Chapter Text
On a good day, Steve Rogers is a reckless adrenaline junky with no filter or self preservation. When he’s upset he can get vicious, usually towards The System™, but not infrequently towards himself.
When Steve gets drunk – a rare, but always memorable event that starts with a wild look in his eye and shots of anything clear – he can hardly be contained.
The day he and Tony broke up was a bad day. The weekend after, it was all Bucky and Sam could do to keep him from getting arrested. Two weekends later and Bucky isn’t avoiding him, not exactly, he's just tired. He’s always tired, these days, but babysitting a drunken, heartbroken Steve does nothing but drain him further.
Bucky is exhausted, but he is decidedly not resentful. Despite the last sixteen months of last minute cancellations and unfulfilled rainchecks, ‘sorry, Tony surprised me’ this and ‘I’d love to but Tony invited me to’ that, Bucky doesn’t care that it’s only now that Steve seems so eager to hang out with him.
Bucky’s just busy.
He looks away from his phone – full of increasingly nonsensical texts from Steve – to the stained sweatpants he’s been wearing since the night before and rolls his eyes. He has been busy. It just so happens that in his free time, he still would rather relax than listen to Steve wax poetic about how heartbroken he is in an overly lit bar.
Besides, Steve never takes kindly to Bucky’s gentle reminders that this is the third time he’s broken up with Tony in as many months. For the sake of their friendship, for the sake of his own sanity, Bucky figures it's best that he give the guy some space.
Does it make him a shitty friend? Maybe.
But that’s why Steve has Sam, isn’t it? Someone to be by his side even when he’s being annoying? Someone to back him on his little crusades because he wants to, and not because he feels obligated? Isn’t that why Steve went and found someone better to hang out with?
Bucky isn’t mad about that either. Sam is great. He’s fucking perfect.
Bucky is the one that left, after all. He made that choice. No one made him enlist – least of all Steve. Bucky never expected someone like him to sit around friendless until he came back. He didn’t expect his return home to be so rough, either, but. He tends not to dwell on these things.
Which stands to question why he’s thinking about it at all right now. Too much quiet time, probably. Not enough distractions.
Bucky unmutes the TV and tosses his phone to the other side of the couch. If Steve really needs him, he’ll call.
He gets through about 90% of another episode of chaotic closeted monster hunting before his phone starts to ring. Bucky’s annoyed, but there is still an undeniable pleasure in being called on, too. The cheer in his voice when he picks up is only partly put on.
“Hey Stevie,” he answers. He even kicks his feet up onto the coffee table, stretches out with his arms out on the couch. Steve won’t see it, but Bucky’s sure he’ll be able to hear how cool and relaxed he is over the phone.
Except it’s not Steve’s voice that answers him.
“Hey,” the voice says, and Bucky is unreasonably surprised to realize it’s Sam.
He sounds tired. Bucky doesn’t know why he cares, why it makes him sit up a little with worry.
“We – me and Steve – we’re out at the Red Dove?” Sam sighs wearily and Bucky has to concentrate on not laughing. “Steve’s pretty fucked up, he wouldn’t get in the car so the Uber left."
“He told me he was staying in tonight,” Bucky responds unnecessarily.
“Okay? So, he lied?” Sam snaps, “Changed his mind?”
The exhaustion in Sam’s voice is still there, but the annoyance blots it out. Bucky winces. Sam doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves the herculean task of wrangling Steve. Except maybe Tony, and, well.
Before Bucky can respond, Sam is talking again. His voice is muffled and far away, followed by the unmistakable sound of Steve’s exasperated arguing.
Bucky has half a mind to hang up. Sam’s probably already forgotten he’s called, moving on to get help from someone else, one of their actual, good friends. But then through the rustling comes Sam’s annoyed voice again, faint behind the static.
“Bucky’s coming, Steve, you gotta stop running,” Sam pleads, a distance away from the microphone. And then, louder, directly into the receiver, “Are you coming or not?”
Bucky nods before remembering Sam isn’t in the room with him. “On my way,” he grumbles, doing his best to sound as put out as possible. Sam makes a sound that's somewhere between grateful and amused, then hangs up as Steve starts talking again.
He makes a point to roll his eyes and suck his teeth the whole ride over, but Bucky goes. Of course he does. It’s always been his job to wrangle Steve when he’s being insufferable. And anyway, Sam’s the kind of guy that would be useful if you needed a favor returned.
Bucky’s three blocks from the bar when he catches up to them. It’s worse than he expected.
Steve’s crumbled over where he sits on the curb. His head hangs heavy between his knees, the picture of drunken misery. His baby pink polo shirt is grimy, droplets of something dark along the tear at the neckline, and his cargo shorts have seen better days. They’ve only met a handful of times now, technically, but Sam always looks the same – put together, casually hot in his fitted black jeans and short sleeve button up. He stands with his arms crossed next to Steve like he’s daring him to get up again but still somehow still looks so easy going, gorgeous. It’s a little unfair. Compared to Steve’s pitiful appearance and Bucky’s best loungewear, Sam looks like a model, miles out of Bucky’s league. Not that it’s relevant, or on Bucky’s mind at all, as he gets out of his car.
Sam smiles when he sees Bucky from across the street, relief clear on his face. Bucky grimaces, committed to looking inconvenienced, lest he do something stupid like smile back and jog over like an overeager puppy.
He’s here to deal with Steve. That’s it. The only reason Sam called him. That’s fine – it really is one of the few things Bucky’s still good at.
“Your friend’s here,” Sam says softly, crouching down next to Steve. It’s a test, Bucky realizes. How long can he keep up his indifferent facade in the face of Sam’s muscled shoulders and kind voice?
“Bucky?” Steve asks, dragging his head up like he’s moving through molasses.
“Hey pal,” Bucky responds, doing his best to smile. Steve gives him a crooked, sad smile back and stumbles up to standing. Well, he makes it up onto his feet, anyway, presses his face to Bucky’s chest and wraps his arms around his torso. Bucky tries his best not to laugh.
“Of course he gets up with no problem when it’s you,” Sam says, standing. Up close, Bucky can tell Sam isn’t exactly sober, but carries it irritatingly well. He’s got the same soft smile and bright eyes, everything is just two degrees softer.
Steve shifts to stand a little straighter, reminding Bucky again why he’s here. Steve mumbles a response that has no resemblance to English, and exhales heavily into Bucky’s collarbone. Bucky makes a vaguely consoling noise.
“I know pal, it sucks,” he says, doing his best to shift Steve’s dead weight around until they’re sort of standing side by side.
“You understood that?” Sam asks incredulously. Bucky shakes his head, makes a face that says of course not, and Sam laughs prettily.
It’s annoying.
Bucky hands his keys to Sam to open the door, does his best to focus on getting Steve safely into the car, and not ogle the way Sam’s jeans cling to his thighs, his ass. Never has Bucky been so attracted to someone while simultaneously being so annoyed by them. He wants to hate Sam. And, in the most petty he was my best friend first way, he does. But all of that is clouded by the want. Every time he sees him, Bucky is startled just by how badly he wants to get closer to him. It's a craving he can’t indulge in, an itch he can’t scratch.
It’s annoying, but it doesn’t matter.
Getting Steve’s incoherently whining dead weight into the backseat is also annoying, and being so close to Sam as they buckle him in is a sweet torture, but Bucky's endured worse, hasn’t he? He can handle one night of close proximity.
As soon as they get on the road, Sam continues to test Bucky’s patience by fiddling with the radio, not satisfied by any station and completely unaffected by Bucky’s loud sighs and eye rolls. Steve eventually interrupts their little game from the backseat with a broken sob. Sam hums in question, and it’s apparently enough to get Steve to finally speak.
“I just can't believe he left. He just disappeared. I got back, and he was just… everything was gone.”
“Buddy, you broke up with him this time, didn’t you?” Bucky can’t help but say it. He knows it’s not helpful, but he didn’t come to be helpful, did he? He came to give them a ride.
“So?” Steve retorts miserably. “He didn’t have to leave.”
He sits up and presses the side of his face to the backseat window, the picture of despair. Bucky spares a glance at Sam to his right, and is comforted to find him rubbing his temples in big, dragging circles.
“How could he just run off?” Steve continues quietly, blinking heavily.
“Has he been like this all night?” Bucky says to Sam.
“Worse,” Sam replies, closing his eyes. “At least now he doesn’t have any frat guys to start fights with.”
“Jesus, Steve, did you even like him? The only time you ever brought him up was to complain about your latest fight.”
“Of course I like Tony,” Steve answers in a pity-me whine. “I love him.”
“We know you do, Steve,” Sam says.
Bucky stares out at the road, decides to focus on driving. The sooner he gets them home safe, the sooner he can get back to his own place. Bucky’s place is small, and empty, but it’s his, and it’s calling to him now like a siren’s song. Sam seems sober enough to get Steve situated, once they make it across the threshold Bucky should be good to bail.
But then Sam’s incredibly close, asking if Bucky wouldn’t mind helping him get Steve into bed, batting his incredibly long eyelashes and touching Bucky’s arm and the next thing he knows, he’s in their apartment. Bucky takes out his frustration by derailing all Sam’s attempts to console Steve. While Sam is all you two will work it out if it’s meant to be, Bucky keeps it pragmatic, when he bothers to acknowledge Steve’s whining at all.
“No,” Steve sniffles, leaning heavy against the arm of the couch. “We’re done this time.”
“Alright pal.” Bucky’s going to pull something if he keeps up the eye rolls.
Sam is too slow to cover up his laugh, and when Bucky turns to look at him, he’s rewarded with smile so bright it might make the whole night worth it. Bucky smiles back, probably holds his gaze a bit too long, but it’s late, and Sam has a smile he finds hard to look away from.
Besides, Sam doesn’t look away either. He’s grinning like this is something they do, hang out, razz Steve, like they’re friends. Bucky opens his mouth to follow up, willing to say anything to keep Sam smiling at him like that, but Steve interrupts. Always impeccable timing, that guy.
“Oh,” he says with a sigh, glancing from Sam to Bucky and back. He starts to say something else, but gives up when his lip wobbles, and pitches himself sloppy across the couch. Bucky cannot imagine what’s going on in his dumb little head.
“What’s up, Rogers?” Sam says softly, sitting down next to him.
Bucky follows, plopping down on the floor in front of Steve to continue playing the part of Concerned Friend #2. Surely he’ll get some points for this, even if he’s just along for the ride while Sam does all the heavy lifting.
Steve scrubs at his face with both palms, wiping away tears and making his face even redder. Bucky tries to feel bad for him, but only comes up with embarrassment and vague exasperation. It’s not even that he didn’t like Tony. That would be easy. Their relationship always just baffled him. He never got to see any of the good times that Steve is so clearly mourning.
“I’m just going to miss him so much,” Steve answers breathlessly. “We bonded, you know? I’m gonna miss his little metal face.”
“His metal face?” Bucky repeats incredulously.
“You’re crying about DUM-e now?” Sam asks, a pinch between his eyes. Steve looks over at him, utterly betrayed.
“He was like my child! Watching him grow and learn, and now he’s just – gone? I can’t ever see him again?” Steve voice cracks on the last words, and he buries his face in his hands like he’s finally given up.
“Who is Dummy?” Bucky asks with some hesitation.
“Tony’s pet robot,” Sam answers seriously. He looks Bucky square in the eye and it’s only because Sam’s holding his gaze that Bucky doesn’t burst out laughing.
Bucky wants to hit Steve – would hit him, if Sam wasn’t here. Just a quick slap across the cheek like when they were kids. If it were just them, he’d haul his ass to bed and leave him there until morning. Sam would probably disapprove. Or worse, kick him out. And as much as he, in theory, wants to go home, Bucky would rather do it without getting on Sam’s bad side.
He’s gotta be only tolerating them both at this point, anyway. It’s past 3am and he’s gotta want to go to sleep. Steve’s made it to the couch, so there’s no real reason Bucky has to stay here.
Except, Sam keeps giving him these secret little smiles, and every time he laughs with Bucky something warm flares in Bucky’s chest that he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“Think’m gonna b’sick,” Steve declares out of nowhere, rising up off his spot of the couch. Sam goes to steady him, but Steve waves him off and marches off to the bathroom with deliberate steps.
Bucky should probably leave now. The sound of Steve collapsing into the bathroom and throwing the toilet open is as good a cue as any.
But Sam asks if he’s hungry, and Bucky can’t imagine doing anything other than following him to the kitchen. Bucky offers to make the entire box of White Castle stashed in their freezer, and Sam smiles like they’re fixing to make a five star meal. Bucky has to look away, busy himself with the food before he does something stupid.
While the oven is going, Sam grazes the cupboards, sampling anything that doesn’t need to be cooked or comes in a crinkly bag. Bucky tries to makes him drink a glasses of water, and Sam insists they share it.
The whole time Bucky is hyper aware of all the places Sam touches him – a smack on the arm, a brush of his elbow, hip checking him away from the fridge. By the time their burgers are done, Bucky’s a blushing, flustered mess.
It’s definitely time to head home.
But there are burgers to eat. Sam hops up on the counter, pats the space next to him and Bucky follows suit to join him in eating them right off the baking sheet. They argue over the merits of ketchup, but their voices are lowered to match the weird quiet magic of the moment. It’s all a little surreal.
Bucky’s looking too closely, feels like he has been all night, but he’s only just noticing how exhausted Sam looks. By this night, sure, but maybe beyond that, too. It’s probably a lot to be constantly be called upon to help people, to fix things. Even if he enjoys it.
Sam’s eyes flutter shut on his third cup of water, and Bucky wants to keep taking care of him, get him in a bath, wrap him in fluffy blankets. He catches Bucky staring, hops off the counter and throws a smile on his face as he stretches his arms over head.
“Sorry,” he says. “I just – Steve’s been…” He waves a hand back and forth, doesn’t elaborate further. Bucky wants to say he gets it, wants to tell him it’s why he and Steve couldn’t live together anymore, wants to pull him close and hug him which, what exactly was in those burgers?
“Are you wondering if he’s always been such a drama queen?” Bucky says instead. “Because the answer is, absolutely yes.”
“That doesn’t surprise me at all,” Sam says, rewarding Bucky with another smile. “But for real, since the day he first met Tony they’ve been arguing. And for the last two weeks he’s been even more dramatic than ever.”
“Leave it to Steve to have a meet angry, ” Bucky sighs, and Sam’s laugh is loud and generous.
“I don't get it. I just want to be with a guy who’s happy to see me, fuck all the drama, you know?”
“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly, trying to look anywhere but Sam and failing miserably. “I just want someone I can have fun with.”
Sam’s unfocused gaze turns to Bucky then. If this was a few weeks ago, Bucky would already be making an excuses to leave. Tonight, he can’t make himself look away.
The rational part of him knows Sam is just wondering how to politely get Bucky out of his apartment so he can finally get to bed. The irrational part of him, though? The part that will replay this moment on repeat for the next few days? The part that zeroes in on the way Sam looks at him, soft and thoughtful, like he can read Bucky’s mind? That part of Bucky thinks Sam wants him to stay.
“Did you guys make food?” Steve groans from the bathroom.
Sam sighs a little, but shoots Bucky an apologetic grin before getting a plate for Steve.
Bucky hops off the counter. Another opportunity to leave.
But they’re going to have to get Steve off the floor, and what kind of person would Bucky be if he left Sam to do it by himself? Certainly not the kind that Sam might want.
As a friend, obviously.
“Come on buddy,” Sam leans against the door frame of the bathroom, plate in hand and yawns. “Time to eat.”
“Can you just – ” Steve exhales, and closes his eyes, the toilet holding up all of his body weight. “I’ll eat them in here. Feel like shit anyway.”
Steve snorts at his – can that even be called a joke? – and Bucky grimaces. Sam drops down to sit in the bathroom doorway and slides the plate across the floor.
”Well Sammy, I think I’ll leave the rest to you,” Bucky makes himself say, smirking when Sam wrinkles his nose. “I’ve got a cat waiting for me at home.”
“Buck, no,” Steve groans, barely shifting his face towards them from where it’s pillowed on his arm draped across the toilet seat. “Don’t you leave me, too.”
Bucky groans. “Oh Christ, Steve.”
Sam smirks and pats the spot next to him. He knows Bucky can’t leave him like his, can’t deny such an explicit request.
“Alright pal,” he says with a sigh. “But only until you get that food down.”
He and Sam shift around until they’re pressed together in the doorway and Bucky can feel the warmth of him radiating down his entire right side. It’s going to be extra hard to leave now, Bucky thinks, but then Sam’s hand ends up on his knee and he realizes it’ll actually be impossible.
Bucky’s going to move it. For his own sanity, he’s going to make a joke and pointedly move Sam’s hand off of his leg so he can breathe again. But then Steve starts monologing between his pathetic bites of burger, and trying to follow it takes up the rest of Bucky's brain capacity.
“You’re what?” Bucky asks, leaning forward to hear better.
“I said I’m sorry,” Steve declares. “You’re always taking care of me even when I don’t deserve it.”
“Hey, what’re brothers for, huh?”
“Buck,” Steve sighs, “I meant Sam.”
It should hurt more, being replaced. For so long it was just Bucky keeping Steve out of trouble, keeping him alive, and now Steve’s got a whole life, a whole gang of people to look out for him. Bucky is just grateful for it.
Sam snorts, and presses their shoulders together. It’s nothing, a short press of warm skin and muscle, and it shouldn’t make him feel this good, maybe. But it's nice. Sam is too good at this.
“You deserve it, Steve,” he says. “You’re there when I need it, too.”
“Yeah, well,” Steve sighs, and his head lolls across his shoulders until it thunks against the wall. Bucky waits with Sam as Steve’s breathing gets deeper, more even, like he’s gearing up to give a speech, or –
“He’s asleep, isn’t he?” Sam asks lowly.
Steve groans, eyes closed, and mumbles something despondent and entirely incomprehensible. Bucky frowns and narrows his eyes at his mess of a best friend. He cannot fathom why anyone would choose to keep Steve around when he can be so much to deal with.
Steve snores, loud and stubborn, like he can read Bucky’s thoughts.
Sam yawns, breaking Bucky out of his evaluation by squeezing the muscle above Bucky’s knee. “Think you can help me get him to bed?”
Bucky nods, glances at Sam’s hand and wills himself to be normal. Just for a little bit longer.
They wake Steve and stumble through getting him up off the floor. He apologizes on a loop, still half asleep and mumbling as they get him to his room, drag off his shoes, then his jeans. It’s a struggle, but together they even get Steve to drink a glass of water before tucking him in, too. They’re a good team, Bucky thinks, as Sam walks him out.
“Barnes,” Sam says on an exhale as they linger by the front door. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I know,” Bucky grins, “You're gonna owe me one now, Wilson.”
Sam hums in agreement, tilts his head in thought. “Can I take you to lunch, then?”
“Sure?” Bucky laughs. The sky would have to open up and pour out aliens before he said no to free food.
“You free tomorrow, or – ?”
“Yeah,” Bucky replies too quickly. He clears his throat and pauses to think through any plans he might have – laundry, rewatching Leverage, making mashed potatoes. “Yeah, I’m free.”
“Okay,” Sam grins. “It’s a date, then.”
Bucky blinks, certain he misheard. It happens, sometimes. More so when he’s this tired. This time is very different, though, because, what ?
Bucky should probably say something, do something , but his brain is decidedly offline, his body not responding. It’s late, and he’s already used up so much energy trying not to be weird, or overstep, or snap at Steve. It worked, apparently. So much so that Sam just asked him out on a date? But not a romantic one, that would be – crazy. Bucky is crazy.
While he waits for a response, Sam’s eyes flick to Bucky’s mouth, and, okay.
Bucky is out of his mind, obviously, but he’s not dumb. Not that dumb. He leans forward to close the space between them and Sam meets him halfway, kissing him like he’s been waiting for it all night.
Bucky’s hands make it to Sam’s hips, but Sam pulls back, their smiles making it difficult to carry on. Sam rubs at the back of his neck, has trouble meeting Bucky’s eyes. Probably because Bucky’s grin is so wide it threatens to split his face in two. He must be hard to look at.
“Uhm, yeah,” Sam says softly. “Just in case I wasn’t clear.”
Later he’ll blame it on the late hour, but Bucky just nods like an idiot. Something bright and unbelievable lights up in Bucky’s chest when Sam nods along, smiling bashfully right back at him.
“No, I – That’s…” Jesus. Bucky clears his throat and tries again. “That was clear. And good.”
“Clear and good,” Sam repeats, his smile taking on an amused edge. “My specialty.”
And yeah, Bucky is not at all equipped for this. It already feels like he’s been smiling for hours.
“So, see you later, I guess?”
Bucky nods, shoots him an awkward wave as Sam heads back inside and shuts the door behind him. He takes a moment on the stoop to let everything to sink in. Sam kissed him. They’re going out on a date. In a handful of hours he might get to kiss Sam again. Bucky bites at his bottom lip to try and reel in his smile.
He nearly jumps out of his skin when Sam opens the door again, looking exasperated and fond, stupidly gorgeous as always.
“Are you gonna go home or what?” He says.
Bucky nods, opens his mouth but he's still too caught up in disbelief to answer him. Sam chuckles, steps onto the landing and rests both hands on Bucky’s shoulders.
“Another one?” Sam asks.
Bucky is admittedly an idiot, a fool, even, but when he kisses Sam the second time, hotter, longer, his arms around Sam’s waist, well. He’s the happiest clown on the planet.
“Okay,” Sam says when they pull apart again. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” Bucky says back, trying and failing to keep his smile in check.
“Bye,” Sam says, leaning against the door jam. Bucky turns to skip down the stairs. When he looks back up, Sam’s still watching him leave.
“Later Sammy,” Bucky says, blowing a kiss. Sam lifts his hand up and mimes catching it, then shakes his head like he can’t believe himself before turning in and closing the door.
As Bucky heads back to his car, he wonders if he should thank Steve or Tony for this unexpected turn of events. Probably both.