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Sam is at the table, drinking a beer and reading a book, when there is a firm knock at his door. He opens his mouth to ask Friday who his visitor is, then pauses, remembering he’s no longer at the Avengers Compound. Instead he’s in his suite in the Wakandan palace, technically a fugitive from his home country and not in prison thanks only to international politics and Steve’s absolute, unfailing, unflinching stubbornness.
He’s not expecting guests, but Sam crosses to the door and pulls it open anyway. He should probably be more security-conscious, but he still has trouble actually believing sometimes that he’s an Avenger and that people might try to kill him just because. Sam doesn’t feel like a hero, just a regular guy, and sometimes the last 3 years feel like some drawn-out fever dream. Especially the parts where he lives in a palace and his best friend is Captain America.
So security isn’t the first thing on his mind when he opens the door. It sure as hell springs to the forefront when he sees Bucky standing there, though.
“Hey, man,” Sam says cautiously. Bucky’s been better, the last few months, but he’s still dangerous. The shrinks have been trying to undo the brainwashing Hydra put him through and it’s been month after month of flashbacks and deliberately triggering his programming, trying to get him to break through it. If their employer (more like their benefactor, really) wasn’t the freaking King of Wakanda, they’d likely have gone broke from repairing all of the property damage in the first week. Or starved. Steve alone eats more in one meal than a family of five could eat in a whole day.
Bucky nods a greeting. His face is calm but . . . tight, is the only word Sam can think of. The silence lingers for a few seconds as Sam waits for Bucky to explain what he’s doing here. When Bucky lets the silence linger for several seconds, Sam steps forward, concerned.
“You okay, Bucky? Is it Steve?”
Something passes over Bucky’s face. It’s not an expression; it’s too mild and brief for that. It’s more like the idea of a frown, and Sam fights not to reach out and clasp Bucky’s shoulder, knowing the touch wouldn’t be welcome.
“Steve’s as fine as he ever is,” Bucky says finally. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”
Sam steps back, waiving Bucky into his space. Knowing how difficult Bucky still finds it to initiate conversations that are not about tactics, weapons, or strategy, he assumes whatever Bucky wants to talk about must be important. And from his wording, Sam assumes Bucky is worried about Steve.
Which is fair, since Steve has an unhealthy ability to worry about everything but himself.
Sam settles into an armchair, gesturing for Bucky to take the couch.
“What’s going on, man?” Sam asks.
Again, that brief not-expression passes over Bucky’s face. Sam steels himself for . . . he doesn’t know what, but figures it’s a good idea to brace anyway. Having somehow become the de-facto counselor to a team of superheroes with such varied and fucked-up backstories can be a unique challenge. So Sam prepares himself as much as he can, bringing up his ‘therapist mask’ so that Bucky can say whatever he needs to without being influenced by Sam’s thoughts and reactions.
“Are you attracted to Steve?”
Okay. His ‘therapist mask’ is not good enough for this.
“What?” Sam’s eyes pop so wide they hurt, and his mouth hangs open in shock. He imagines he looks like something out of a cartoon. Or he would, if his brain were working. Which it’s not.
“I want to know if you are attracted to Steve,” Bucky says, his face calm but blank, giving Sam no clues to his thoughts or feelings.
Sam sits there for a moment, hands on his knees, trying to scrape together a response. Any response.
“I don’t know, Buck, this wasn’t what I was expecting. I mean, I never know what to expect, because y’all have the most bizarre experiences and issues of anyone I’ve ever met, but . . .” Sam pauses, scrambling for words, “that was not what I was expecting. Or, not what I was not-expecting. I mean . . . . Why do you want to know, man?”
Sam realizes he’s rambling, not making any sense, and forces himself to stop speaking.
For the first time in Sam’s memory, Bucky fidgets, metal hand rubbing and plucking at the rich brown upholstery of Sam’s couch. His face is still unreadable, but Bucky’s tone is hesitant when he replies.
“You and Steve are friends,” Bucky says, “You touch each other.” He stops for a moment, clearly fighting to make himself understood. “Steve and I are friends.”
It’s a statement, but it sounds like a question. Sam takes a second to think about how he’s going to respond, fighting down the feelings of what the fuck? and how did I get myself into this?
“Yeah, Bucky, you and Steve are friends.” Sam tries for a reassuring smile, but suspects he mostly still looks confused.
“Steve doesn’t touch me.” Again, it’s a question in the form of a statement.
Understanding ekes through the bewilderment. “People express friendship differently with different people,” Sam explains gently. “I’m a very tactile guy. I express friendship with physical contact; hugging, bumping shoulders, wrestling, that sort of thing. Steve touches me back because it’s how we communicate our friendship to each other without having to . . . talk about it.”
It’s kind of embarrassing to say it like that, but Sam is striving for honesty. God knows how seventy years of brainwashing and torture have fucked up Bucky’s understanding of interpersonal relationships, and if he needs someone to re-teach him how friendship works, then Sam can do that. He also knows that sometimes it’s easier to come to someone that you’re not so invested in for help. “Steve not touching you doesn’t mean you aren’t friends,” Sam continues. “I can’t know exactly why Steve doesn’t touch you, because I’m not Steve. And it’s probably not just one reason, most likely it’s a few mixed together. But at a guess, I’d say it’s because Steve is afraid.”
Startled, Bucky tugs a bit too hard at the couch cushion and it rips with a short, sharp sound. His eyes flicker to the torn fabric briefly, and then he puts both hands in his lap, flushing. Sam doesn’t even blink. Steve has gotten over-excited playing video games before and crushed the controller to pieces. More than once.
“But . . . he touched me before.” Bucky says quickly. “I remember that, I think. And I’ve seen pictures.” If it were anyone else, that last sentence would sound almost wistful.
Sam rubs a hand to his chin, glancing at the ceiling. He considers praying for guidance, but his relationship with the Almighty has been strained since Riley died.
“Again, I’m not Steve, so I can’t know exactly what’s going on. You’d have to talk to him about it to know for sure,” Sam states. “But I think Steve is hesitant to express his friendship physically with you because he doesn’t want to hurt you. Not physically,” Sam throws out, since Bucky looks like he’s about to interrupt, “but emotionally. You were a prisoner of Hydra for over seventy years, Buck. Steve knows that they messed with your body, and your mind, and that you didn’t have any choice about it. He doesn’t want to do anything that might make you feel uncomfortable or . . . intruded upon,” he finishes.
Sam can read the frustration in Bucky’s furrowed brown and the way he slowly clenches and unclenches his fists. The metal plates in his arm shiver and whir before settling, and Sam tries not to compare it to the way a cat bristles when agitated.
“I don’t . . . I don’t want Steve to touch me because I’m his friend,” Bucky grits out, obviously struggling.
For a second the words don’t make sense – and then when they do Sam spares a brief, desperate wish for the beer now warming on his kitchen table.
“Uh-huh.” It’s about as neutral a statement as he can manage. “Okay. That’s definitely something you’d have to talk to Steve about. I mean, I know the guy loves you, but, uh, I don’t know if he, you know, loves you like that or like a friend, or if he’s even attracted to guys - ”
“He is,” Bucky says confidently.
Sam just blinks for a second. “Okay,” he says again. “Did you used to – I mean, were you together, before? In the forties?” He asks.
“No,” Bucky says, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t think so. I think I remember wanting to, before, but I still don’t remember everything and what I do think I remember sometimes isn’t real.”
Bucky doesn’t sound particularly bothered by that, but Sam feels his heart wrench with pity. He’s gone through some tough things, but at least he can trust his own mind. He can’t imagine what it’s like to not be able tell your nightmares from your memories, or to know that too often they’re one and the same.
Before he thinks better of it, he finds himself asking “How do you know Steve’s into guys, then?”
“Steve almost always masturbates in the shower after sparring with you, or me, and sometimes after sparring with some of the male soldiers and palace guards,” Bucky replies matter-of-factly, “but not nealry as often after sparring with Natasha or other women.”
Sam isn’t actually counting how often he’s been struck dumb by this conversation, but he’s betting they’re going to set a record by the time they’re done.
He realizes that he’s been staring at Bucky, completely nonplussed, and gropes for something to say. “How do you know that?” He asks – and wait, that’s not what he meant to say at all . . . .
Incredibly, Bucky doesn’t seem to feel any awkwardness or embarrassment whatsoever. “I can hear Steve when he showers after practice.”
Sam’s brain can’t handle the whole Steve jerks off after sparring with you thing right now, so he just plows right on past that thought and addresses the next thing that comes to mind.
“So you listen to Steve . . . doing his thing, while he’s showering?” Sam asks. Because if so, they need to have a serious talk about boundaries and private time.
Bucky frowns.
“No, but his suite is across the hall from me, and I can hear it. And sometimes he still smells like jizz after.”
Sam leans forward, elbows on his knees, resting his face in his hands. He sighs heavily. “Okay. Okay. We’re gonna have a talk about boundaries sometime. Because that is all shit I did not need to know, and that Steve may not want you sharing with me. For now, though,” Sam continues, raising his face from his hands, “you should really talk to Steve about what the both of you want from your relationship.”
Bucky stares at him pensively for a moment, then gives a little nod. “Okay,” he says. “You never actually answered my question, though.”
Sam’s drawing a blank. “Which question?”
“Whether or not you’re attracted to Steve. He’s attracted to you.”
“I . . .” Speechless isn’t normally in Sam’s vocabulary, but this whole conversation has been a new experience in weird and awkward and too much information. But Bucky’s looking at him like this is completely normal and Sam’s trying to be a good friend so he can’t not answer.
“I hadn’t really thought about it, Buck,” he admits. “I mean, Steve is . . . well, Steve, but aside from some groping in college and a few rushed handies while I was deployed, I’ve never really looked at men that way. And it’s jumping to conclusions to say that Steve is gay just because he likes to relieve some tension after sparring practice.”
To Sam’s surprise, Bucky smirks. “He stares at your shoulders and your ass when you’re not looking.”
The expression on Sam’s face must be priceless, because Bucky actually laughs out loud.