They’re supposed to be keeping a low profile.
Blending in with a crowd of beachgoers will admittedly be more difficult with a shiny vibranium arm to account for. Bucky’s done his best, though: a pair of blue swim trunks—longer and baggier than anything he would’ve ever worn swimming, back when he did such things—and a loose-fitting, long-sleeved tropical-print shirt. He knows how to act casual and still keep an eye out for a target. Everything, Bucky thinks, should be fine.
That is, of course, until Sam steps out of the en-suite in a suit of his own.
Bucky chokes on a mouthful of juice. “Jesus, Wilson,” he coughs, wiping at his mouth. “You—ah—what?”
“That’s what you get,” Sam says smugly. “That’s my juice, damn it.”
“Where’s the rest of it,” Bucky says, sort of dumbly, setting the bottle of fancy fruit juice down on the dresser as Sam walks over to the double bed he’s claimed for his own. Sam’s movements are easy, comfortable, as though he’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of a scrap of fabric that barely covers his—well, his anything. The red fabric clings like a woman’s bathing suit would, gently cupping the soft bulge in the front and practically fucking caressing the swell of his ass. His legs are long and utterly bare from feet to shapely calves to thick, muscular thighs—
“This is it,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows as he reaches for his suitcase, currently sitting on the palm leaf-patterned bedspread. The entire room is almost ridiculously beach-themed, all wicker furniture and pastels. “What, am I offending your delicate sensibilities, Barnes?”
“No,” Bucky says, and thinks, sugar, you have no idea. “It’s just—bound to attract some attention, don’t you think?”
Sam grins. “I don’t mind a little attention,” he says. He looks away for a beat as he pulls something out of his bag, adding mildly, “Stop looking so scandalized. You’ve seen me in less.”
“Barely,” Bucky says, although this is technically true; they’ve changed in front of each other, and frequently wander around in boxers or towels when they’re on overnight missions. But Sam might as well be wearing a bikini, or panties, and that—is not a helpful thought to have at the moment. “And I’m not scandalized.”
“If you say so,” Sam says, shrugging on a loose-fitting linen robe, which he leaves hanging open, casual and inviting. He walks to the large mirror over the dresser and gives his reflection a once-over, undeniably pleased with himself in a way that Bucky finds deeply, profoundly appealing. Then he glances at Bucky and says, “Your eyes are like dinner plates. C’mon, let’s get a move on.”
The beach is hot and crowded, even at barely nine o’clock in the morning. They set up camp at a couple of lounge chairs underneath one of the umbrellas provided by the resort. The small resort bar, about twenty yards down the beach, is already doing a bustling business, mostly from middle-aged adults guzzling brightly-colored cocktails. Sam and Bucky have been sitting down for exactly five minutes before Sam asks, “You ever had a piña colada?”
“No,” Bucky says. “I’ve heard that song, though. The one about the—”
“Don’t start singing it,” Sam says warningly, but he looks amused, even behind the mirrored aviators he wears. He looks—like a fucking picture, actually, as he shrugs off the outerwear, gets up from the chair, and says, “Be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
“Don’t whine,” Sam says. “I’ll bring you one, too. Besides, I’m going to scope things out.”
“We already did, last night,” Bucky points out.
“In the daylight,” Sam says dryly. “Not all of us have 20/20 night vision like you.”
“How’re you gonna pay for those drinks?” Bucky asks. “Not like you got anywhere to put any money in that thing—at least, no place fit for public consumption.”
“Everything about me is fit for public consumption, Barnes,” Sam says, unphased by this. Then, apparently unable to resist, he calls as he walks away: “I’ll charge it to the room, genius.”
Bucky watches, feeling strangely discombobulated, as Sam crosses the sand. He keeps watching all the way up until Sam leans against the bar, the broad, muscular expanse of his back on full display as he waits, and then Bucky tears his gaze away, casting it uselessly around at the other beachgoers instead. He’s unnerved less by Sam’s half-nakedness and more by his own response to it. He’s been around an undressed Sam, of course, but Sam has never so blatantly offered himself up to be looked at before, or at least not intentionally. It’s been easier to pretend not to look. Just thinking about it, Bucky feels almost restless, like there’s something crawling under his skin, an itch he can't scratch.
Sam returns momentarily with the drinks, which turn out to be sweet and cold and stiff—not that it matters much, as Bucky’s pretty sure he could guzzle gallons of the stuff and not even lose his balance.
Sam takes a sip and makes a pleased humming noise. “Shit,” he says, a blatantly appreciative groan. “I haven’t had a drink, on a beach, in years.”
“You know, we’re not here on a pleasure cruise,” Bucky says, although in the same breath he has to tamp down on a smile as Sam takes the cherry from his drink and pops it into his mouth.
“Yeah, well, this mission would be a lot more pleasurable,” Sam says, lounging back in his chair and making himself comfortable, “if you’d quit your griping.”
“One of us has to do it,” Bucky muses, only letting his gaze travel as far down as Sam’s navel, which is admittedly far enough, the flat plane of his stomach vulnerable and appealing like this. “Usually you.”
“Me?” Sam says archly. “Man, I am a joy to be around.”
“Sure you are,” Bucky says, and then plucks the cherry from his drink by the stem. “Here.”
Sam accepts it. “Thanks.”
“I used to be able to tie the stem in a knot with my tongue,” Bucky says, as the thought occurs to him. “Probably still can.”
“Yeah, you and every other pervert in the world,” Sam says, popping the cherry in his mouth and grinning. Next he goes for the slice of pineapple stuck on the rim of the glass, and Bucky watches, fascinated, as he licks the tip of his thumb and forefinger afterwards, chasing the taste. “You want your pineapple?”
Spitefully, Bucky eats it.
The hours pass slowly; the target they’re supposed to intercept could show at any moment, or he could’ve already caught their scent on the breeze and split. The only break in the monotony is lunch, sandwiches they procure from the bar. But Bucky’s good at sitting idle for hours, a skill more useful to a sniper than to a flyboy like Sam. He reads the newspaper he brought with him in an attempt to brush up on his Spanish, and for the most part is able to ignore Sam by virtue of having removed him from his field of vision.
Around two in the afternoon, Sam yawns, stretches, and pushes the back of the chair so that it levels out flat. Bucky looks up as Sam turns easily over onto his stomach. “Wake me up if something interesting happens,” he says. “Beachfront arms deal, my ass.”
“Okay,” Bucky says, watching as Sam settles comfortably, his head pillowed on folded arms. Sam is swiftly asleep, his expression gone slack; his sunglasses have slid far enough down on his nose that Bucky can see his eyes, could lean in close and practically count his damn eyelashes if he dared. Then there’s the broad line of his shoulders, the defined biceps, the strangely endearing jut of his shoulder blades, on down his back to his ass, his thighs splayed ever so slightly in his sleep.
Bucky’s thought about those thighs before. He’s dreamed about them, really, dreamed about being held between them, having them tight on his hips or slung up over his shoulders.
Sam’s caught more than a few eyes today and Bucky hasn’t been entirely sure why he’s noticed, other than that he’s practically been able to feel Sam’s silent preening. Now, though, with Sam relaxed and vulnerable in sleep, Bucky feels a strange lurch of protectiveness. He wants more than anything to put his hand on Sam’s back, to smooth it over the bare skin there, for no reason at all.
Sam wakes close to four, and Bucky looks over to find him squirming a bit, grimacing sweetly for how he wakes. “Let’s go,” Bucky says, once Sam has had a moment to reacquaint himself with their surroundings. “It’s starting to clear out. We’ll be better off sending your little robot to hide and watch.”
“His name is Redwing,” Sam mumbles, yawning.
“Right,” Bucky says, “sorry,” and he must say this fondly enough that Sam notices, because he huffs a little, under his breath. He sits up and stretches, arching his back slightly and craning his neck slowly from side to side, and Bucky looks away swiftly before he can get lost again.
They make it back to the room and Sam goes immediately to the minifridge in the far corner of the room, pulling out a small bottle of water and cracking it open. Bucky lingers by the foot of his bed some five feet away, watches Sam take a long drink, and says, “Careful, those things are like eight bucks each.”
Sam wipes at his mouth with the back of one hand. “Good thing it’s not me footing the bill, huh.”
“I s’pose Fury wouldn’t want you to go without,” Bucky says, and Sam rolls his eyes, visibly skeptical of Nick Fury’s generous heart.
Even though he hasn’t done any swimming, Bucky feels a bit sticky all over, skin overwarm in the cool room and tacky from the salt air. Maybe he needs to get some space, too, just so he can be around Sam again without making a fool of himself. He can see his reflection out of the corner of his eye in the mirror over the dresser and wonders, uncomfortably, what he might see on his face if he really looked. “Think I’m gonna take a shower,” he says.
“How come you get the first shower?” Sam says. “You’re going to get it all sandy in there.”
“I didn’t roll around in the dirt, Wilson,” Bucky says, because as much as he needs to get his head screwed on straight again, it’s too hard to resist when Sam baits him like this.
“Would’ve been a better use of our time if you had,” Sam mutters, stalking past Bucky to get to his own bed, closer to the door. He shucks the linen robe and tosses it at his suitcase, and Bucky refuses to let his eyes fall downwards but they do anyways, despite his very best intentions.
Sam keeps talking, taking off his sunglasses next and dropping them carelessly onto the bedspread. “I know it’s part of the job,” he says, “but God, I hate stakeouts.”
“They’re not so bad,” Bucky says, and Sam looks askance at him, and Bucky sees it, the moment understanding dawns on him.
He sees it, too, when Sam smirks, slow and subtle and syrupy-sweet.
“Maybe not,” he says, and he turns to face Bucky head-on. “When you’re in good company.”
“Sam,” Bucky says.
“Barnes,” Sam returns, taking a step forward, then another. “You gotta stop looking at me like that, man.”
Bucky swallows. He wishes he had a bottle of water of his own. “Like how?”
“Like you want to eat me up,” Sam says, easily, his voice pitched low.
So they’re doing this, then; Bucky’s not exactly sure what this is, at least not yet, but it’s a hell of a lot more than they’ve managed to do in all the months that they’ve been working together. “Well, look at you, sweetheart,” Bucky says. “Can you blame me?”
Sam grins, sly and quick, and then he’s officially stepping into Bucky’s space, too close to be mistaken for anything other than a come-on. Bucky reaches up almost instinctively, hands coming to rest on either side of Sam’s ribcage; his skin has cooled in the climate-controlled air, but he still smells like the beach, like sunny, vibrant warmth. He kisses Bucky then like he wants to devour him, and Bucky kisses back the same way, seized by a strange, wordless impulse to get as close to Sam as possible, to touch all that warm, bare skin, to rub and push and squeeze.
He doesn’t ignore that impulse, reaching down quickly, maybe too quickly, to take two palmfuls of Sam’s ass and pull him close. Sam grunts, maybe in surprise, but certainly not in displeasure, and slides a retaliatory hand up under Bucky’s shirt. “Take this damn thing off,” he says, muttering this against Bucky’s jaw.
“You first,” Bucky says, hooking one finger in the hem of Sam’s bathing suit and snapping it lightly against his skin.
Sam huffs a laugh. “Yeah, I thought you’d say that,” he says—taunts, really, even as he kisses at Bucky’s neck. “What, you think I don’t have eyes? You think I can’t see the way you’ve been looking at me?”
He’s somehow not surprised by Sam’s knowing tone, but Bucky’s not prepared for the rush of something—lust, adrenaline, both with a sharp edge—that comes over him at this, at the realization that Sam’s been gaming him all day. He squeezes Sam’s ass again. “You’re a fucking show-off,” he says. Then, too soon, probably, he blurts: “Can I fuck you?”
Sam grins. “If you want,” he says, leaning his head back slightly so he can look Bucky in the eye again. “There’s lube in my bag, the pocket on the inside.”
This feels like tacit instruction, and Bucky huffs. Yeah, Sam’s been playing him like a fiddle, maybe for longer than just today.
He pulls away, but only to go to Sam’s suitcase. Fortunately, there’s only one inside pocket in the bag, and Sam’s taken everything out of it except a small plastic bottle. Bucky looks back at him, swallowing hard when he finds Sam watching him, standing right where Bucky left him. “Rubbers?” Bucky says.
Sam’s eyes are dark, glinty. “If you want,” he says.
Bucky recognizes that look; it’s the same look Sam gets when he’s about to do something reckless, like throw himself backwards off a building and simply trust that the wings will catch him. Bucky should slow this down, but he doesn’t, just barrels forward and kisses Sam again.
Sam immediately starts fumbling with the buttons of his shirt and then, as Bucky leans back slightly to shrug the shirt off, presses his palm against Bucky through the fabric of his swim trunks. “Jesus,” Sam says, low, desirous, and Bucky groans, already mostly undone.
“Take that thing off,” Bucky says, not without urgency, “and get on the bed.”
Sam’s already straining at the thin, clingy material, but if Bucky thought seeing him with it on was good, seeing him without it is even better. He clambers obligingly onto the edge of Bucky’s bed, moving as though to crawl towards the center and let Bucky on with him, but Bucky tosses the lube onto the bedspread and catches him by the hips so that he stops, still on his hands and knees. “No,” Bucky says, hauling him gently back towards the edge of the bed, “like this.”
“Shit,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder at Bucky, and then, “I wanted to blow you first.”
“You can do that later,” Bucky says, and is briefly struck giddy with the idea of it. But he’s much too worked up, even having had nothing but the barest press of Sam’s palm; if he gets Sam’s mouth on him now, this will be over too fast.
“Who died and put you in charge?” Sam says, but he’s watching, avidly, as Bucky reaches for the lube.
Bucky doesn’t dignify this with a response, instead slicking up two fingers and pressing them, lightly, where he wants to go. “Quit fucking around,” Sam says.
“Thought that’s what we were doing here,” Bucky drawls, but he obliges Sam, easing first one finger in and then another.
He’s not really trying to relax Sam with this—quite the opposite, actually; he finds a good spot and then crooks his fingers suddenly, almost meanly, just to hear Sam’s hastily stifled ah! “That feel good, Wilson?” he asks. “That what you wanted?”
“Considerably smaller,” Sam says, dropping his shoulders forward slightly and squirming, “than what I want.”
Bucky coaxes a few more of those little noises out of Sam, each one begrudgingly given up and even sweeter for it; then he pulls his fingers out, fumbles with the slick again, and shoves his shorts down to mid-thigh. “You ready?” he asks. “Can I—”
“Come on, I’ve been waiting all day,” Sam says, and makes another sweet little noise, breathier this time, when Bucky pinches his inner thigh before starting to press in.
Bucky seats himself as carefully as he can, although it’s difficult, every nerve in his body lighting up like a Christmas tree, every muscle quivering with the urge to move, to get more. Sam takes him easily, for the most part, his body pliant with a kind of forced relaxation, his breathing slow and steady. Bucky bottoms out and holds still, petting a hand down Sam’s back, the skin now slick with sweat.
“This alright?” he asks. His voice comes out considerably huskier than he would’ve expected it to, but—well, who could blame him.
“Sure, it’s alright,” Sam says, looking over his shoulder again, meeting Bucky’s eyes as best he can like this. “If this is all you got, I guess I’ll make do.”
Bucky takes in a breath through his nostrils. He keeps his touch gentle as he lets his hand run back up Sam’s spine to rest lightly, sort of fondly, between his shoulder blades. “Oh, sweetheart,” he says, and shoves Sam’s face down against the bedspread.
The noise Sam makes is loud, plainly delighted, and Bucky fucks into him vigorously, desperate for more noises like that. “This what you wanted, huh? I’ve been looking at you, but you’ve been looking too, ain’t that right?” Bucky grits out. “How long have you wanted me to fuck you? You could’ve just asked for it, baby.”
Sam arches his back more deeply, groaning, and Bucky looks down, watching with wild-eyed fascination as Sam’s flesh ripples as Bucky’s hips strike quick-time against his ass. He swaps the hand on Sam’s back for his left, all the better to pin him in place, and slips his right hand under Sam’s hitched-up hips to get to his dick. It’s all too much, too good, but he’ll be goddamned if he comes before Sam does.
A part of him knows he’s being rough, maybe too rough, but Sam wants this, is gasping for it, had all but asked for this—and Bucky wants, more than anything, to give it to him. That’s the trouble with Sam, is how much Bucky wants him, all of him, all the time, more than he’s ever wanted anything, and he's been wanting a long time.
Sam’s cheek is still pressed against the bedspread, his gaze fixed on the wall opposite the bed; Bucky spares half a glance in that direction and is struck by the tableau that is their reflection in the mirror there. Sam, he realizes, is watching fervently, his gaze burning—not watching them, but watching Bucky, with a naked, awe-inspiring lust. “Fuck,” Bucky says, meeting Sam’s eyes in the reflection, at least until Sam’s eyelids flutter as he comes in Bucky’s hand. “Shit, Sam.”
At the sound of his name, Sam opens his eyes, and he looks so thoroughly well-fucked, smiling a bit like the cat who got the cream, and Bucky can’t do anything in the face of that but close his eyes and come.
His legs feel coltishly wobbly in the immediate aftermath, and it takes him a few moments to disengage from Sam, easing out and stumbling to one side so that he can flop down across the bed, his feet just hanging over the side. Sam crawls gingerly away from the edge of the bed, coming to rest next to Bucky, not quite touching him when he lies down on his side. The peach-colored, patterned comforter has undoubtedly seen better days. Bucky wishes he had some kind of telekinesis just so he could crank the A/C up even higher without having to get up, but it doesn’t take too long for his sweat—among other fluids, unfortunately—to cool.
“I repeat,” Bucky says to the ceiling, “dibs on the first shower.”
Sam huffs. Bucky can feel Sam’s heavy-lidded brown eyes on him, but he doesn’t look over; it might be nice, after all, to give Sam a show, too. “What, you tapping out already?” he asks. “I could take it with you.”
Bucky glances over, raising one eyebrow at the smug look on Sam’s face and managing to ignore, with only minor difficulty, the swell of affection that rises at the sight. “You,” he says, “are a cocktease, you know that? Not to mention one vain son-of-a-bitch.”
Sam just grins, easy and pleased, like he has Bucky right in the palm of his hand. “Well, look at me, sweetheart," he says. "Can you blame me?”