Archive of Our Own ^beta

It all starts with a rogue wizard terrorizing a sleepy historic town on the coast of North Carolina. 

Because obviously. 

He called himself Mage, which, frankly, Sam finds uninspired. They find him immediately and corner him downtown, dodging and ducking rogue spells; the sparks of magic that were sidestepped fizzle to the ground harmlessly.

They work well together: Sam blocks shots with his shield, calling out warnings as Bucky corrals the civilians, instructing them to get to safety. 

It was supposed to be a simple mission. It had been simple until Sam had to watch a stray bolt of green energy blast right towards a distracted Bucky. 

Despite Sam’s gratitude that Mr. Mage has further bolstered his big three argument, he isn’t so grateful as to allow Buck to be hit. Sam launched himself into the air before he could think, impulsively protecting Bucky with his more vulnerable body; he didn’t even have time to block the magic with his shield.

Bucky cries out as the strength of the spell knocks Sam to the ground. Sam skids across the pavement, crashing against the base of a nearby fountain, chest tight from the impact. The civilians have nearly cleared out by now, but some watch from afar, gasping and pointing like they’re spectating a Striking Vipers tournament.

Sam groans, scrambling to his feet as quickly as he can. He staggers towards the cloaked figure, shield raised. Sam looks for Bucky, who had been knocked down as well, but he’s already back up, arms raised in a defensive stance.

“The hell was that?” Bucky asks. Sam shrugs and flings his shield at the brick wall of a quaint little coffee shop. It ricochets exactly where Sam intended, sending shards of hardened clay flying. The shield slams into the wizard, taking him out at the knees, and Mage falls to the ground with a painful crunch.

Bucky’s got him subdued in an instant, holding his metal arm to the man’s throat.

“Tell us,” he demands, cutting off the wizard’s airway for a few moments, a dark promise of more to come, “what did you hit him with? If you hurt him–”

Sam watches, surprised at Bucky’s protectiveness. When had someone last gotten angry on Sam’s behalf? He brushes off the thought, sure it will work, that the fucker will fess up. But Bucky falls through thin air before he can even finish his threat, metal scraping against concrete. Sam looks to where Mage had just been trapped under Bucky’s firm hold; there is nothing there but asphalt.

“What the fuck–?” Sam asks, spinning around, but the man is gone, and all that’s left is a crowd of fearful onlookers and a feeling like there was something he needed to say.  Bucky gets up, turning towards Sam accusingly.

“Sam, are you kidding? Jumping in front of me?” Bucky spits, eyes fierce as he gets up in Sam’s face. “What the hell did you do that for?”

Sam rolls his eyes, backing off, “c’mon, Buck, you pull stupid shit like all the time,” he says, “it was worth it.”

“Was it?” Bucky asks with a sarcastic tilt of his head, “Was it worth it, Sam? Because news flash, he got the both of us.”

Sam makes a strangled noise, focusing back in on Bucky; he checks over him for any signs of distress, but finds none. He’s right, Sam realizes. They had both gotten hit, and now, if something happens to Bucky, Sam won’t be able to help. He’ll be too busy dealing with it himself.

“No,” Sam admits, his words tumbling out before he knows what he’s about to say, “it wasn’t worth it. It would have been, if you were alright. I didn’t want you to get hurt, and now I’m scared that whatever this is will prevent me from being able to keep you safe. But worth it or not, logical or not, I’ll always try to protect you.”

Huh.

Sam really wishes he hadn’t said that. He bites his cheek, looking away as his cheeks heat.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says carefully, trying to placate him, but Sam can tell he’s also caught off-guard, “it’s okay, Sam, I feel fine.”

“You do?” Sam asks, hopeful. Maybe that’s all the magic was, an attempt to slow them down. Maybe the feeling will fade. But then Bucky shakes his head, and Sam thinks maybe not.

“No. I mean, I’m not injured, but my–” Bucky snaps his jaw shut, but it works itself back open in an instant, “it feels like there’s a weight on my chest.”

Sam tries not to panic.

“Fuck, man, me too.”

“Fuck,” Bucky agrees, and he looks worried, which just makes Sam more worried.

Sam feels like there’s a stone trapped in his diaphragm, each inhalation a struggle, like something trying to claw its way out of his open mouth. He tries to stay calm as he calls for transport and reassures the people who have slowly started to emerge back onto the street.

“We need to go to medical,” He says as soon as he collapses next to Bucky in the jet, “but I don’t want to.”

He hadn’t meant to say that last part, the words once again falling out without his go-ahead. Now there’s no shot at getting Bucky to agree. Bucky gives him a funny look.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

Sam starts to nod, but his neck tenses up.

“No,” he grits out through clenched teeth, “I’m scared, and I’m worried about you. I think I’m freaking out, and I wish I would stop fucking talking. Fuck.”

The air is tense, Sam frustrated with Bucky for something he obviously has nothing to do with.

“Okay,” Bucky says, and Sam can tell he’s thinking, “you feel like you can’t stop talking?”

“Not really,” Sam says, “it’s more like… I keep saying shit I don’t mean to say, shit I’d be embarrassed to say,” Sam tries to explain, “god, I didn’t mean to say that, either.”

“What did you mean to say?”

“I’ve been trying to tell you that nothing is wr–” his words catch in his throat, and he tries again, “I was trying to lie,” Sam says, the truth falling from his lips as his brain pieces it together, “and it didn’t work.”

Bucky’s eyes flash, but his shoulders sag in relief. “Fuck that guy,” he spits, “I hate magic.”

Sam’s inclined to agree.

“You think this is all the spell does?” He asks, and Bucky presses his lips together before his words rush out.

“Yes,” Bucky says, “I just don’t know how to fix it.”

They look at each other, brains processing at half-speed.

“Bucky,” Sam realizes, and Bucky winces, “you told me you got hit, too. Is it the same for you?”

“Yes, but only,” Bucky says, works his jaw, continues, “only when you ask questions. Yours– it’s worse for you, I think.”

Great.

“I want to go home,” Sam admits, and wants to kick himself. Way to be, superhero!

“I know, Sammy,” Bucky says, reaching out to press his hand into the space where the back of Sam’s collar meets the smooth skin of his neck, “Try to lie to me, to make sure. Let’s sort out exactly what’s going on with us. We’ll be home soon, and then we’ll figure it out. I promise.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“I do promise, Sam. You trust me?”

Sam cringes, squeezing his eyes shut for a split second.

“Yes. Completely. More than anyone else.”

Bucky smiles, but his eyes are sympathetic.

“I’m sorry. I’ll try my best to stop asking questions. Now try to lie to me.”

“Okay,” Sam says, the roar of the jet engine drowning out his nervous breaths, “your haircut is hot.”

Bucky snaps his head towards him, surprised. “Oh?”

Sam sighs, sinking deeper in his seat.

“Okay, guess that’s confirmed. I really can’t lie,” he explains, awkwardly, “the hair, it uh–it suits you, man.” 

He really should have tried a different tactic. Bucky laughs, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and he’s bouncing his knee like crazy.

“Thanks. Your eyes are shit brown.”

Sam jerks his head back, affronted, but then he sees the look on Bucky’s face, wide-eyed and mortified. And Sam can’t help it, he laughs, loud and open, head tipped back to the ceiling.

“You bastard,” he says between laughs, wiping a tear away, “that better have been a fucking lie.”

“It was,” Bucky assures him quickly, but he’s smiling, “I swear it, Sam.”

“What did you even mean to say?” Sam asks without thinking, and Bucky’s soft chuckle dies down.

“I meant to say,” Bucky starts, tense, “that when the sun hits, your eyes are the color of Jack Daniels.”

“Thanks, I guess. Honestly, I… don’t know what his eyes look like.”

Buck shoots him an incredulous look.

“No, you goddamn fucking idiot. Not the person, the whiskey .”

Ohhh.

They look at each other and burst back into laughter, falling against each other despite the ample space around them.

“That’s a good thing, righ–” Sam starts, but Bucky slaps a hand over his mouth.

“That’s a question, Sammy,” he murmurs, then releases Sam, who has to reboot his brain before correcting himself.

“I am going to take that as a good thing,” he re-words, and Bucky smiles.

“Good. Okay, so I can’t lie when I’m asked questions, and you can’t lie, period,” Bucky recaps, scratching at his beard, “but what’s the end game here? Shit, question, sorry.”

“No clue,” Sam says, thankful it was innocuous, “chaos?”

“At least a bit, yeah,” Bucky replies, “how many times did you say something you didn’t mean to without being asked a question first? Fuck, sorry, Jesus Christ.”

Sam thinks back. “Just once. When I said I didn’t want to go to medical.”

“Alright, what m–” Bucky stops himself this time, switching strategies. “So you didn’t want to go to medical. While it would be… interesting, potentially beneficial, even, if you could… verbalize your reasoning behind that feeling,” he pauses, “I think it’s important to clarify that you do not have to open your mouth if you don’t want to.”

Sam snorts, “Alright, Riddles Three, I got you, don’t strain yourself. Honestly?”

“Is there any other way?” Bucky asks (goddamnit).

“I guess not,” he admits, ducking his head a bit, “honestly, I hooked up with one of the nurses down there last month. Didn’t want it to be awkward.”

He keeps it as vague as his mouth will allow, not wanting to get into the dirty details of his three-hour stand, especially since Sam had been imagining Bucky the entire time. 

Bucky’s mouth flattens, but he nods his head.

“Okay.” He says. “Okay, maybe that’s it.”

Sam’s lost. “What?”

“Maybe she’s what you need to get off your chest, you know, so to speak. Confess your deep feelings, true love's kiss, yada yada,” Bucky grumbles.

The plane begins its descent, the cabin lights dim and tinted blue. It casts a soft glow onto Bucky’s face that soothes the signs of sleep under his eyes. He looks beautiful, like a performer under stage lights, ready to be exalted by an audience. Sam almost tells him that.

Like, literally, he almost tells him that. He has to bite his tongue hard enough to draw blood to stop himself. God knows what Bucky’s face would have done if he’d heard Sam use the word ‘exalted’.

“No,” Sam breaths, “nah, that’s not it.”

“How– you seem very sure.”

“Bucky, he blew me in the supply closet, and I didn’t even finish. I don’t want to confess shit to that man, but mostly I just don’t want to have to see him,” he says.

Bucky doesn’t flinch at the words, but his face is guarded, calculating. 

“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” He asks, but there’s no room for argument in his tone.

“Yeah,” Sam confirms.

Bucky stands. “I need to go.”

He strides toward the plane's lavatory, hand held out behind his back like it will keep Sam in his seat. It does, to be fair.

“What are you doing, Buck?” He asks, confused and honestly a bit hurt.

“I need to get away from you,” Bucky spits, and Sam is suddenly a lot hurt.

“The fuck?” He asks, but Bucky doesn’t stop, shoving into the glorified closet of a bathroom. He tries to slam the sliding door, but he uses so much force that it flies back open, then gets stuck, so they end up just staring at each other as Bucky awkwardly jostles the frame.

“I don’t know, just stop talking, Sam,” Bucky says, sounding exhausted, “we land soon.” And the door shuts.

The rest of the flight drags, Sam torn between following Buck’s directive or dragging him out of the bathroom by the collar.

In the end, he leaves him alone. Bucky emerges like a bear from a cave when they land, looking around like Sam’s about to jump out from behind the corner.

A car has been sent to collect them. They never request separate transports after a mission, nearly always heading back to Sam’s apartment to convalesce and talk shit. This time, Bucky looks at the town car like it just bit him, hovering at the bottom of the ramp.

Sam watches him make a decision, coming up to the passenger side and knocking lightly on the window; the driver rolls it down and peers at him over his aviators.

“Think we can get another car down here?” Bucky asks, and the driver clicks his teeth.

“That’s a Donovan question, and he’s out today.”

Sam doesn’t know who Donovan is, and he’s pretty sure Bucky doesn’t either. He’s waiting for Bucky to give it up and get in the damn car, but then he pulls out a map (a paper fucking map, Sam swears to god) and nods.

“No worries, I can hoof it.”

Sam is officially pissed off. 

“Get in the car,” Sam says quietly, so Bucky won’t hear his voice shake.

Bucky looks like he’s about to argue, but then he looks Sam over and seems to decide against it.

Sam watches him clamor in first, then sits and buckles without breaking eye contact in case Bucky tries to make a break for it, that slippery bastard.

“This is what’s going to happen,” He starts, trying to sound intimidating despite the anvil on his chest and the tremble in his hands, “I’m going to ask you a question. You’ll answer, and we’ll go from there.”

“But–”

“Is it because it was a guy?”

Bucky blanches, face frozen and eyes wide. 

“No!” He says adamantly, turning in his seat just to continue staring disbelievingly. Sam wants the words to help; he knows they must be true, but the way Bucky had shut down? They’re still hard to believe.

“C’mon, Bucky, you fled the room. What was I supposed to think?”

“I…” he trails off, “I don’t know. But I promise you, that was not the reason. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I know you wouldn’t, or I thought I knew,” Sam says, “it just freaked me out, I think.”

He wants to ask Bucky why, but that wouldn’t be fair. Thankfully, he seems to understand.

“I was scared. Worried about you,” Bucky explains, drumming his fingers against his knee.

“Wh– I didn’t know there was something to be scared of.”

“There always is, with you,” Bucky says with a fond smile, but then he’s back to serious, “I was worried it was the spell that made you tell me. I think it’s getting worse, and the last thing I want is to make this even more uncomfortable for you.” 

Sam nods, everything shifting in his mind.

“So when you ran…”

“I wanted to give you space. I can’t imagine what it must feel like, not having control over what you tell people. Even when I had nothing, I had my silence. You deserve the same.”

Sam looks at Bucky for a long while, taking in the soft lines around his mouth and the soft spikes of his hair.

“Thank you,” he says, voice rough, “but I trust you. More than anyone else, remember?”

And god, is that the truth. 

Sam knows, the same way you know it’s about to rain, that he’s not getting out of this unscathed. Bucky will find out about his feelings– how could Sam hide them now? Even still, Sam trusts. His heart will break tonight, but Bucky would never hurt him. They’ll be able to bounce back. And god, it would feel so nice to finally admit it, even if it cut deep.

“I would rather be scared with you than safe by myself, Bucky, you know that. Come inside with me. Please? I don’t want to be alone. Also, I’m thinking about ordering from that Mexican place. I don’t even want Mexican, really, but I know you like it, so I’m hoping it will convince you to stay. Although I wish you would come home with me regardless.”

Bucky grimaces, fist clenching.

“Sam, listen to yourself. Are you sur–”

“Yes.”

He doesn’t answer, but when the car pulls up to the curb, he follows Sam out onto the street.

“Thank god we’re here,” Sam says, “I smell like shit.”

Bucky laughs at Sam’s candor and punches in the building’s security code before Sam has a chance, waving cordially to the desk attendant while herding him to the elevator.

When they reach Sam’s apartment, Bucky is immediately making phone calls, beginning each with:

“Ask me a question, and you die tonight.”

Sam goes to shower, and when he gets out, he leaves a towel and change of clothes on the edge of the countertop for Bucky. 

The shirt, he knows, is Bucky’s favorite. It’s ancient, a ratty gray thing that has DELACROIX HIGH SCHOOL TRACK & FIELD splashed across the front. Sam had gotten stuck with the only size left, an XXL, despite him barely clearing 5’5” at the time. It’s the only reason he still has it, mostly wearing it for chores around the house.

When Sam comes back into the living room, he’s wearing a white undershirt and flannel pajama bottoms. Bucky, who had been facing the window, turns at the sound of footsteps.

“Hey, so, Strange says it’s– hi.”

“Um. Hi…?”

Bucky’s voice had died out mid-sentence, and he had to shake himself a bit before continuing.

“Hi. Strange says it’s nothing. Well, not nothing, it still sucks, but we’re safe. Apparently, that kid Merlin–

“Mage,” Sam corrects automatically.

“Whatever. Apparently, he mostly deals in petty magic; last month, he cast a love spell on the mayor. It was a whole thing.”

“Okay… so, we’re safe, but we still don’t know how to get rid of this damn thing?”

“Basically. But Strange agrees with me,” he clears his throat, “thinks there must be something we need to tell each other before this is over.”

Sam sighs, a thrum of dread coursing through the tense lines of his bare shoulders.

“Okay, yeah,” he sighs, “but I don’t want to tell you.”’

Bucky gives him a look, but he tries to cover it with a nod.

“Hey, man, that’s fine. I can go–”

“No. No, we need this to end today. We can’t work like this.”

“But you just said–”

“I know what I said, Bucky. I don’t want to tell you, but I have to, and that's fine.”

Bucky, to his credit, is acting like having to watch Sam suffer is his personal brand of torture. He sits on the couch with a groan and runs a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t know you… had something to tell me,” he says, voice rough, “that you know what it is.”

“Everybody has secrets, Buck.”

“I know. But you don’t have to be scared of me.”

“I could never be,” Sam breathes, “even if you were holding a knife to my neck.” His face heats.

Bucky winces.

“Sam, please, we can try to figure something else out.”

“There’s nothing else,” Sam says. “All things considered, this isn’t so bad. We could be dead.”

Bucky nods, making a decision. “Okay, then ask me a question.”

“What?”

Bucky crosses his legs and pats the cushion next to him. “It’s only fair, I think. C’mon, hit me. We’ll start small, and hopefully,” he takes a deep breath, “hopefully we’ll dredge something up.”

Sam thinks, moving to sit on the couch obediently.

“If I asked if you wanted your own pair of wings, would you say yes?” He asks, hoping it’s innocent enough. Bucky thinks about it.

“No.”

“Okay… anything to add?”

“No. Did you really not know I took it up the ass?”

Sam chokes on air; he has no idea what his face does, but based on Bucky’s satisfied smirk, it must be a sight to see.

“Bucky. No. No,” Is all Sam says, looking at his friend like he’s just seeing him for the first time, “you… you do?”

Bucky nods, casual, but his shoulders are set.

“Yep.”

“Since when?”

Bucky laughs through his mental math, “I think I was 18 the first time. Hurt like a bitch.”

Sam would say this changes everything, but it probably doesn’t. Bucky might like a rough-and-tumble night every once in a while, but he’s only ever expressed romantic interest in women.

“Cool, man,” is all Sam says, picking at a fray on his shirt hem, “good to know.”

God, why did he say that? Well, he knows why, but still. Bucky just raises an eyebrow.

“It is good to know,” Bucky mocks with a self-satisfied grin, “anyway, who’d you hook up with? From medical.”

“Bucky!” Sam cries, but he’s smiling, biting his tongue through his teeth.

“Couldn’t have been me,” Bucky grumbles, “I think I would’ve remembered that.” Sam thinks it was meant to be a joke, but it sure doesn’t sound like one.

“It was Matteo.”

Bucky’s jaw drops, and he looks at Sam like he’s gone insane.

“Manbun?” Bucky asks with a disbelieving huff. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“Yes. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical, Buck?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits, looking chagrined to be doing so, “but, c’mon. You could have anybody. Why him?”

Ah. And there it was. Bucky realizes his mistake immediately.

“Shit, I didn’t mean to ask that, Sam, I swear. That was weird of me, I’m sorry, don’t answer that,” Bucky says in a rush, swearing under his breath.

“It was easy to pretend it was you, in the dark,” Sam admits, not able to stop himself and trying his best not to look terrified. “I always pretend it’s you.”

Bucky’s expression is indecipherable. He isn’t moving, but his jaw is clenched so hard that Sam’s worried it’ll lock into place. He looks wracked with guilt. Leave it to Bucky to blame himself for magic that he cannot wield and behavior from Sam that he could not have predicted.

“You can ask, Bucky,” Sam murmurs, looking down at his wood flooring like he’s just noticed it’s there, “I want you to ask.”

Silence, and then:

“Why?” Bucky whispers, and it sounds like finally, like he had been waiting for permission.

“Because I want you,” Sam says, like it’s simple. Maybe it is simple, “sometimes so bad I think I’ll die. So,” he clears his throat, “sometimes I try to find someone, but they don’t ever come close to what I’m looking for.”

Bucky whimpers, deep in his throat.

“You never told me,” Bucky sounds broken, voice thick and eyebrows creased. He doesn’t ask why, this time, but the spell makes Sam tell him anyway.

“That I’m in love with you?” Sam asks, incredulously. “Why would I tell you that?”

Bucky looks at him like he’s an idiot, but his eyes are sparkling. 

“Because you trust me.”

Then Bucky leans in, slowly, eyelids sliding shut and fanning his face like a doll. His hand slides up to Sam’s waist, trying to pull him onto his side of the couch.

“What are you doing?” Sam asks, terrified. His voice trembles. Bucky smiles, fond, teeth hidden.

“Trying to kiss ya,” he murmurs, stroking Sam’s sides, which makes him squirm. Sam wants to cry a little at how close he is to everything he wants while still feeling miles away.

“Bucky, don’t,” he says, surprised at how defeated his voice sounds. Bucky immediately pulls back, hands releasing Sam. He looks hurt.

“Why, Sammy?” He asks, pleading a bit. 

“Just because I trust you, Buck, doesn’t mean you can just–”

“You must not trust me very much,” Bucky interrupts, voice fierce, placing his solid hands on Sam’s chest, “if you think I’d ever do anything to break your heart.”

“James,” Sam warns, “I’m not some pity–”

“Sam,” Bucky says sternly, “you know better”.

And then Sam is being kissed. Bucky, his Bucky, was pressing dry lips against his own. He curls his fingers around Sam’s jaw, pulling him in just slightly. The kiss was so impossibly soft, gentle, and experimental. Sam feels like a teenager, overthinking where to put his hands and what this all means.

“You look so good,” Bucky grumbles, “your fucking shoulders. Can’t explain it.”

Bucky flicks his tongue experimentally, and Sam lets himself be swept away. He opens himself up, falling back while Bucky explores his mouth, nibbling and sucking at his bottom lip.

“Fucking hell,” Bucky growls a bit, hands grabbing at Sam like he’s candy out of a broken pinata. Sam can’t speak.

Sam doesn’t know how long they spend making out. It’s dead silent in the apartment, outside of soft moans and the wet noises of their mouths.

“I gotta shower,” Bucky says reluctantly, “don’t fucking wanna.”

“Want company?” Sam asks, and he’s joking, but Bucky nods.

“Please, ” Bucky says, ducking his head away shamefully. Sam’s heart softens.

“Okay,” Sam whispers, and he leads Bucky to the shower. He turns the water on, hotter than he prefers, because he knows it’s what Bucky likes.

“C’mon,” he says, holding his hand out to Bucky. Bucky ambles up, looking bashful. Sam takes his time undressing the other man, admiring the goosebumps that dance up his right arm, the scars that litter his chest, “beautiful.”

Bucky shudders, his cheeks redder than Sam’s ever seen them.

Bucky’s cock is half-hard when Sam gets him out of his pants. It’s shorter than he’d pictured, smaller than Sam’s own, which turns him on more than he’d care to admit.

“Sammy…” Bucky whines, embarrassed, and it’s only then that Sam realizes how long he’s been staring.

“Let’s clean you up,” He says softly, pulling Bucky under the warm spray of the water; he goes willingly, immediately pressing up against Sam’s body, wrapping his arms around Sam’s shoulders, and nuzzling into his chest. He’s never felt so warm.

“Ask me if I love you, Sam,” Bucky whispers, his voice a trembling thing. Sam’s knees buckle a bit.

“Oh,” Sam says quietly, his heart lurching, “do you love me?” He can barely get the words out.

Bucky kisses him firmly on the mouth.

“Yes, Sammy.”

Sam shudders, knees going weak. Bucky seems to notice, moving his hands lower to better support himself.

“I love you,” Bucky says, smiling like an idiot. He kisses Sam from one shoulder to the other, mouthing over his collarbone and biting at his neck.

“I love you,” he says again, reaching down to grasp Sam’s hardening cock is his hand, stroking experimentally once, twice. Sam groans, unable to speak.

“I love you,” Bucky whispers, “I love you. I love you.”

Under the water, Sam can’t quite tell if he’s crying, but it’s not outside of the realm of possibility. With Bucky in his arms, all he feels is joy, pure and simple. There is no weight on his chest. Sam’s eyes slide shut at the realization, and he knows he’s smiling like an idiot.

“Hey, Buck?” He asks, grabbing for Bucky’s dick in turn; he chokes out a moan, head falling back.

“Yeah?” He manages, looking up to meet Sam’s eyes.

“I hate you,” Sam says with a goofy grin. Bucky makes a face before he catches on.

“Oh?” He asks, pumping his fist harder against Sam. Sam moans through his smile.

“Yeah,” he says, planting sloppy kisses all over Bucky’s perfect face, “you suck.”

“If you’re lucky.”

Sam laughs, “I can’t stand you.”

"You're such a dick. I've never wanted anybody less."

It's certainly one of the weirder conversations Sam's been turned on by. They quiet down a bit, breaths mingling as they bring each other to the edge.

“I’m close,” Bucky bites out, “Look at you, you’re so fucking unattractive. God, you’re horrible at this.”

“I hate this, I despise you,” Sam says, “fuck–”

“You’re the worst,” Bucky says with a gasp.

“Tell me you hate me, baby."

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, blissed out.

“I hate you,” he manages, and then Sam’s cumming all over Bucky’s fist, his spend swiftly washed away by the rush of water.

“Fuck, holy shit,” Bucky breathes out as Sam shakes against him, babbling his name and scratching at his back to try and keep himself upright, “you’re perfect.”

“Ditto,” Sam groans, reaching for Bucky’s cock again after it had been temporarily abandoned.

“Shit, doll, you don’t gotta–”

“Shut up, Bucky.”

Well, he tried.

“I love you, James,” Sam continues, and “I want you to cum for me, can you do that?”

Bucky nods desperately, and Sam knows he’s got him.

“You’re mine, Bucky,” he says, not aggressively. He’s warm, all soft smiles and steady hands, “I’ve got you, baby, Jamie .”

Bucky cums on a sob, and Sam can’t look away. He’s a vision, something beautiful that Sam never thought he’d ever see.

“Holy shit,” Bucky says after he’s caught his breath. Sam nods, unable to form words to adequately assess what just happened.

Sam takes his time cleaning Bucky, massaging shampoo into his scalp, and dropping down to wash his legs. 

They keep getting distracted by each other’s mouths, and the water goes tepid. They’re barely able to stay away from each other long enough to change.

Once they’re dry and clothed, they tumble into bed, kissing and laughing, whispering their truths into each other’s skin.

“I’ve loved you for three years.”

“I almost kissed you last week. I'm always almost kissing you.”

“You astound me. You’re stunning.”

“I wish my family could’ve met you.”

“You are the best friend I’ve ever had, Jamie.”

“I’m going to marry you.”

Sam knows it’s the truest thing he’s heard all day.