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Getting laid in the forties, the thirties even, wasn't exactly hard. 

Bucky knew the places to go for guys like him where everyone had their own secrets, and no one cared about him swinging a girl around one second and necking a guy the next. 

But Jesus Christ, now these kids are strolling past cop cars holding hands, and nothing happens. And, look, Bucky has gotten used to most of it. He's been dating and going to clubs and bars that Leah had suggested; he even tagged along on a few double dates with her. 

But the clubs always get too loud, the bars are too crowded, and Leah's friends ultimately want more than what Bucky is looking for. And what he’s looking for is just a goddamn screw. He just wants to see some naked people. After decades of absolute human drought, he just wants to get his dick wet. And see naked people, that's a big one. 

"Alright," Leah says from beside him on the couch one lazy Friday night, "Let me hook you up—" 

After spending a little time in Louisiana with Sam's family, he had come back to New York a few weeks ago and ran into her at the market. She asked about what he had confessed to Yori, and his version of that hadn't been any better than Yori's. Yet, she stuck around, and they became friends again. 

"No more club dates. So much noise." He dismisses her, waving his fork around when she invites him out with a group of friends again, "And remember Beef Girl? Sheesh."

"Oh, come on." Leah makes a face at him, then reaches over to pick a piece of chicken off his plate, "Beef Girl was nice." 

Bucky pops a fried carrot into his mouth, "She named our kids before she sat down at the table. Not ready for that." 

"Anyway, what I'm trying to say, Bucky, is that you don't have to go out to meet people. Have you tried Grindr?"

"Hold on..." he looks at her, can tell by her eye roll that he's wearing his old man expression again, "Grinder? Did you say, ‘ Grinder?’" Leah cackles and swats at him with her serviette, "Grinder. Sweet baby Jesus. Back in my day, you'd get arrested just for saying that."

"Okay, if you keep saying stuff like back in my day, we may as well quit right now and head on over to Shady Oaks for bingo night." 

"Hey, you wanna? I got dabbers that look like bowling pins."

"Oh my god."

Leah puts her plate aside, grabs his phone before he can protest, and unlocks it.

He feels a deep-seated panic rise in his throat. He hasn't exactly been using incognito tabs or cleared his browser history, and Leah might run into some very questionable shit right now. It's just that sometimes burly guys in pink patent leather hit the exact right spot. 

"First of all, it's Grindr without the E, and secondly, what are you looking for?" Leah asks, tapping away on his phone.

Bucky flushes hot right to the tips of his ears. He's scarcely been so open before, maybe back in the war when they got a little drunk and rowdy, but that's buried under decades of quiet now. He shifts, clears his throat, "Uh, sex? I guess? Is that… I mean, I'd hate to sound—"

Leah sputters out a laugh then pretends she didn't, "You're fine, believe me, but I meant uh, dating or just hookups, guys, girls, both, all?" She seems a little curious, like perhaps she suspects Bucky is into exploring or having some casual fun. He thinks she might have seen him looking at Kim the Tiger Beer delivery lady a little too long, then turn around and call the pizza guy who gives him free jalapeño puffs the love of his life.

"Oh." He squints into the distance, cants his head away from her, "Uh. Both. You can put both down. And all, or both. I don't know, whatever. That's. Yeah."

She smiles, "Okay." 

"Yeah." 

She taps away fervently for a short while and then gets a terrible look on her face. "Gonna need a profile picture." She positions the phone to take one right there, but Bucky quickly swats the phone away.

"Not my face, Jesus! I got like, uhm. There are photos. In there somewhere." He feels his neck heat up and knows his cheeks have probably gone red too. This is all kinds of ridiculous. But necessary. He wants to see naked people. 

"Alright, listen, I like you, but I'm not about to open a whole big can of regret on myself when I accidentally stumble upon your dick pics." Then, courteously, she hands the phone over with a teasing little grin. 

"Oh wow. Okay." He takes the phone, "And who would I have sent that too, huh?" He clicks his tongue at her abrupt burst of laughter. "Dick pics? Ha." In all honesty, that never even occurred to him; he had been using a burner phone for at least two years. 

"I don't know? Like Thor? The ant guy? " Leah wiggles her eyebrows, pokes him in the ribs, and in a singsong tone adds, "Cap?"

"Oh god. Alright, you're drunk. Good night, Leah."

She gasps, fake and full of mirth, "Cap? For real? Look at that blush!"

His brain goes a little fuzzy at the mention of Sam. In all honesty, he gets stupid about Sam, and he's not exactly sure what to do about it, which is why it helps that they're miles apart most of the time. 

He ignores Leah's prodding, "No, come on. How do I work this thing?" 

So Leah helps him select a profile picture and convinces him it needs to be a sexy one. And well, he hadn't exactly been posing topless for no goddamn reason, so they have to take a new one. She eventually gets him to stand near the window without his shirt and switches on a light behind him, pokes him this way, then that, and finally takes the damn picture.  

"Shit?" She says, a grin slowly creeping onto her lips before she shows him the result. 

And damn, it's a good picture. It's just the right side of his body, leaving his left arm out of the frame so he won't be identified, with his jeans sitting snug around his hips and his dog tags dangling around his neck. The angle cuts his head off near his jaw but leaves enough of his new stubble visible. 

She takes a few more: his right shoulder and bicep, and finally, his back with his head turned away. Very artsy, very minimal, and fancy-looking. He'd have taken a photo of his thighs in sweats and called it a day. 

"You got something going on, Buck, gotta give you that." Leah clicks 'upload' and smiles, "It's late. I gotta go."

Bucky entertains himself on the new app while she's busy collecting her things. There are a few mediocre guys who he views just to get a feel, but there's also a whole lot of scorching hot ones further up the map. Their profiles have little fires icons to mark his favorites, including FlyByKnight, Jared, and Malcolm.

FlyByKnight by far has all Bucky's attention. His location's currently set in Manhattan, near the old Stark Tower. 

But the picture, sweet baby Jesus. The first one is of his muscular arms squeezing his pecs together while he kind of leans forward. His face is cropped out too, but his long, smooth throat is on display. 

Second one's just a torso shot. He’s wearing a black turtleneck, the hem of it is just so slightly riding up, and his hand rests casually across the exposed skin. Bucky thinks he might be hyperventilating. Maybe because it reminds him so much of someone else. A certain one of Bucky's co-workers, someone he hadn't been able to get off his mind since Louisiana.

Sam's been running around in Bucky's mind more often than he'd like to admit. Something changed between them down there, even while on the road. There's something between them now, something weird and tense and unnamed, one look that lingered a little too long, a handshake holding on a little too tenderly. But Sam lives in Bucky's thoughts twenty-four-seven now. 

"Having fun?" Leah chirps from the kitchen.

He double clicks the fire button, about to head straight to the chat, when something flashes across the top of the screen.  

"It says someone viewed me—oh my god? Uh, Leah?"

"That's a good thing, Bucky."

"If I can see them viewing me, that means they can see me viewing them!"

"This is the hooking up part of the adventure, yes." 

"Couldn't mention that before I repeatedly viewed and zoomed in on FlyByKnight's profile? God , can they tell I zoomed? Do they know I pressed the fire bookmark?"

Leah laughs because she's terrible. "You do know that's a 'like,' right? That's how you indicate interest. Jeez, Bucky."

He stares at her, considers abandoning everything, and flushing his phone down the toilet perhaps. It's not like he needs to date, and as far as seeing naked people go, he can google it, he thinks—no big deal. 

"Well, can you undo it? Take it back?" He tries stupidly.

Leah blinks, then shakes her head, "You know what? I'm going home. Enough old man shenanigans for one night."

She heads for the door, tells him to have fun, and leaves him to his own devices. He hates her a little, but he's already in it; the guy knows Bucky viewed his profile, he knows Bucky clicked the fire icon. So he might as well see where it goes. At least his real name and face are hidden, so he could easily ditch everything, and no one would ever know.

Bucky does anything but ditch because he just about loses his mind when he looks at his phone again and finds two new notifications: 'FlyByKnight viewed your profile' and 'FlyByKnight tapped you.'

He puts the phone down, walks out to the hallway, stands there for a minute just staring at the wallpaper, then goes back in.

And before he can even catch his breath, the phone vibrates again. This time it's a message from Fly.

Hey, the message says. Bucky feels hot just looking at it. He exits the chat, goes back to Fly's profile, and has another look at the photos. And Lord, that's something. It's a little surreal that this guy's talking to him. Leah took some fantastic goddamn photos; he wouldn't be able to bag this in real life.  

How's it going ? He types back far more relaxed than he feels. His stomach turns upside-down while waiting for a response. 

After a few seconds, Fly responds, Yeah, good, those are some nice pics, man. Pic for pic? You okay if we don't do faces rn?

Bucky can't believe his luck. He's 100% fine with no faces because he’s pretty sure no one wants to be texting the Winter Soldier right off the bat. That's going to take some time to get used to.

Fine by me. With more than a little hesitancy, he pulls off his shirt, heads to the bathroom, and takes a photo of himself in the mirror. It looks nothing like the ones Leah took. He just looks like some horny asshole beneath the harsh bathroom lights. He tugs his jeans down so the trail of hair leading into them is more visible, and the top of his boxers shows. Then he drapes a towel over his left shoulder, extends his arm out of the frame, and takes the photo.

Damn baby, comes Fly's reply. A picture of him follows shortly after.

He's in bed, buried in crisp white sheets, stretched out on his back with only a thin grey t-shirt on. Bucky can see his nipples right through it; he imagines biting them through the material and feeling Fly writhe beneath him. 

Fuck, you’re gorgeous, he types, a little more daring now, curious too. He adds, Take it off? 

Give me something to take it off for, come on.

Bucky looks at himself in the mirror, already shirtless. Well shit, you should have said we were taking it slow. I already took my shirt off.

😂 you got them jeans on tho…

In an instant, he starts loosening the buckle, drops it to the ground, and without a second thought, he snaps another pic in the mirror. His left arm's above his head this time, out of sight. It's a little blurry, but these boxers are pretty tight and cling in all the right places, and despite him standing with his pants around his ankles, he looks good.

Better? Bucky says.

😛 I can work with that. 

The next photo is of Fly with that thin grey t-shirt removed, just smooth skin and miles of muscle Bucky wants to sink his teeth into. He's almost sure Fly's not wearing much under that duvet cover either, but it's very craftily draped over his hips- so low but just not enough. 

Bucky's got a semi. He imagines all the shit he'd do to this guy, all the ways he'd fuck him, and if he’s honest, he's actually dying to see his face. He's gotta know what kind of lips to picture around him, sucking him off, saying his name the way he likes it, a soft, whispered 'James' in his ear when he comes.

He steadies himself on the basin, breathes in deep, and replies, Goddamn you have no idea what you're doing to me.

And to his complete undoing, Fly says, Show me.

Yeah? You sure?

You on here to be a gentleman? 

Bucky rushes to the bedroom he never uses and gets on top of the clean, untouched bed covers he never sleeps in. He struggles with an angle for a few seconds, trying not to let the vibranuim show. And then he slips his hand into his boxers, about to send a pic when Fly sends another message.

There's a video option… you know, if you ain't playing.

How do I know you ain't playing?

There's no reply for a moment. Bucky thinks he fucked up, that maybe Fly's not into it anymore when another image pops up, loads, and then knocks the breath out of him.

Fly's totally naked now, that beautiful body on full display, painfully defined abs and a deep V leading the way down to his hard dick in his hand. Smooth and cut and already shiny at the tip. 

Bucky gapes stupidly at it for a while before another message snaps him out of it. 

I ain't playing, baby. 

Jesus, no you're not. Hold on.

Bucky makes use of the video function, starts recording from his chest downward, and takes it slow so that Fly can see every breath he takes, can see his stomach rise, then concave rapidly as he works his way to his dick. 

He takes himself in hand, wraps his fingers around it, and starts stroking slowly, down and back up, then squeezes around the tip and hits send.

To his surprise, there's a video from Fly too. And god, Bucky was not prepared. He's jerking himself too, quick twists of his hand, flipping his wrist up and then taking his time to massage around the tip. Bucky can see his legs twitch, his chest rise and fall, but best of all, he hears each harsh and wanting breath.

Holy shit 😍, Bucky types. He had never used the emojis before, thought it's kind of dumb, but his heart is beating way too fast, feeling like he's about to explode from this, so he doesn't care. This guy is gorgeous. 

Keep it coming, baby. I'm close. 

Bucky's brain goes cloudy and thick, but he complies. Sends another video, this time jerking faster to keep up with the eight seconds the app allows and makes sure Fly can hear his voice, too. Maybe he whines a little just for show. 

There's another video waiting for him when he's done recording. This one's taken from below while Fly jerks off, and a few seconds in, he arches up, groans, and comes.

Bucky gasps, his hand flying over his dick now while he watches droplets splatter onto Fly's chest.

"Oh god. Oh, holy shit," Bucky moans out loud before he's done too. He shivers through it, breathless and dozy, and lies there, eyes closed, phone gripped tight in his hand, and Fly's video replaying.

You there?  Says Fly.

Having thrown caution to the wind, Bucky takes a photo of the mess he made and sends it, then types, I'm here.

😂 damn, baby. That was good. Wanna do it in person next time?

And shit. Bucky knows the whole point of this app is to hook up and start dating again, but now that the time is here, he's not so sure he can follow through with a face-to-face. 

You mind if we hold off a bit? Kind of new to this…

Nah that's cool, I won't be in town this week anyway. Night hot stuff, talk soon.

Bucky giggles, like actually fucking giggles; his smile hurts.

Night sweetheart.


Sam re-reads the texts he sent last night. Wanna do it in person next time?

Is he fucking insane? Yes, probably, but that was the hottest not-really-sex he's had with a stranger, and it's all that's been on his mind since then. 

Hooking up these days is kind of hard. As Falcon, he got away with a certain amount of anonymity and used that to his advantage for one-night stands. He wasn't as prominent as he is now; his face wasn't on as many magazine covers and billboards. 

So meeting someone in person, someone he'd literally just found on the internet and knows nothing about, is kind of a gamble. He can't really afford negative headlines with so many odds against him already. 'Captain America is a stud in bed, according to a recent fling.' feels like a compliment until it's plastered all over People magazine.

But this guy… sweet Jesus. He caught Sam's attention right away. Those lean abs and sharp hip bones, and the guy's packing big time. It's been a while since he's been this enamored with someone, especially someone with reciprocated interest. And this should have absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he could stick Bucky's head on this guy's body, and he'd have a twin, but it kind of does. 

It shouldn't, but it does because Sam's been kind of crushing since Bucky left his hometown. He thought it was sweet at first just- two dudes who'd grown closer, maybe a bromance. Sam thought he'd get over it as soon as Bucky was out of sight, but more often than not, he found himself hoping Bucky would visit again. Hoping to see him on the couch when he wakes up.

So, what if he indulges a little? BroodyTop didn't seem too keen on taking it any further. If the most Sam gets out of this is more hot selfies and some mutual jerking, he's happy. It helps pass the time while he's in New York anyway.

He flips through Broody's photos again while he's waiting for Rhodes at the base with coordinates for their next mission. There's one pic where his thumb's kind of tucked into the waistband of those jeans he had on last night, and Sam's eyes can't help but wander to the dark patch of hair just below. 

"Brass' got us up North, Cap," says Rhodes when he walks out of the General's office. Sam snaps guiltily out of his own thoughts and falls into step with Rhodey. "Got the all-clear to call in some backup." He nudges Sam's shoulder with his own, "Anyone in mind?"

"Torres got pretty good with those wings, unofficially acting as the new Falcon now."

Rhodey smiles, "Yeah, the Aerial Squad, I like those odds."

Sam takes the mission brief from him, flips through it, "I'll call in Barnes too. Might have good location insights." 

"Plus, I like making fun of him ‘cos he can't fly." 

Sam cackles, gets his work phone out, and dials Bucky's number, but it rings for far too long. Who the hell is this far away from their phone in today's day and age? He's not even sure the guy knows how to use it aside from making phone calls and ignoring Sam's texts. 

Finally, Bucky answers, confused and rugged as if he'd just woken up, and Sam feels slightly dizzy at the sound of his sleep-addled voice, and the mere thought of Bucky twisted in his sheets with bed hair. Oh hell. 

But Rhodey takes his phone, puts on a British accent, "Hello? Mr. Barnes? This is Donald Bellings from Shady Oaks Nursing Home. We are calling about your deposit, sir. Would you like us to retain your room for another year, or will you be moving in with us at the end of this term?"

"What the fuck? " Bucky says, now on speaker, "Wait, who are you?" 

Sam holds in a laugh, shoves Rhodey, and Rhodey shoves him back, grinning like a schoolboy in a candy shop. 

"Donald Bellings from Shady Oaks, sir. We are happy to arrange transport if you—" 

"What? No. What are you talking about?" There's a ruffling of sheets like he's getting out of bed. "Fuck..."

Sam motions for Rhodey to carry on.

"Sir, let me repeat," this time he speaks slowly and loud, "I am calling about your deposit at our facility, Shady Oaks, do you—" 

"Listen here motherfucker; I didn't fucking… I ain't old, and even if I was, I ain't staying somewhere called Dickfuck Oaks, you—"

Rhodey caves and starts cackling, collapses on a chair in the hallway. Sam joins him,  breathless with laughter. Passersby cast a few skewed glances at them but ultimately have nothing to say about Captain America and War Machine taking the piss in a hallway.

"We got a mission, big man. Meet at the main base in twenty!" Rhodey says to Bucky, still cursing and grumbling inaudibly on the other side of the line. 

"Good morning, Buck!" Sam calls out too, "Rise and shine." 

"Fuck you! Shady fucking Oaks, suck my—"

 

"Oh God," Bucky moans later when he gets on the jet and sees the Aerial Squad sitting against the net wall, grinning stupidly at him. "Is it too late to call in sick? I feel sick." 

Sam gets up to greet him, laughing, "Nah, you're stuck with us, bro." He leans in, takes Bucky's extended hand, and hugs him. Because they hug now. Hugs are a thing he and Bucky do, and it's somehow normal. "But hey, we all got medical training, we can play doctor real good, huh?" Sam adds when they break apart again.

Finally, Bucky's stormy facade breaks into a smile, "Yeah, fuck you. How you been, Cap?" And then only he lets go of Sam's hand. 

Sam smiles back, both at Bucky's stupid smile and hearing the word 'Cap' from Bucky's mouth again. Tries not to let it show too much— they've got an audience after all, and this ain't Louisiana. "Been good." He steals a glance at Bucky's messy windswept hair, "Sarah says hi." 

That makes him smile even wider, "Yeah? She said hi to me?" 

Sam laughs, "Hey, don't get a big head now." 

Bucky waves him off and heads to the net wall to greet Rhodes and Torres too, just a handshake which makes something wild flare in Sam's chest like yeah we're closer, we're it, y'all ain't got that with him. And it's stupid and satisfying and weirdly comforting.

"Hey Buck," Torres says with those big brown eyes of his and grins when Bucky ruffles his hair and sits down beside him. And that, yeah, Sam doesn't care for that at all.

Rhodey catches the fleeting flash of jealousy in Sam's eyes and makes a face at him. "The fuck was that?" he mumbles to Sam while Bucky tells Torres about the nursing home prank.

"What was what?" Sam's cheeks start feeling hot, burning right up to his ears.

"Nothing," Rhodey huffs, "That's your business, man, that's a whole lot of your business." 

Torres laughs just then, Bucky chuckles beside him, and Sam shares a look with Rhodey that is undoubtedly acknowledgment. Because Sam doesn't deny a thing, doesn't admit it either, but that's kind of an answer too.

"It's cool though, Buck, they'd end up there before you do anyway," says Torres and knocks shoulders with Bucky. They both lean forward to look at Sam. 

"Hey, watch it, kid," Sam tells him with a wink and a grin his way. 

"I'll bring y'all flowers on Sundays," Torres continues, much to the entertainment of Bucky. He lets out a loud cackle; his eyes crinkle in the corners and meet Sam's directly. 

"Does your mama know the shit you talk to your superiors?" Sam asks, pointedly looking away from Bucky. He tries to think of the guy from last night or any other lay he's had recently, and not how much he wants Bucky instead. 

"He takes his mama flowers too," Bucky says, fucking around with the kid's hair again. 

And Sam's fist tightens around his seatbelt.

They might mess around a lot, the four of them, but the thing is, they make an outstanding team—three guys up in the air, one on the ground. No one stands a chance anyway. They kick some ass, get the hostages safely to the STRIKE team's jet, and all the stolen weapons recovered in less than three hours, recon included. 

And this is the best part. After a short mission, with all this adrenaline left to spare, they race. 

Sam has always gotten a kick out of how fast T'challa, Steve, and Bucky run. It's something about the competency, he guesses, the pure strength and stamina to go faster than actual moving vehicles and match him and Rhodey up in the air. 

The countryside here is wide open, nothing but miles and miles of clear skies and a long winding road back to their jet. So he, Rhodey, and Torres take flight, and Bucky sets off running.

Sam's wings are faster than the Falcon's wings, so he flies up ahead with Rhodey flanking left and Torres right. It's a pure rush of adrenaline now, speeding through the air with nothing to stop him, nothing in his way, and Bucky always in his sights below. 

Bucky looks up, rounds a bend, gets ahead just for a second, then laughs when Sam swoops low, overtakes him, and Torres and Rhodey line up with him again.

"That's cheating!" he yells over the comms, beautifully breathless and grinning as he runs. 

"Nah!" shouts Torres, "Serum versus Jetpacks, that's all." 

"Or maybe he's getting old," Rhodes adds.

Bucky huffs into the comms, "Turn off one thruster and say that again!" 

"Not if you want me to take a dive, bro!" Sam says, boosts his thruster instead because he knows Bucky can go faster than this. 

"No," Bucky says, speeding up, grunting against the strain now, "I'll catch you."

Sam's thoughts all ascend and leave him speechless and stupid, again with that warm comfort from before. The comfort that comes from whatever he and Bucky have. Because it's true, Bucky will always catch him. He knows it.

When they finally reach the end of the long winding road where the jet awaits, Sam lands on the tarmac and retracts the wings as he walks toward Bucky.

Their eyes lock, and Bucky cants his chin up. They're breathless now, with more than exertion Sam suspects, but their chests heave as he comes to a stop in front of Bucky. 

"Good race, Cap," Bucky says, licks his lips and Sam's eyes follow the movement like a cat tracks a laser. Instinctively, automatically, shamelessly.

"Yeah. Got me hungry, though," Sam says, dazed, vaguely aware of Rhodes and Torres behind him. It's only him and Bucky right now, in a bubble of adrenaline and whatever else they've got going on. 

Bucky sways closer and makes Sam suck in a breath with anticipation. His eyes are locked on Sam's, unwavering and intense and impossible to look away from. "I'll buy you lunch." he says, "Anything you want."

And Sam thinks, you you you, without hesitation. He thinks, what if I just kissed you right now; I'd kiss you right now and wouldn't care who's watching. 

"Uh," Rhodey says. Then, the adrenaline bubble they’d been in dissipates like smoke in the air, leaving them exposed, "I'd kill for some burritos right about now." 

Bucky shakes his head, turns away, "Yeah, uh. Fuck, there's a Mexican place two towns over." 

"We wouldn't want to interrupt, though." Torres has a terrible grin on his face again, watching the two of them, far too knowing for Sam's liking, "Like were y'all gonna fight or kiss just then?" 

"Jesus, okay," Sam mumbles as he gets on the jet and heads for the cockpit to fly them off. He can't be in Bucky's company right now. Got to get a grip on himself first, and that grip feels so far out of reach right now. 

Bucky heads straight for the jet's bathroom, so Sam doesn't get to see his face, and that's probably a good thing. The other two have settled and gone back to chirpy banter and don't seem to have noticed Sam and Bucky's quick and deliberate split up.

Sam gets them in the air and on autopilot, ready to sit back and chill, clear his mind and take a few really deep fucking breaths. But his phone goes off not even two minutes into it. 

Thought about you today. It's Broody, and there's a picture too. He's wearing an extremely tight black compression shirt, dog tags hanging out the front, and matching cargo slacks with a fat dick print clearly visible through the material.

Sam breathes in, feels a hot, sweaty prickle run up his spine, "Oh god."

I'm at work, baby , Sam types despite his dick piping up in the Cap suit.

So am I… says the following message with another photo. This time the cargo pant's zipper is down, and that big dick's out and in Broody's hand, laying his palm full. 

And fuck it. Fuck it. Sam can't hold back anymore. And yeah, perhaps the arousal is slightly misplaced; perhaps his thoughts are all over Bucky right now doused in dwindling adrenaline from before. Maybe this boner has nothing to do with Broody, but what he doesn't know won't hurt him. 

So Sam zips down too, gets himself out, makes sure no part of the Cap suit's in the shot, and snaps a photo too. It's a good one, excellent lighting this high up, the tips a little red, starting to drip just a bit now.

Got me all bothered, baby look at this , he says and attaches his photo. 

Jesus fuck, more.

Please, sweetheart.

Sam smiles at his phone, takes a video this time, moves his hand nice and slow over himself, thrusts up into it, and sighs at how good it feels while looking at Broody's photo. 

Come on, don't leave me hanging. Gotta get back to work , Sam replies.

I got you, honey, here, come for me…

Sam gets a video this time: Broody's jerking too, fast and desperate dog tags jingling as he moves, and then following a sharp gasp and a visible shudder, he comes.

That's all it takes for Sam, too. He exhales, comes hard into his fist, and works himself over until he's done, then hits send. 

Broody sends, Fuck me. That was hot.

Sam looks at the pictures and video again and zooms in on the dog tags to see if he can spot a name. Not that he plans on doing anything about it if he does, he's just curious, is all. He wants to put a face to this guy so he can stop imagining Bucky. It's not helping him get a grip at all. 

The tags don't give much away anyway, too blurry, but at least Sam knows he served too. They have something in common. Just like him and Bucky. Fucksake. 

Real hot baby gotta do it again soon.

Yeah, sounds good. Have to get back to work right now.

Same. See you soon, BroodyTop ;) 

"Hey Cap! Bucky says the Mexican place is ten minutes out!" Torres calls from beyond the cabin's door. 

Sam startles and zips himself back up. That's going to be gross and sticky later. "Yeah, okay, prepare for landing," he says and retakes charge of the controls.

When they land, Bucky's strapping out and unloading his guns. He's got a pink glow to his cheeks, a small smile tugging at his lip corners, and he looks relaxed like he'd just slept the entire way. Sam knows that's a lie because Bucky only sleeps once a day- 3 to 6 a.m. 

Then, he looks at his phone, fucking bites his lip, and smiles before sliding it shut again. 

And oh. Okay? Well then, Sam wasn’t expecting this at all.

Apparently, Bucky's sweet on someone. That's all it can be, he thinks. 

That's the smile of a man crushing hard. On someone who is not Sam, and he didn't think it'd fuck him up as hard as it does, but he feels a little hollow, a little dizzy. Unfairly angry. 

Well fuck. 


Sam won't look at him. 

Bucky has no idea what he said or did, but Sam's ignoring him like a stop sign in the sky. His eyes stay diverted all through lunch; he makes small talk with the other guys, they all laugh and crack jokes, but Bucky can't get into it. 

Sam's never been this distant with him, not even when he was a colossal dick about the shield a few months back. Bucky hates this gnawing ache it leaves behind. So what could have gone wrong between that intense post-race moment and now? Nothing he's got any explanation for, that's for sure. 

So lunch is weird. The flight back home is even weirder. Bucky wants to ask him what's up but worries about looking like an idiot, worries even more that he'll give himself away, and all those unnamed things he feels for Sam will be laid bare for everyone to see. Of course, Dr. Raynor would argue that's not the worst thing in the world.

And what exactly does he feel for Sam? Everything. Only the most he's felt since coming in from the cold. It was abrupt and sudden, the realization, and it hadn't let him have a moment of peace since Louisiana. The thought of having Sam in his arms had kept him up more nights than he can count; he's had daydream upon daydream of kissing him. 

Bucky wants to be everyone Sam ever touches, wants to be the one he calls late at night to ease away the loneliness, the restlessness, the worry. He wants to be the voice that calms him, the one he seeks out, the name he moans. Wants Sam's nails to be the ones digging into his back, Sam's hand fisting in his hair, his mouth breathing fast against Bucky's neck.

Goddammit. 

"You staying over in New York?" Bucky asks when they land at the airbase. Sam nods. "Let me drive you," Bucky says, knowing full well Sam can just fly home, but he's desperate to fix whatever this is. 

Sam shakes his head, looks down, "It's cool, man. Sure you got someplace to be."

"My empty apartment?" 

"Someone's apartment." Sam smiles, but it's all wrong. Too tight and insincere. 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Sam starts walking away, but Bucky grabs his wrist, "Hey—hey… let me drive you, huh? I got a spare helmet, and my bike's right here. You're only a few miles out of the way. No big deal."

Something softens in Sam's eyes then, his lips part, and a slow surrendering breath leaves his chest, "Thanks, Buck." 

And that all seemed like a great idea until Sam is plastered behind him on the bike, and it's just them at 100 miles per hour on the open road with the sun nearly set up ahead. Sam's arms fit around him easily, so tightly, palms open against his abdomen and his head turned to rest between Bucky's shoulder blades. 

Bucky's fucking gone. 

He wants to take the highway, a roundabout, and make this last even longer than the half an hour of bliss it is. 

He imagines what it'll feel like, not on the Harley, but in his bed with Sam's arms around him like this. Him between Sam's legs exactly just like this. To feel Sam and have him all to himself, all night and again in the morning. 

It makes his breath hitch audibly, makes him hard. Sam lifts his head, "You alright?"

"Yeah," Bucky calls back to him with the wind rushing by them, the bike's engine rumbling in their ears, "Fresh air's nice." 

Sam lays his head against Bucky's back again, and his arms tighten, "Yeah. It's nice." 

Bucky drops Sam at his hotel just after sundown. He helps him take his duffle bag with the suit and wings in it to the elevators and, as is custom for them now, extends his hand for one of those handshake hugs they do. 

Sam slaps his palm into Bucky's, pulls him close, and wraps the other arm around his back. Bucky feels his fingers dig in, feels a warm exhale in his neck.

"Thanks, bro, wasn't necessary." 

"Was too." He squeezes Sam tight then extracts himself from the hug before he does something stupid. "Good night, Sammy."

"Night, Buck."

And then the elevator dings open, and Bucky's standing there with his hands in his pockets looking at Sam, and Sam's looking at him, as the doors slide shut again.

 

"Why'd you name me BroodyTop, huh? Are you insane?" Bucky says a while later when he sits down in Leah's restaurant after dropping Sam off. 

She hands him a cold beer, shrugs with that teasingly fake smile of hers, "Seemed appropriate. Am I wrong?" 

"I'm not always—" 

"Okay, I don't want to know how the rest of that sentence goes."

"Fair enough."

They both laugh; she opens a beer too, suggests they play a round of battleship, and it takes Bucky's mind off everything for a while. He doesn't think about Sam or Fly or anything that happened today. For about an hour or so, there's just mindlessly sinking ships and talking shit with Leah. 

Until Fly sends him a message, What you up to?

Bucky places the phone down on the table without replying and takes a long sip of his beer. Leah arches up an eyebrow over the board game. 

"Not gonna answer?" 

"Hm?" Bucky feigns cluelessness, pretending to inspect his board.

"I know what the Grindr notif sounds like, Bucky—F-7." 

"Huh," he chuckles, cheeks a little hot, "Miss—No, uh, spoke to him earlier. It can wait." 

Leah bites back a smile, "Yeah. Yeah, for sure, it can wait. Too much of a good thing and all." 

His phone pings again, but this time it's Sam, Hey… You left your gloves in my bag.

In total contrast to what he just said about Fly, Bucky opens the notification instantly and replies, Thanks, keep them for me.

Thanks again for the ride, Buck.

After all that begging ;)

😂 man, shut up, I mean it.

Anytime, Cap. Bucky's finger hovers over the kiss emoji, but he decides against it.

He looks up, suddenly aware of the smile on his face and Leah watching him. She grins and looks away, fiddles with her board. 

"Uhm. That was Sam," he says, flashing the screen at her in explanation. 

"Uh-huh," she says calmly, not even paying much attention, "And didn't you just talk to Sam too before coming here?" 

Bucky blushes hard and red-hot, "Yeah, well." 

And Leah burst out in full belly laugh, nose crinkled up and all. 

"You know, I know just the girl for you, just as terrible. You'll love her," he says, genuinely thinking about giving Sharon a call and telling her he found her match, and they should team up and host a Roast Bucky Barnes evening.

"Just tell him already," she says, earnest now when her laughter has subsided.

He glares at her, considers it for a second, and then promptly rejects the thought. 

"Hey, are we playing or what? A-4," he says instead, hopes he sinks her ship in retaliation.

"Fine." she says, resigning with a sigh, "Hit."

"Yes!"

 

Sleep evades Bucky that night. It usually doesn't come easy, but tonight's a goddamn write-off. It's nearing two a.m., and Bucky's still wide awake; he's not even getting drowsy despite the time creeping closer to morning.  

No. All he can think about is Sam and Fly and sex and all these feelings he doesn't want to feel. Everything but sleep.  

He feels like calling things off with Fly and pursuing Sam before it all slips through his fingers. He'd give it up no problem, for the chance of being with Sam, of getting close to him, fuck he'd do it. When he thinks about their life together, he imagines a city apartment, cozy, with a nice big couch and a sunlit kitchen. He pictures him and Sam in their bed, close as can be, his lips all over that body. And he wants nothing more. 

Realistically though, the odds are slim of that happening. Yeah, they've got this thing, they hug, and they stare and act a little weird around each other, but that hardly means anything. It means they're attracted to each other, means he thinks Sam's goddamn beautiful, and Sam probably wouldn't mind fucking him either.

But what if that's all it ends up being. 

Can he handle it being a one night? Can he live with being a fuck buddy? Will that ever be enough? What happens if it all falls apart at the end? Because the way he feels looking at Sam sometimes… feels like it could destroy him completely if he’s not careful. He doubts he'll survive it.

Then there's Fly and the absolute magnetic pull Bucky feels toward him. It's only been a few days, and yet it feels right. Leah would say it's called being horny, and god knows Bucky's been deprived for long enough, but he still feels something. 

He opens Fly's message from earlier and sees that there is a photo too. And god. Oh god, he's weak. 

Fly's in just a soft-looking purple hoodie and grey sweats, and he's got his hand slipped underneath the waistband. Bucky knows just what he's doing; he knows that hand's wrapped around his dick, and shit, he shouldn't have ignored him. 

Hey sweetheart, he types, you asleep? 

Bucky is hard already while he waits for Fly's response that might not even come. He kicks the blanket off the couch and gets his hand around himself, scrolls up to look at all the pictures Fly has sent him and starts jerking slowly. 

It's not long after he sends the message that Fly responds. A hot flare rushes through Bucky, his hand tightening just a little around himself as he scrolls back down to see what he said. 

But instead of a message, it's another photo. Bucky bites his lip, almost piercing the skin. 

"Fuck."

Fly's standing up, back to the camera, with a headset on and playing a video game. He's still wearing that soft purple hoodie… and only that. His ass is on full display, big and muscular and perfectly round.

Bucky's leg twitches, and he goes warm all over and comes. Just from that one goddamn photo, he's done. 

And while Bucky's ruggedly fast breathing settles, Fly says, Nah ain't sleeping.

Jesus, honey, I can see that.

Wanna go? 

Bucky hikes his shirt up a little, bites down on the hem, and takes a photo of his spent dick laying half-hard across his hip.

Already did , he types and sends the photo.

Damn that D tho 😭

That ass, sweetheart. Jesus Christ.

😂 yeah? Tell me what you'd do to it if you were here.

Probably press you up against a wall just like that, spread you open and slide my fingers in… Keep going ‘till you cry...

Bucky imagines it. But it’s Sam he sees. His hand on Sam’s lower back, getting him off with just his fingers, hearing Sam moan and feeling him push back for more. He imagines the blissed-out face Sam would make, eyes falling shut, mouth slack and pretty, his breathing picking up until he comes.

Fuck. And then?

I’d jerk off and watch honey

And… Bucky's hard again. He sends a photo of that to Fly too.

Well shit, soldier , Fly says in reply, and Bucky drops the phone. 

How did he know? He can't possibly know who Bucky is. He'd been so careful, but now he's spiraling hot and fast with all of his good sense in his dick and scrambling to pick his phone up again. 

Soldier? He types frantically.

Dog tags? 

Of course. What a fucking idiot. Bucky sags with relief and replies: Someone's paying close attention, huh? Hoping it covers up his initial shock.

Have you seen you? Can't help it. Now about that pic…

Wait, how'd you take that pic of you? Standing up like that?

Bucky looks at the photo of Fly standing again. Because that's an unnatural angle like it's taken from the bed behind him. It looks like someone took it. And Bucky starts thinking that might be true because Fly takes longer than usual to respond. Is he… with someone? And why does that make Bucky feel so… so broken up?

Finally, Fly says, Selfie ring tripod. Like it?

Bucky exhales like he's been holding his breath. 

Gorgeous honey.

 

Sleep eventually comes after he finishes for a third time watching Fly jerk himself while kneeling, legs spread, and one hand fiddling with his nipples. 

As he drifts off, he wonders how long he can guiltlessly keep pretending it's Sam instead. 


"Wait, hold up, hold up! You made Redwing take a photo of your ass?" Rhodey says, slowly lowering his fork. "And then you lied? Do you even know what a selfie ring is?" 

Sam avoids eye contact and instead continues cutting his steak, "Listen, you do what you gotta do." Rhodey laughs, and Sam takes a bite, cheek full he continues, "You tellin' me you never did some crazy shit to get someone?" 

Rhodey shakes his head, "You know the government tracks our tech, man. Gonna have Jeremy up in surveillance choking on his donut." 

"Fuck the government," Sam says, "I took my trackers out, got authority now, ain't it?" The only people who have access to his gear now are himself, Torres, and the Wakandans.

"Living life on the edge, I like that about you, Cap." They're silent for a bit, just eating, until Rhodey says, "So? Did he like it?" 

Sam gets a little flutter in his gut thinking of exactly how much Broody liked it, feels his cheeks go warm remembering the heated photos and videos on his phone. They're burning a hole through his pocket, silently begging him to look, to touch himself again.

"Yeah," he laughs, looks away from Rhodey, "He liked it."

Rhodey punches his shoulder. "That's nasty." But he's got a weird look on his face like he's proud and happy and excited for Sam all at once. It makes Sam laugh, makes him act like he's young again- shy and stupid and itching to rush off to the bathroom and send more sexy photos to Broody.

But that's not happening anytime soon because they're at some diner in the middle of nowhere, waiting for Torres and Bucky to get back from recon. It's a mission, a risky one at that, so Sam's head needs to be in the game. 

Speaking of the devil, Bucky comes stomping into the diner with Torres in tow and heads for Sam and Rhodey's table. 

"Look," Sam says under his breath, "Don't say anything about it to, uh," he looks pointedly at Bucky then back at Rhodey. 

"Jesus, Sam." 

"I know, okay. Just don't." 

"Yeah yeah yeah, okay. You gotta sort your shit out, man." 

"Shh—Hey, look who it is," he says when Bucky plops down in the seat next to Rhodey. He looks good, thick stubble covering his jaw and tanned from doing perimeter checks in the sun. "What're we looking at, White Panther?" 

Bucky gives him a heatless glare, "Easy in and out. They got someone guarding the mainframe on the top floor, but you can take him."

Torres agrees, hands over a tablet with flight coordinates. "Buck and I will do the groundwork; you and Rhodes come in from the top." 

"Yeah?" Sam says with a sudden spark of boldness and licks sauce off his finger, "How come I don't get to do groundwork with Buck?"

Torres stutters, Rhodey purses his lips and looks away, "Uh, oh, well, I mean we can reshuffle, I just thought—"

Bucky narrows his eyes at Sam, and his head tilts sideways by a questioning fraction. Sam doesn't look away. Feels the air buzz between them with that same familiar energy that has been brewing between them, and for a second, he imagines yanking Bucky across the table and—

"No kid," Rhodey says, interrupting the thought, which is probably for the best, "He's messin' with you. We got this." He slaps his palm down on Sam's shoulder, "Come on, let's get to work." 

Bucky cants his chin up, doesn't get up to leave with them, and instead watches Sam go. Sam knows because he feels Bucky's unrelenting gaze on him, piercing a hole through the back of his head.

Fuck. 

As it turns out, it's not just an easy in and out. The place is a fortress. Instead of coming in from the roof as Torres suggested, Sam and Rhodey need to help on the ground. They fight their way through hordes of soldiers to get to the top and barely escape being pinned down. 

Sam finally reaches the mainframe and starts downloading data as the fight continues downstairs. Bucky and Torres keep the soldiers at bay, and Rhodey flies circles around the building and takes care of the rooftop snipers. 

Sam thinks he's got it, everything's handled, and they'll be out of there in a few more minutes when he hears glass cracking behind him. 

The guard Torres had been talking about snatches up the hard drive, stuffs it in his pocket, and stalks over to Sam.

"Aw hell," he says, "Okay big guy, I'm gonna need that back."

The guard is unphased and swings at Sam's head with a piece of rebar, and Sam ducks to swipe at his feet. He falls, spins, grabs Sam's ankles and pulls him down, but Sam uses the thrusters to get himself free.  

After tiringly wrestling back and forth, the guard lands a hit.

Sam reels back and spits out blood, "Now you got me bleeding," he sneers, "My suit's white, asshole." 

The guard laughs, swings at Sam again, but this time Sam knows better and kicks him in the gut. They go at it for what feels like an eternity, and eventually, it feels like he's winning; the guard's getting tired, he's bleeding, and his hits are getting sloppy. 

Sam thinks, with the next punch, he's got it, this guy's going down, but instead, he hears the dreadful click of a gun's safety coming off. And then there's a pistol in his face, aimed right between his eyes, close enough that he smells the metal.

His first instinct is to take control of the gun, smack it out of his hand, but another click resounds behind him, and then a cold hard barrel's pressed to the back of his head too.

He freezes, blinks, and breathes out slow and easily. Brings his hands up to show he's standing down, but the guard in front of him doesn't seem to care; Sam's still looking down the barrel and leaning into the other one. 

"You know how this ends, Captain," he says, "Can't let you take this." His grin looks sharp and sadistic in the lurid fluorescent lights, and that's not the last thing Sam wants to see before he dies.

So he closes his eyes and thinks about his family instead. Sarah and the kids, Gideon and his wife, his hometown, and that goddamn boat. Thinks of Sarah's smile just like sunshine, A.J.'s laugh like summer rain, and the dry jokes Cas inherited from his dad. 

He thinks of Bucky, then, too. Thinks of all the things he never said, all the chances he never took and never will. He does his best, now in his last moments, to imagine what his lips would feel like, what his skin would taste like, imagines whispering I love you quietly into his ear. 

His eyes shoot open at that, realizing what he just thought and realizing too that he is so full of shit. He can't die here today. He has to get out. For Sarah, for Cas and A.J… and Bucky. 

"Listen," he says, thoughts rushing now, "I ain't scared of dying. You can pull that trigger. But this data—just let me say this—this data can save millions of lives. I know you're fighting to protect it because that's what you've been told is the right thing to do. But this ain't the way, man." Sam swallows, "I gotta get this into safe hands. The people you work for don't give a shit if you die here today either." 

"And you care?" The guy chuckles behind him and presses the gun harder against his head.

"I do—"

"Bullshit," the guard in front of him spits and cocks the gun, his finger starts squeezing around the trigger.

"Fuck this," Sam breathes. And then, in a sharp and abrupt downward motion, he ducks and ejects his wings. The force of their expansion shoots the men backward and away from him. He uses that brief moment to put some distance between them. 

He's no stranger to fighting in enclosed spaces; he's just never done it with the new wings. They're wider and longer, and the vibranium tips scrape against the concrete walls and tear through the ceiling as he moves. 

The two recover from the blow; they've lost their weapons, but unfortunately, so has Sam. He's got an advantage with the wings, though, and since they don't want to hear him out, he doesn't have any reservations about letting them feel it instead.

Sam swings around, smacks the bigger one in the face with a simple twist of his body, and he knows vibranium to the head is no laughing matter. The guy falls on his ass, groans, cups his bleeding nose then passes out.

"Yeah, get some," Sam laughs and twists the opposite way to get the second guy, but because he enjoyed that a fraction too much, he's a beat too late and turns straight into the barrel of a gun again. For fuck sake. 

His body jerks into action, but a shot rings out anyway—one loud bang, chilling and deafening, followed by a hot spray of blood across his face.

In a dazed moment, he thinks he's dead. Thinks how could he not be? He was staring it straight in the face. But he still feels his heart beating, hears it even as it pounds in his ears, feels his strained breaths pass hard and dry into his lungs, and sees the clean and precise bullet hole between the guard's eyes.

Sam flings backward, and there, in the entryway, stands Bucky. He lowers the gun slowly to his side. 

Breathlessly Sam looks at him. His expression is stone cold, and his eyes are wild- the only indication that he feels anything at all. But, even then, Sam's not sure what Bucky's feeling is remorse. 

"You're welcome," he says flatly.

Sam's ears ring. He slowly stands and looks down at the body at his feet, shot in the back of the head like it's nothing, the blood pooling around Sam's boots. His head spins.

Bucky did this for Sam. He killed this man for Sam. There was no hesitation here: unnecessarily and instinctively, Bucky killed for him. And Sam knows he regrets nothing because he's looking back at Bucky, and Bucky's not looking at the dead guard but at Sam with that intense, resolute expression because… because? 

Because he loves Sam too.

Sam can see it; he knows it now. But no. No, not like this, he… it's not supposed to be tainted like this. He can't—

"What did you do!?" Sam screams at him, wipes blood off his cheek. Bucky inhales, defiant and silent. "What did you do? I had this!" 

Finally, Bucky speaks. "I did what I had to do." He puts the safety back on, holsters the gun. 

"I don't need you to come running to my rescue, Buck! You can't do this, man!" Sam shouts. It can't be now; you can't do this now, he thinks. Because it's all wrong, and they weren't supposed to come to this conclusion with a dead body at their feet. And maybe Sam's more scared now than he's ever been in his life. 

But then Bucky's standing right before him, sneering and livid. Scared, too. Sam knows the look of fear in a man's eyes.

"What I can't do, what I won't do, is let you die."

Sam blinks, and before his brain can form any kind of response, Bucky's storming out again as fast and violently as he arrived. 

He taps the edge of the shield with his foot to flip it up and stick it to his back again.

"I had this," he mutters to himself, but he's not just talking about the mission anymore. "Goddamn, you, Buck. I almost fucking had this."


So he fucked up. Always knew he would. Bucky Barnes hasn't done a single goddamn thing right since 1945, and this one thing—this one goddamn precious thing—he was supposed to get right he totally ruined. 

Sam thinks he's a piece of shit, probably always did, but the way he looked at Bucky on that mission, the way his eyes had gone cold like that, his beautiful face splattered with another man's blood.

There's no coming back from this one, Barnes. 

There's only getting over it and moving on. It had been shaky, to begin with, this thing between them hadn't ever been easy, but it's all kinds of fucked up now. Bucky knows how Sam feels about killing, he knows Sam talks first, and the violence comes later, only if it has to. But standing there and watching those guns pointed at the man he—at Sam—twisted something deep inside of him. 

Guess he really would do anything for Sam. He'd do it again too. He's got no regrets.

Sam hasn't made contact all week since it happened. Usually, there'd be a text, something funny or a picture, a song Sam heard and then thought of forwarding to Bucky. But there's been only radio silence. They haven't been teamed up for missions either. 

Can't have your work partner going around shooting people. 

Fly's been anything but quiet. In fact, he's been fierce and daring, and they've been trying all kinds of new shit on video, even playing with some toys that made Bucky blush in a way he didn't think he could. He's never come so hard in his life; it makes his mind calmly blank too, makes him forget for a second that he's missing Sam. 

Bucky's been careful not to give his identity away, but the more they talk, the more he thinks he doesn't actually care. There's an emptiness after what happened, a niggling kind of loneliness since Sam's been off the radar, and Fly is filling it perfectly right now.

So fuck it.

Was wondering… you wanna meet up? 

Yeah? You said you weren’t ready tho. 

I wasn't. You make a pretty convincing case, sweetheart.

Fuck yeah. I'm back in NY on Friday. Coffee first, or you wanna get straight to it? 

Right, because this is a hook-up. This is two warm bodies getting their shit on and their needs met, and there's not supposed to be any strings. 

But maybe Bucky isn't quite cut out for no strings. 

I'll buy you coffee first, baby. I ain't an animal.

Sure hope that's a lie.

Bucky smiles at his phone and swallows down a pang of sadness because it's not Sam; it's never going to be. And Fly doesn't know that. He doesn't know he'll always play second fiddle to Captain America. 

Kinda excited. Going to get nice and cleaned up for you.

😍 yeah? Get your shit waxed for me? 

Bucky laughs out loud, 😂 uh huh smooth like a dolphin.

You're ridiculous! Wanna be there right now, sitting on your lap…

Or my face...

And then Fly continues to tell him exactly what they'd be doing if he were there, every last sweaty, dirty detail, and Bucky thinks, fuck yeah sweetheart , but his mind betrays him once more and pictures Sam in his lap instead.


Sam spends the next two days in the gym. He mostly does squats; Broody had seemed pretty pleased about his ass, no harm in getting it nice and toned up for their Big Meet in the city. 

Rhodey’s lifting some weights beside him, watching with that silently judging look on his face. 

“Just say it,” Sam grunts on a deep squat, eyeing Rhodes in the mirror. 

Rhodes smiles, “Say what, Wilson?”

Sam breathes out slowly through balled cheeks as he gets back up, rolls his eyes, “Whatever’s putting that look on your face.”

“Alright, fine. What about Barnes, man?” Rhodey puts the weight down, dabs his brow then looks expectantly at Sam.

And Sam won't admit that he’d been missing the fool, that he realized at precisely the wrong time what they are to each other. He can’t tell Rhodey that going on missions without Bucky sucks because he misses racing with Bucky on the ground and him in the sky and the adrenaline coursing through him when he looks at that fast-footed idiot. 

“What about Barnes?” he says instead. 

Rhodey just sighs.


Bucky does, in fact, go to get himself cleaned up. It’s only two days until Friday, so he gets waxed, gets a facial, a manicure, and buys some new cologne. It also won’t hurt to get some new boxers and jeans, maybe even a nice shirt one size too small. Sam commented about his tight shirts back in Louisiana after all, and perhaps he was onto something.  

He remembers how Sam looked that day, glowing in the midday sun, calm and relaxed on his boat, that beer bottle swinging loose between his fingers. His easy smile, broader and brighter than Bucky had ever seen it before. 

He remembers his own face giving way to a genuine smile for the first time in ages that day too. It hurt a little, felt vulnerable and weird, but then he looked down, and Sam smiled right back and told him to stay over. 

God, the way he didn’t sleep a wink that night with Sam being just down the hall. Kept thinking of tiptoeing down there, not knowing what he’d do in Sam’s room but wanting to go anyway, even if it was just to see him peaceful and at rest. 

And now, he’s a day away from waking up in another guy’s bed. 

It’s all he’s been after, getting laid, just didn’t think it’d feel so much like... betrayal.


"You look fine!" Leah collects Bucky's keys, wallet, and phone, and ushers out the door as she speaks, "And you'll be late if you keep fussing like this. Get out of here!" 

"I don't know about this jacket." Bucky tugs at the light brown leather jacket she gave him to wear, saying something about breaking all that black. Black is a very classy color; he doesn't see the problem here. 

"The jacket is beautiful, and you should never take it off. Now go!" 

Bucky takes a deep breath, shoves all his belongings in his pockets, and gets moving. He's sure people aren't this nervous about hook-ups. It's just sex, and he knows how to do that. He's been dying to do it since he remembered who he is. 

On the way, he wonders if Fly's also nervous, can't imagine a guy like that being nervous at all. He probably has men lining up, never even has to work for it. Bucky’s some lucky asshole, and he wouldn't be this stressed if they weren't meeting for coffee first, probably. 

Fucking is one thing. Talking about stuff and acting like he wasn't the world's deadliest assassin once is no easy task. He doesn't even want to think about what Fly's reaction will be about that.

And as if that's not enough, he runs into Sam at the coffee shop. He was not supposed to be in town for another two weeks. Jesus fuck. This is off to a terrible start. 

Bucky sees him standing by the counter, busy ordering something. And well, that's fine, he thinks. Maybe he can slip under the radar, and Sam will leave before they even make contact. So he hangs back in line, lets an old lady go ahead of him to buy some time. 

But Sam's not leaving. Instead, he turns away from the counter with his coffee and looks around for a table. Shit. Probably meeting Rhodes for lunch, Sharon maybe. Or worse. 

What if he's on a date too, and Bucky will have to sit and watch Sam flirt with someone else right in front of him? Fuck. He feels sweaty and nauseous suddenly. But this ain't going away soon, and he can't exactly leave. So he just sucks it up and moves to the front. 

His body goes cold when they make eye contact. Sam frowns but his mouth quirks into a grin automatically. And yeah, that makes Bucky feel things. 

"Hey, man," Sam says above the buzz of the lunch crowd. He looks so good though, got those dark blue jeans on and a white Henley that clings to him like honey and got some shades on to keep from being spotted. 

Bucky stuffs his hands in his pockets, forces himself to stop looking. "Sam," he greets stiffly with a nod. 

"Could have just called if you wanted to hang out, don't gotta follow me around, you know," Sam jokes, takes a sip of his coffee, eyes darting nervously around the room.

Bucky gets his coffee too, pays the barista, and turns to look at the busy shop beside Sam. "Didn't think you'd want to hear from me," he says, throwing a defiant smile at Sam.

"Well, are you sorry?" 

"No." 

"Thought so. Anyway, man, enjoy that." He nods at Bucky's coffee, forces a smile this time, and Bucky's heart sinks. 

"Yeah, you too."

And then, he makes his way to the back of the shop and sits down at a small booth near the window. Unfortunately for Bucky, the only other available table is across the shop and faces Sam directly. Great, this is the worst thing that could have happened. 

Bucky doesn't want Sam to know about Fly because he's a selfish asshole. He doesn't want him seeing them together, leaving together. There's a part of him that still wants Sam to know Bucky's always going to be available, even if nothing ever comes from it. 

It is what it is, though, and Fly should be here any second. 

For a while, both he and Sam just glance around the coffee shop. They look at the door, then at the counter, at the other patrons, and carefully avoid eye contact.  

After waiting for about ten minutes and eager to get it over with, Bucky pulls his phone out, and texts Fly.

Got my coffee, sweetheart.

He takes a few seconds to text back, but when the reply comes,  Bucky's confused. 

Yeah, me too. Where you at?

Roasted Bean. Where are you?

Oh sweet. What are you wearing?

Bucky feels a little dizzy because this is it. He's finally meeting Fly, and he's not even a little ready. Instinctively his eyes shoot over to Sam, who's busy on his phone too.

Brown and black. You?

While he waits for the reply, Sam looks over, blinks, and cocks his head sideways. What the fuck? Bucky shrugs at him, pulls a face, and Sam makes one right back. Asshole.

I'm in white. You mean light brown? Leather jacket?

Bucky looks up again. There are about ten people in white, four of them Black guys. Including Sam. Jesus. 

Yeah that's me, I can't see you through.

When he looks up from his phone, Sam's standing in front of him, phone in hand.

"What, uh, what are you doing here, Buck?" he says through clenched teeth with a weird look on his face.

At which point, Bucky realizes something's up. 

Hesitantly he says, "I'm—" he clears his throat, "—well, you know. I'm meeting someone." 

"Someone, huh?" Sam yanks the chair out, sits down hard, and stares at Bucky, "Someone wearing white?"

Fuck. Bucky's eyes drop to Sam's very, very tight white Henley. He leans his head down and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yeah," he says as the situation dawns on him.

"Black guy?" Sam chides, half-hysterical now, "For coffee? At the Roasted Bean? In New York?" Bucky groans. "Buck, come on!" 

"Jesus Christ. This is a goddamn fuck of a situation." 

"You don't say." Sam puts his phone down on the table. Sam's chat with Broody is open on the screen, "How'd you not realize?" 

"How'd you not realize? Jesus, Sam. What the fuck now?"

Sam sits back in his chair, rubs his hand over his head, "I don't know."

"This changes everything. Right? Yeah, this changes everything, fuck." 

"I don't know."

Bucky looks at him, sighs, "Yeah," he says, depleted now. "Okay." Angry, too, at yet another thing that didn't work out for him. And before he loses that last bit of dignity and patience he has left, he gets up and leaves.

All those goddamn photos, all the things he said. It had been Sam all along, just like he'd imagined from the start. It was actually him. God. He doesn't know if that makes it better or worse, doesn't know what to do with the fact that he'd seen Sam like that, so exposed and goddamn sinful. 

What he does know, without a doubt, is that he will never be able to go back. After knowing what he knows about Sam, after feeling the way Sam made him feel, how can he ever go back to being just co-workers? He thinks of Sam in his Cap suit and remembers that video on the jet. He thinks of Sam's purple hoodie and remembers that photo. He's seen heaven now, he's seen too much, and there's not a chance in hell that he'll ever forget. 

"Buck!" 

He stops. A few people look around and start whispering in that star-struck way they do when they see Sam. He turns to find Sam jogging up to him.

"What?" he calls back, thinking, just make this quick, Wilson, let me down easy, say what you gotta say, and let me go lick my wounds in peace, will you?

Sam has to stop on the way and sign someone's napkin. He does it fast, scribbling away while he glances up at Bucky. Another lady shoves a notebook under his nose, and he signs that too. A couple of kids ask for a selfie, and he poses with a peace sign before promptly excusing himself. 

"Come on," he says, dragging Bucky along by his sleeve, "Not here." and jogs down a narrow alleyway, shoots left and down another, makes a sharp right until the people gushing about Cap are far behind them. 

Bucky yanks back on his sleeve, makes Sam stop, "Wilson," he says, "What are you doing, huh?" 

"I, well," he says, breathing hard, inexplicably gorgeous under the beams of sunlight shooting through the Brooklyn rooftops, "I just— Ah, Fuck."

And then he grabs Bucky's face and kisses him.

It's slow and lingering, and their lips fit together perfectly, softly, better than Bucky had ever imagined it. He wonders if he's dreaming though, events don't add up, but if it is a dream, he has to make it last as long as possible.

So he kisses back, brings his hand around Sam's waist to pull him closer, and cups the back of his head as tenderly as you would porcelain. Lets his lips slide open just so and feels Sam gasp into it.

Sam swallows then, pulls away an inch, and with his eyes closed, says, "Okay? You get it?" 

Bucky nods, his lips shift against Sam's, and he drags his thumb over Sam's cheek, "Yeah, sweetheart. Yeah, I do."

It's very much not a dream.

"It's supposed to matter that it's you, but it doesn't. It's better; it makes sense," Sam tells him, eyes fixed on Bucky's. "Think about it, Buck," he says as if he needs to explain, "Anyone else—"

"Would feel wrong. Unnatural." Bucky dips down for another quick kiss.

"Yeah. Unnatural. Anyone else wouldn't be this."

"No. Never in a million."

"Wanna get out of here?" Sam says, grinning sharp and suggestive as he slides their hands together.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he says, "I been wanting to 'get outta here' since I met you."


"You can't kill no more people," Sam gasps at the nipping kiss Bucky leaves on his neck, lowering his hands to squeeze Bucky's ass.

Bucky presses him back against the door, yanks Sam's shirt over his head, "Hmm." then gets at his nipple and sucks.

It’s a sudden rush of pleasure that makes him dizzy and a little unsteady, so he grabs hold of the doorframe, moans, "I'm—oh god—I'm serious, Buck, can't cover up no more shit for you." 

Bucky looks at him then, sincere, but his eyes are blasted and wild, and that gorgeous mouth is wet and open as he breathes, and Sam thinks goddamn he’s more than slightly gone already.

"I know, sweetheart. I know," Bucky says, comforting and reassuring. Like he means it, but there's fierceness behind his eyes that tells Sam he won't hesitate next time either, a sugar-coated lie saying Sam's always going to come first. 

And maybe Sam's okay with that, despite what he says. He swallows instead of admitting that out loud and presses his body against Bucky's so they’re chest to chest, then smirks, "Alright."

"Alright," Bucky mimics, "You gonna let me suck you off now or what? Wanna have some more coffee, darlin'? Wanna talk about it first, hm?"

A laugh bubbles from Sam's chest, makes Bucky smile too, "Fuck you," he says and lets his head drop back as Bucky sinks to his knees, feels warm breath ripple over his skin, swift fingers undoing his jeans, and finally—goddamn finally—the warmth of Bucky's mouth swallowing him down. 

Bucky hums around him, makes his tongue flat against Sam’s length, and sucks from the back of his throat. Sam’s hips jerk forward, and he grabs hold of Bucky’s hair, but that only elicits another deep hum from him. 

“Shit, Buck. If you keep that up, I’m gonna come,” he says and looks down at Bucky. And oh Christ, his eyes are watered up, and a tear streak dribbles down the side of his face. Sam kind of wants to shove in a little deeper and make him gag and cry some more. Holy shit. 

Bucky slides off with an obscene wet smack and wipes his soaked mouth, “Yeah, you’re right,” he drawls, gets to his feet, and kisses Sam again when he’s upright. Then before Sam even knows what’s happening, Bucky spins him around and presses him flat against the door, “I’ve been dreaming about this for way too long.”

With that, he jerks Sam’s hips backward so Sam can feel just how hard he is, and thrusts forward, starts rubbing himself up against Sam. 

“Oh fuck,” Sam shudders out, starts pushing his jeans down to the floor because shit, he’d been waiting long enough too, “Yeah, okay, alright.” He says, and then he feels the rough and calloused fingers of Bucky’s right hand and the cool, smooth metal of his left cup the bare skin of his ass.

“Yeah? Gonna let me?” Bucky says with a smiling lilt, sounding kind of surprised that this is even happening. 

“What?” Sam looks back over his shoulder and curves himself into Bucky’s body, “You came here to be polite?”

Bucky laughs, bites his lip, and, in a swift motion, shoves his jeans down too. He comes back up with a small tube of lube and wiggles it at Sam, “Hell no, sweetheart.” 

“You brought lube on the first date?” Sam snorts, leans forward again so Bucky can get at his ass, “Presumptuous bastard.” 

Bucky’s slick fingers smooth over Sam’s hole, and as Sam feels them press in, he shivers and flexes his hand uselessly at the wall, so Bucky reaches up and entwines his fingers with Sam’s.

“Aw, come on, remember the shit I said I’d do if I had you all to myself,” Bucky whispers into his ear, licks softly at the lobe, and slides knuckle-deep into Sam’s body. “Hm? What’d I say?” 

Sam can hardly hear a thing. All he feels is the slow friction of Bucky’s fingers and his body easing out and accepting them. “Said you’d—holy shit—said you’d finger fuck me up against a wall ‘till I cry.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, withdrawing his hand and adding another finger when he slips back in, “And I’m a man of my word.” And then he speeds up and lets Sam have it, quick, brutal thrusts that make him dizzy and about to burn out of his skin. 

His cheeks are flushed, and his knees make a valiant effort to keep him up, but he’s all jelly, just putty in Bucky’s hands. He feels impossibly stuffed and used, and he’s stumbling recklessly toward orgasm. 

“I’m gonna blow,” he warns before wrapping his hand around himself and jerking. He’s still slick from Bucky’s mouth, and he closes his eyes to recall the image of Bucky’s lips stretched around him, his blue eyes watery and blinking up at him like that. 

He comes blindingly hard, with Bucky’s fingers nudging against his prostate over and over again, shoots out over his own fist and probably the door, but he can’t bring himself to care at all because he realizes Bucky’s jerking himself too, furiously with his fingers still inside Sam.

“And then what?” Bucky asks, shivery and rough and just as close to finishing. “What’d I say I’d do then, sweetheart?” 

Sam moans, feels himself pulse in his hand at the thought. He thinks he might pass the fuck out. This man is a goddamn menace. 

“What’d I say, Sam?” Bucky says again. Sam feels the head of Bucky’s dick flicking wet against his ass as he jerks himself.

“Said you’d jerk off and watch and—”

“—And what, honey?”

“Put your load where it belongs.” 

“Yeah.” 

And then Bucky pulls his fingers out, slips the tip of his dick inside instead, and comes. 

Sam whines, blurts out a few more drops, and chokes on a depleted laugh, “You’re nasty.”

Body pressed flush to Sam’s, Bucky smiles and kisses his cheek, “You like it.” 

And goddamn, he does. He really does.

 

Later, when they're exhausted and fuck-drunk, spread out bare-assed on Bucky's bed, Sam reaches for his phone and snaps a photo of his naked, sweat-slicked body in Bucky's sheets and sends it to Broody.

Bucky digs his phone out of his jean pocket and smiles when he sees the notification. 

What you doing baby?

Bucky laughs with this soft, utterly happy glow in his eyes. He lifts the sheets, takes a photo of his dick piping up for round three, and a second later, Sam receives a message from Broody.

Having the time of my life dollface.

"Yeah?" Sam says, drops the phone, and rolls over onto him.

Bucky leans up to kiss him. He cups Sam's cheek and nods, "Of course," he says quietly.

Sam's phone beeps again, and Bucky's still looking at him like that- like every single star is somehow alive in Sam's eyes. 

Think I might be in love...

Sam blinks at the message. Feels indescribable warmth and light and tenderness wash over him, a quietness in knowing that they feel the same. 

"Me too," he tells Bucky, "Me too, baby." and kisses him again.