angry asthmatic for the first twenty-one years of his life, until he was turned into the world’s first supersoldier. He’d been on his own for a few years before that, his mother having died when he was eighteen, and his health had prevented him from having much in the way of a social life and forging ordinary friendships while growing up. This, at least, explained why Steve’s people skills left something to be desired, Sam had privately thought, though he immediately felt bad for even thinking it.
The fact that he hadn’t really had anything to lose had played a big part in Steve’s desire to sign up for the armed forces and ultimately in the decision to agree to take part in Dr Erskine’s experiments. The other deciding factor, of course, had been Steve’s innate sense of justice, his good heart and his desire to make a difference in the world. He had spent most of his existence up until that point being a wallflower; uselessly standing by while others fought for what they believed in, and this had been his big chance – his one chance – to make things right.
Steve maintained that he didn’t regret his decision to become Captain America – he had made a huge difference to the outcome of WWII after all, and continued making a difference today – but Sam could clearly see that it had come at a price. Having not only lost everything he had, everyone he’d ever known, but also being a veteran of one of the biggest wars the world had ever seen, Steve suffered from PTSD, was depressed, exhausted, and very, very lonely. During the war, he’d finally found a kindred spirit in the form of the formidable Peggy Carter, but their blossoming romance had been cruelly cut short when Steve had had no choice but to crash the Valkyrie into the arctic to save the City of New York. Carter was still alive, but she was now a frail, old lady locked away in a nursing home in Washington D.C. – although if Steve was to be believed, she’d lost nothing of her spirited personality. She’d married, though, and had a family of her own, and although Steve was happy for her, Sam suspected it must’ve stung at least a little bit.
Sam had insisted that Steve start seeing a therapist – a real one, not one of those SHIELD phonies who tried to infiltrate Steve’s fragile mind with more state propaganda– and gradually, as Steve gained a better understanding of what he was feeling and what he was going through, Sam had begun to notice a difference in his behavior. Steve had found a place of his own in Brooklyn, away from the Avengers Tower where he’d been living since officially becoming an Avenger. He’d started to make an effort to get out more, and picked up healthier exercise habits than frustratedly knocking punching bags off their chains until his knuckles were raw and bloody.
Now, Steve and Sam go on Saturday morning runs together (well, Sam goes for a run and Steve does his best impression of a rocket zooming around Prospect Park) and every Thursday night, Steve’s schedule permitting, they meet up for fancy craft beers in one of Brooklyn’s many hipster bars that Sam secretly quite enjoys. Every time, Sam gets the distinct impression Steve would’ve rather just stayed in with a six-pack of pilsner, so he appreciates the gesture to meet up in a bar all the more. Steve gets approached by admirers from time to time, but he’s very good at turning on his Captain America persona in an instant, and likewise at turning it off again as soon as it isn’t needed anymore. Sam feels privileged that he’s one of the only people who knows the real Steve Rogers, because Steve Rogers is a man worth knowing.
So, all in all, Sam feels like he’s done a pretty decent job helping Steve reclaim his life.
But one thing he hasn’t managed yet is to get Steve dating again. He’d tried to set him up on dates with girls from his work or the gym, but essentially, Steve would go out with them once (if that), and then find some excuse to weasel out of a second date. When Sam gently confronted him about it, Steve had dejectedly explained that he just didn’t think he had anything to offer those girls, and that he’d only disappoint them in the end. They’d just see Captain America and expect him to be someone he wasn’t, and then both parties would be let down, so it was better not to get involved in the first place. Sam thinks that those girls are dumb as shit if they prefer Cap over Steve, and he told Steve as much, but it didn’t really seem to make much of a difference.
Although he is very well-off thanks to his army back pay and is generous when it comes to buying things for other people, Steve is otherwise pretty thrifty and doesn’t like to spend a lot of money on himself. One exception to that rule was the time he’d bought himself a gorgeous, vintage Harley. He blushed when he confessed that growing up, he’d always dreamed of owning a motorcycle, but that even if he’d had the money, which he very much hadn’t, his health wouldn’t have allowed him to ride it.
The first time Steve pulled up outside Sam’s house, Sam had a genuine, disorienting moment of questioning his own heterosexuality. Don’t get him wrong, Sam loves the ladies, but in that moment, with his floppy blond hair, his strong thighs, and his aviator sunglasses, Steve looked like something that had stepped straight out of the pages of GQ magazine. Hot damn.
But this morning, on their Saturday run, Steve had been fretting about the strange sounds his bike had started to make a few days ago. He’d asked Clint, aka freakin' Hawkeye – Sam still gets a little bit star struck from time to time – to take a look at it, since he was also a bike owner. Clint, however, had quickly decided that this was above his paygrade and advised Steve to have it checked out by a professional. Fortunately, he happened to know a bike shop in Red Hook run by an old friend of his, someone by the strange, foreign-sounding name of Thor, where they’d be able to get a discount.
So, that’s where Sam and Steve are currently headed, Steve’s bike strapped onto the back of the truck they borrowed from Clint, who is away on Avenging business.
They pull up outside the workshop and Steve quickly lifts the machine off the back of the truck as if it’s a toy instead of a seven-hundred-pound monster.
Show-off.
Following the signs that tell them where to go, Steve then rolls it around to the back of the workshop, Sam following in his wake.
“HELLO.”
Steve and Sam both jump at the sudden booming voice to their right, eyes growing wide as they take in the man (giant?) the voice belongs to.
Sam swallows. Steve is already seriously big, but this guy is huge – easily 6’5, built like a tank, his bulging biceps clearly visible thanks to the grease-smeared tank top he’s wearing, and his long, messy blond hair tied back in a low bun at the back of his neck. Still, his blue eyes are sparkling and he’s smiling broadly at them, his features and body language radiating friendliness.
“I am Thor, the proprietor of this workshop. How may I help you?” the giant says in accented English. Something Scandinavian, Sam reckons.
Steve is just sort of staring at Thor (sometimes he still forgets that he’s a superhero himself), so Sam decides to answer for the both of them.
“Hey, man,” he says. “I’m Sam, and this is Steve, and this is Steve’s poorly Harley. We’re actually friends of Clint Barton’s? He said you two went way back.”
“Ah, yes,” Thor beams immediately. “Clint is a good man, and a good friend. Friends of his are friends of mine. I would be happy to make you gentlemen a fine deal, if it happens the bike needs repairing.”
Sam shoots Steve a triumphant look, silently warning him not to go turning down the offer out of some misplaced sense of chivalry. Thankfully, Steve just thanks Thor clumsily and asks him where to leave the bike.
“If you would like to follow me, you can explain what seems to be the matter with your bike to my best mechanic. I am sure he will be able to give you his diagnosis.”
Sam is silently amused by this friendly giant’s formal way of speaking, which seems at odds with his appearance and his profession but is also kind of charming. The three of them walk towards the back of the shop, where tinny rock music is playing from an old radio in the corner and a man stands with his back towards them, busying himself with something that involves a lot of clanging of metal on the work bench to the furthest wall.
“Barnes!” Thor booms. To his credit, the man doesn’t jump, doesn’t even turn around – but then again, he’s probably used to it. “Meet Sam and Steve. They are friends of Clint Barton’s and are to be treated like friends of ours.”
Addressing Steve directly again, Thor says, “Your bike will be in capable hands, my friend. Thank you for visiting our workshop and please give Clint my very best.”
Steve stutters out his thanks and promises to pass on Thor’s good wishes. Thor gives them a grave nod, turns, and strides, almost majestically, out of the workshop. Sam and Steve are left to stare after him, until a deep chuckle to their left breaks them out of their daze.
The mechanic that Thor had introduced them to – Barnes – has finally turned around and is watching them with a slight, amused smile playing on his lips.
He’s tall too, well over six feet, broad-shouldered yet lean. He has long dark hair that is tied up in a messy bun on top of his head, and a few days’ worth of stubble on his sharp jawline. His eyes are a cool grey-blue; a startling contrast to his dark hair and complexion, and together with his defined cheekbones and expressive eyebrows he makes for quite an arresting picture. Someone you’d expect to be an underwear model rather than a mechanic – but then again, Sam supposes the two aren’t really all that incompatible.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” Barnes says in a deep, gravelly voice.
Sam huffs a laugh. “You can say that again. But I can see why Clint and he would be friends.” He extends a hand towards Barnes, who wipes his on the rag draped over his shoulder before he takes it. “I’m Sam.”
“Nice to meet you, Sam.”
They exchange friendly smiles, then both turn expectantly towards Steve.
Steve, who is staring at Barnes with his mouth hanging slightly open and his cheeks tinged with pink. Who doesn’t even seem to register that they’re both waiting for him to say something.
“Steve,” Sam says.
Nothing.
“Steve,” Sam repeats, a little more insistently.
Steve snaps out of it at the second mention of his name, looking back at Sam with wide eyes. He looks like the non-proverbial golden retriever in the headlights.
“Um,” Sam says hesitantly, not quite sure what’s going on. Did Steve have a stroke? Can supersoldiers have strokes? He wouldn’t have thought so, but it’s not like there’s a precedent.
“Yes, so, anyway,” he says after a moment, giving a vague wave in Steve’s direction. “This here is Steve, and it’s his bike that needs to be looked at.”
Barnes, who seems either unaware of or unimpressed by Captain America standing in his workshop and moreover relatively unfazed by Steve’s odd behavior, smiles crookedly and holds out a hand.
“Pleasure to meet you, Steve.”
Scene Art by LiquidLightz (click link for AO3 art post)
It takes a few seconds and a poke in the side from Sam, but eventually Steve’s hand shoots out to take Barnes’ – and then the most extraordinary thing happens.
The moment their hands meet, Steve turns the approximate shade of a fire engine.
“I – Hello, I… Steve,” he chokes out, finally managing to tear his gaze from Barnes’ face and looking down at the floor, his cheeks growing impossibly redder as the seconds tick by. He’s also still holding Barnes’ hand.
When ‘awkward’ is starting to border on ‘excruciating’, Sam clears his throat.
“Steve,” he says, keeping his tone light, “I think Barnes might like his hand back at some point.”
Steve withdraws as if he’s been burned, eyes wide as saucers. “Oh god, I’m so sorry,” he blurts, looking pained.
Barnes’s crooked smile slowly blooms into a smirk. “Don’t worry about it,” he says easily. “And call me Bucky.”
Steve just nods, a slightly dopy look on his handsome features.
Sam’s eyebrows inch up towards his hairline. What on earth..? He always knew Steve was a little special, but this is extraordinary even for him.
“Riiiiight,” Sam says, giving Steve a doubtful look while trying to get the conversation back to some semblance of normality. “So Bucky, Thor said you’d be able to tell us what’s wrong with Steve’s bike?”
“I’ll give it a good look over, sure” Bucky drawls, tilting his head a little before winking at Steve.
There’s a choking sound from Sam's left direction, and he just about resists the urge to roll his eyes. Honestly, this is exactly why he chose to work with animals instead of people.
“Steve,” he says with all the patience he can muster, “could you please explain to Bucky what the problem is?”
Steve turns to give him a betrayed look, but eventually he launches into a halting and not very coherent description of the issue.
“Give me two days,” Bucky says once Steve has – blessedly – finished his explanation. “I’ll need to order in a part, but the actual work shouldn’t take me more than a coupl of hours. The bike seems to be in decent shape otherwise.” He runs an appreciative hand over the saddle. “It’s a beauty.”
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, but he isn’t looking at the bike.
This time, Sam can’t resist a covert eye roll. “Thanks, dude,” he says to Bucky. “That’s great. We’ll be back in two days, then.”
Bucky simply nods and holds Steve’s eye for a too-long second, then turns back to his workbench, effectively signaling the end of the conversation. Sam grabs Steve by the ridiculous bicep and starts to pull him in the direction of the exit, which only works because Steve lets himself be pulled, although he rather looks like someone has taken away his favorite toy. And again, it doesn’t seem to be his bike.
They climb back into the truck, and Sam slams closed his door, shifting in his seat to face Steve.
“What the hell was that?”
Steve doesn’t look at him. “What the hell was what?”
“You know what,” Sam says incredulously.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sam”, Steve says stubbornly, still looking resolutely ahead.
Sam throws his hands up. “Oh come on, don’t give me that shit, Steve. You acted like a complete weirdass in there, and you know it.”
“I did not.” Steve looks at him then, the blush returning to his cheeks, but this time out of indignation rather than whatever that had been back in the workshop.
“Like hell you didn’t,” Sam scoffs. “Steve, my fourteen-year-old niece at a One Direction concert ain’t got nothing on you just now.” Steve’s little frown shows he’s got no idea what direction Sam is talking about, but Sam barrels on regardless. “And don’t try to deny it – I’ve been friends with you long enough to know what star-struck looks like.”
Steve frown deepens as he flicks his thumb and forefinger against the glove compartment. “Yeah, well. I was just caught off guard, I guess.”
No shit, Sam thinks. “By what, exactly?” he asks, trying to muster some of that patience he usually prides himself on.
“Well, you know,” Steve huffs.
“Just assume I don’t. Humor me.”
“Oh, come on, Sam,” Steve repeats, sounding frustrated. “You gotta admit he was a bit – Well, you know!”
Sam sighs. “Okay, look, Steve. I’m gonna be honest with you. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have thought you were crushin’ on this guy.”
Steve nearly chokes on his next breath. “What?” he gasps, looking at Sam like he’s the one who’s gone crazy. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He huffs indignantly, straightening in his chair and rolling his shoulders. “In case you hadn’t noticed, he’s a guy.”
Sam gives him a pointed look. “Doesn’t mean you can’t be crushin’ on him.”
“I’m not,” Steve insists. At Sam’s raised eyebrows, Steve throws his arms up exasperatedly. “I’m not. What, I’m not allowed to notice when a guy looks like that?” He’s almost yelling by this point.
Undeterred, Sam replies, “Oh no, my dude, you’re absolutely allowed. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I noticed too, I just didn’t get all weird about it.”
Suddenly, he realizes that he may have inadvertently given Steve the idea that he’d disapprove if Steve found Bucky attractive. Steve and he have never discussed the subject of homosexuality before, so for all Sam knows Steve is under the impression that it is still a crime.
“There wouldn’t be anything wrong with having a crush on this dude, though, you know that, right? You know that sort of thing is accepted these days?”
There’s a stubborn set to Steve’s jaw when he says, “Of course I know that. That’s just not what this is.”
“Right. So the fact that you were blushing harder than the time you congratulated the Tower’s HR lady on her pregnancy and it turned out she’d just indulged a bit over Christmas, that doesn’t mean anything?” Sam asks, determined to get Steve to admit something, at least. "And don't try and deny it, I saw the pictures Clint took. This was definitely worse."
Steve groans, and he’s blushing again. Damn, must be tough having such fair skin.
“I don’t know, Sam. Like I said, I was just… surprised.” He huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “He was just so –”
“Hot?” Sam guesses.
“Yeah,” Steve breathes, eyes instantly growing wide as he realizes what he’s said. “I mean –“
Sam forestalls Steve’s backtracking this time. “Steve,” he interjects. “Do me a favor. When you get home later, please just sit down for a little while and really think about why you were so caught off guard just now.” He pensively rubs a hand over his head. “Consider the possibility that maybe, just maybe, you are attracted to this guy. And to be honest, despite all the creepy vibes you were givin’ off, I think he was flirting with you, too.”
Steve’s head snaps up. “He was?”
“Yeah, man,” Sam smiles, shaking his head.
“So you think he's…” Steve trails off meaningfully, wringing his hands.
“I don’t know, Steve, but he definitely seemed interested.” Sam starts the car. “Just, think about it, okay?”
“Fine.”
Well. That’s more than Sam could’ve hoped for from his stubborn ass friend out of time.
***
Steve steps through the door of his apartment on the ground floor of an old brownstone in Brooklyn Heights and kicks off his shoes. On socked feet, he walks briskly into his little kitchen, trying to keep busy and stay on top of his racing mind before it can spiral out of control. While he waits for the kettle to boil, he looks out of the kitchen window and watches two pigeons sitting on a patch of grass, nudging their heads together. He thinks about drawing them. Later, maybe.
After he’s made himself a coffee in his French press – black, one spoon of sugar – he takes it outside into the little garden that he has access to through the French doors in the back of his living room, and then, once he’s finally settled down in the grass at the foot of the only tree on his little patch of land, leaning his back against its bark and clutching his cup of coffee like a lifeline, he knows that he can’t put it off any longer.
He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. Right, he thinks. So what exactly had that been, earlier?
All Steve really knows right now is that the man in the workshop – Bucky – had completely thrown him for a loop. Several loops, even.
The moment he’d laid eyes on him, Steve’s brain became static, all he could hear a sort of continuous, high-pitched white noise as his gaze eagerly took in every line, every curve and dip which together made up the most breathtakingly stunning face he had ever seen in his long, long life. The man’s eyes, as soon as they’d locked onto his, had seemed to look right down into the most hidden part of him, making him feel raw and exposed.
And even now, in the comfort and safety of his own back garden, he can’t shake the feeling the man’s gaze had imparted on him. He’d felt so vulnerably, suddenly, and unfamiliar with his own body – almost like the gangly teenager he’d never really been, unable to figure out how to work his arms and legs, even his mouth. And when he’d finally managed to take the hand the man had offered him, a spark of electricity had shot along his spine so strong that he’d felt all the way down to his toes. The contact made him acutely aware of the rest of the man’s physique, from his rough, long-fingered hands to his wide, strong shoulders, his narrow hips and his long legs. Steve’s face felt like it was on fire and he’d been so absorbed in the sensations running riot inside his body that he’d forgotten to let go of the guy’s hand.
Steve groans, letting his head fall back against the tree with a satisfying thunk.
What is wrong with him? Why had he reacted so viscerally to this guy? Remembering the way he had smirked at him, eyes sparkling mischievously, Steve immediately feels his heartrate speed up again, a warm, tingling sensation ghosting through his belly.
He takes a deep, calming breath. Okay. He’s just going to handle this like he would any unforeseen, mildly alarming situation.
First, he’ll need to scope out the field. Collect more information to understand what exactly he’s dealing with.
Which means he’ll need go back to see him again. Alone, this time, without Sam’s prying eyes. Don’t get him wrong, Steve knows Sam means well – he’s incredibly grateful for all the help his friend has so selflessly given him over the past year – but there are some things a man has to do alone. Such as finding out whether said man could maybe, possibly, have a crush on another man.
Bucky.
A quick google search (Steve has actually figured out how to use the internet, whatever Tony seems to think) shows that the workshop is open every day of the week. He makes up his mind then to go back the next day with some excuse he’s yet to think of, hoping and dreading in equal measure that Bucky will be working tomorrow.
Steve sleeps fitfully that night. He’d like to blame it on the coffee, but he knows full well caffeine doesn’t affect him.