Archive of Our Own

Sam is a good person.

Sam is a good person and he did not sign up for this shit, swear to God.

Okay, yes, I’m with you, he’d said, and it’s not like he regrets it, but he thought “being on Team Steve and Bucky” would mostly involve shit like living undercover and working out how to be civilians. Sam’s got a head-start on that one, but how bad can it be, he’d thought.

He never expected that it’d involve finding thongs and sheer glitter singlets tangled up with his t-shirts every time he does laundry.

“Why are all your shirts see-through,” Sam asks, not really wanting an answer, and dumps the pile of laundry onto Bucky’s lap where he’s stretched out on the couch. Bucky blinks awake, yawns lazily and rubs his eyes with his knuckles, smudging his already-messy eyeliner into even bigger dark streaks below his lashes.

“Sorry, what,” he says, still sounding mostly asleep, and Sam shakes his head.

“Never mind,” he says. “Man, you got a little, uh…” He gestures at Bucky’s face, and Bucky blinks again, looks down at his knuckles, wipes under his eyes with his fingertips.

“Fuck,” he says around another yawn, resigned. “Hey, thanks for doing my laundry.”

“I didn’t do your laundry,” Sam tells him, “I did my laundry, stop putting your damn clothes in the bathroom hamper.”

“Sure,” Bucky agrees, as if he’s ever actually going to stop doing that, and Sam sighs.

“Fuck you,” he says, knowing he’s failing at ‘stern’ but at least hoping for ‘cranky’, “you look like a trash raccoon,” and Bucky grins at him all sharp teeth and cutely unrepentant, short hair falling in his face and pillow creases on his cheek where he’d passed out. Yeah, Sam thinks, trash raccoon is exactly right.

It turns out, when he’s not on the run, when he’s got time to evaluate what he wants out of life and to live something close to ‘civilian’, Bucky Barnes is a hot fucking mess. This isn’t the first time Sam’s found him asleep on the couch, or wearing yesterday’s eyeliner, or investigating whether iced-cake vodka shots do anything to get past the serum. The worst thing is it’s hard to stay stone-cold in the face of Bucky Barnes doing his best as a messy little twink with tousled wavy hair and pretty cheekbones and a fucking tongue piercing. The shit Steve had kicked up over that was ridiculous; apparently watching Bucky get lectured by Steve Rogers for half a fucking hour over needle safety and communicable diseases is enough for Sam to have kind of developed a soft spot.

It makes kissing way more fun, Bucky had shrugged, come on, Steve, you know the serum makes all that shit irrelevant, and Steve had frowned his most disappointed frown and looked at Sam like he expected Sam to back him up. Not my problem, Sam had said, extremely firmly, and gone back to his book.

Sam’s just trying to focus on the ‘mess’ part, okay, because contemplating ‘hot’ and ‘Bucky’ in the same sentence is not something he needs in his life. He’s just trying to live, that’s all. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this.

Case in point: three days later, Sam is sitting at the breakfast table and eating a bowl of oatmeal and feeling pretty okay with life. He’s just come in from a good run. He’s gonna go into the local VA and see about transferring there. Maybe later he and Nat might catch up for coffee. It’s promising to be a pretty good day. Sam feels tranquil as shit.

“Bucky,” Steve says. “Buck, we gotta talk.”

“Hmmm,” Bucky mutters, and hunches further over his coffee. He’s really, really not a morning person, and the fact that he’s around for breakfast at all means he probably hasn’t gone to bed yet. This is backed up by the fact that Bucky only got home about half an hour ago, looking fucked-out and maybe even halfway to drunk, which given the super-soldier serum is a truly impressive feat.

“Bucky,” Steve says, because he is incredibly terrible at picking his moments. “Look, I just… I know you’ve been going out a lot recently, and you’re, uh, getting back into some things, and I figured now would be a good time to talk to you about safety.”

You have got to be fucking kidding me, Sam thinks bleakly, and focuses very hard on his oatmeal.

“Always carry a knife with me,” Bucky says. “And like two guns, minimum.” He pauses to sip his coffee, then adds, thoughtful, “plus I can take someone down in about three seconds with my bare hands, so I’m pretty fuckin’ safe, pal.”

“Oh-” Steve says, “that’s not- I mean, uh, I’m talking a different kind of safe, Buck. I know it’s not really something we talked about much back in the day, but in the army they always talked about getting the clap, and, uh, well, things are pretty different now.” Sam looks up, can’t help it, glances between Steve (flushed red to the ears, clearly determined to finish his spiel) and Bucky (leaning back in his chair, smirking a little, that little shit).

“You mean AIDs,” Bucky says. “Yeah, sure, I read about that. What’s your point, Steve.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t… be intimate with anyone,” Steve says, “I just- there are resources out there. Websites and shit. I can buy you rubbers, if you need.” Sam stares into space for a while, torn between why the fuck am I living through this and wishing he had his phone to send Nat a play-by-play of this whole thing. Swear to God, he thinks, Steve is about two minutes away from grabbing one of the bananas out of the fruit bowl and giving the world’s worst earnest-health-teacher demonstration. He’s already on the goddamn hand gestures, for fuck’s sake.

“Steve,” Bucky says very patiently. “Steve. Stop talking and go look in my bedside drawer, wouldja?” Steve stares at Bucky for a moment or two with his mouth open, obviously still caught on I just want you to be safe is all, before he gets up from the table and disappears off into the hallway. Sam clears his throat.

“What’ve you got in that drawer?”

“Two vibrating dicks, a silicone butt plug and like three different kinds of lube,” Bucky shrugs, stirring more sugar into his coffee. “Oh, and about five boxes of rubbers, because I'm not a fuckin’ idiot.” Sam cracks up, can't help it, and Bucky sips his coffee looking very pleased with himself.

“Poor Steve,” Sam says, but he can't really muster the appropriate level of sympathy due to having listened to the world's most awkward safe sex lecture for the last ten minutes. “He's gonna get the shock of his life. You doing it because he's the straightest person on the planet or just because he deserves it?”

“Little of column A…” Bucky says. “Jesus Christ, it's not like they hadn't invented sex in the thirties, I know what I'm doing.”

Sam makes the mistake of thinking about that just a little too long, realizes he's thinking about how good Bucky might be in bed, and has to take a deep breath and remind himself of every bad thing Bucky's ever done to him, starting with his goddamn steering wheel and going forward from there. Sitting across the breakfast table from Bucky all rumpled with his bedroom eyes and bruises still sucked into his throat, the list doesn't really do shit. Trash raccoon, he reminds himself, and takes a deep breath.

“So, we need to talk meaningful consent models and sex-positivity, or are you good?” he asks instead, figuring it’s on him to be a little less super goddamn weird about this whole situation, and Bucky leans his chair back on two legs, cradles his mug between his palms and takes a long swallow, maintaining eye contact above the rim of the cup.

“I’m good,” he says eventually, and Sam nods.

“Okay then,” he says. “Cool.”

Yeah. Definitely does not deserve any of this in his life.

Things quieten down for a bit after that, which frankly Sam is incredibly grateful for. No Hydra attacks, no government super-max prisons, no SWAT teams showing up to bust up their little apartment. Sam starts work down at the VA and signs up to run a quarter-marathon in the spring. Steve picks up an adult watercolor class at the local community college. Bucky makes coming home covered in bite marks and stubble burn such a regular thing it’s not even worth commenting on. Just business as usual in the Captain America house, Sam thinks, and tries not to cry with laughter every time Bucky does something particularly Extra that makes Steve turn scarlet.

“Do you think it’s because of me,” Steve asks anxiously one morning, and Sam frowns at him.

“Do I think Bucky’s making his own choices about his body and what he does with it and who he does with it because of you? No, man, what the hell.”

Steve sighs, shoulders slumping. Drops his head on the table. “You’re right,” he says to the tabletop, “you’re right, sorry, I- fuck, that was stupid of me. He’s an adult, he can take care of himself, I know. I just worry, you know?”

“I know,” Sam says. Pats Steve’s shoulder. “Worrying is your default state of being, I swear to god. Just think of him as having a delayed messy college kid phase, okay?”

Steve turns his face to the side so that one cornflower-blue eye is visible. “We didn’t go to college,” he says, deadpan. “Bucky finished school at seventeen and got a job down at the docks. I think the furthest he ever got in terms of experience was necking with Mary Macallister every Friday night.”

“So, it’s an extremely delayed messy college kid phase,” Sam shrugs, “let him live. What’s the worst that can really happen, Steve.”

He shouldn’t have tempted fate, he thinks bleakly that night, as everything in his room rattles again with the way Bucky’s bed is slamming against the wall. Apparently Bucky’s levelled up from club hook-ups to bringing people home, fuck, it’s been going on for three hours now and Sam has never wanted to die so much in his goddamn life.

this is the worst, he texts Steve, and his phone pings a moment later.

You think you have it bad, Steve replies, I got super hearing, and Sam laughs so hard he chokes even as he also has to pull his pillow over his head.

They set house ground rules the next day. Sam doesn’t mention Bucky fucked someone so hard all the pictures fell off Sam’s wall. Bucky doesn’t point out he’s the only one getting laid on a regular basis. Everyone is very civil about it.

Bucky breaks the house rules four times in the next three weeks. Sam buys earplugs and moves everything breakable away from their shared wall. Does his best to ignore the rhythmic thumping.

If he’s being honest, he thinks, lying awake at two am for the third Saturday in a row, it’s not the lack of sleep, or even the way his room shakes. It’s the way Bucky occasionally lets out these soft, breathy moans that really get to him. That send a little shiver straight down his spine.

The problem is. The problem is, he’s not sure they’re getting to him in a bad way. Fuck. Fuck.

He sleeps in a few days later, just because he can. He’s got a late start at the VA that day; by the time he gets up Steve’s already gone to class and Bucky’s in the kitchen simultaneously making himself breakfast and looking about as attractively dishevelled as usual. Maybe he hasn’t gone to bed yet, maybe he’s up early for Bucky, it’s difficult to tell, Sam is too half-asleep to cope with this.

“Fuck’s sake, man, would you put a shirt on,” he sighs. Reaches for the coffee pot, and tries not to look at the broad planes of Bucky's shoulders, the way his jeans are tight and so low-slung Sam can pretty much see the curve where his ass meets the small of his back. It's way too early for him to deal with this much semi-nudity in their shared kitchen, is what it is.

“I just poured the last cup,” Bucky says, sounding at least a little apologetic. “Here, you take it, I'll put on another pot.” He slides the mug along the bench, takes the coffee pot out of Sam's hand. Washes it out, and now that Sam's got coffee the details are beginning to filter in, and-

“Tell me you didn't get your nipples pierced,” he says, hearing how it comes out strangled, and Bucky glances down at his own bare chest.

“Oh,” he says vaguely. “Yeah.”

“I don't want to know, do I,” Sam mutters, and Bucky smirks a little. “Steve know yet?”

“Have you heard Steve giving me a lecture recently about clean needles and blood-transmitted diseases?”

“Not since the tongue thing,” Sam agrees, and Bucky smirks, rattles his tongue piercing against his teeth just deliberate enough to be obnoxious. “So, I've got that to look forward to. Try and arrange it so I'm out of the house when it happens, would you? Steve’s lectures get kind of boring after you’ve heard enough of them.”

“Can do,” Bucky says easily. “It's a moot fuckin’ argument, anyway, he knows I can't catch shit.”

“Right,” Sam says. “Yeah, right, okay.” And then maybe it's just that he's still half asleep, or maybe he's too curious for his own good, but he finds himself asking, “did it hurt?”

“A bit,” Bucky says. “Not much. I got a pretty high tolerance for that shit now, I mostly just giggled. These healed in half an hour, it's really no big deal. Goddamn serum’s gotta be useful for something.” He rubs the pad of his thumb over one of them, bites his lip and grins very sharp at Sam. “Great for sensitivity though, I can tell you that.”

“Oh,” Sam says faintly. “Right. Thanks for the intel, man.”

“No problem,” Bucky says. Flicks on the coffee machine, and Sam drinks his too-sweet coffee and glances out of the corner of his eye at the bars through Bucky's nipples and thinks, quietly, what the fuck is happening to my life.

He gets it, okay. Shit, he wouldn’t have defended it to Steve if he didn’t. He gets that this is part of Bucky's recovery, that he's spent decades having no sense of self, no control over his own body. That being gay in the thirties didn't allow for any of this overt freedom, and maybe he just wants to have a little fun.

It's just. He didn't expect Bucky Barnes to be such a beautiful trashfire of a twink, is all.

Sam should probably have been expecting this.

“Bucky wants to go out tonight,” Steve says one afternoon. “You think you could go with him?”

“Really,” Sam says flatly. “Really, Steve?”

“I've been the last three times,” Steve says, “it- please, Sam?”

“Oh, what, too many dudes hitting on you?” Sam asks, and Steve rolls his eyes.

“No, it's not that, that bit is fine, it's just- I got a date, is all.”

“I can go by myself,” Bucky interjects from the kitchen, where he's making himself toast.

“No, you can't,” Sam and Steve tell him in unison, because “Bucky doesn’t go out by himself” became a rule after the fifth time he brought some guy high on poppers home and fucked him too loudly while Sam and Steve stared silently at their respective ceilings, and Bucky sighs dramatically as he takes his plate into the living room.

“Sam, please,” Steve says, sounding just a little strained, and Sam winces.

“Come on, man, you think just because I'm bi I'll fit in better? I didn't go to clubs like that even when I was his age.”

“He's ninety-eight years old.”

“Yeah, and he wears mesh shirts and body glitter. Look at me, Steve, I wear khakis.”

“What's wrong with khakis?” Steve asks, and Sam sighs, because now is not the time for him to deal with knowing that if Steve ‘Grandpa America’ Rogers approves of his clothing choices he should probably be making some different choices.

“Nothing,” he says, “it’s just- fuck, Steve, I know I said I'd stick with the both of you but I didn't realize that'd mean babysitting an ex-assassin who's going through an aggressively slutty twink phase.”

“I can hear you,” Bucky says mildly from the other room. Sam pinches the bridge of his nose.

“You were meant to,” he tells Bucky, “don’t think I haven't noticed all your fucking thongs in the laundry, okay. You wanna dress nasty that's up to you but don't wash your glitter shit with my jeans.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, not sounding particularly sorry. “Come on, Wilson. It'll be fun.” He appears in the doorway, shoving the last bite of his toast into his mouth and licking melted butter off his fingertips, and Sam feels his thought process briefly grind to a halt.

“Are you wearing lip gloss,” he asks, and Bucky shrugs.

“I think it's technically a stain. Why? You want to try it?”

“I'm fine,” Sam says. “I'm just fine. Fuck, okay. Fine. Let me go change.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, looking Sam up and down. “You do that.”

Maybe it's the way Bucky had twisted his lip up, or the challenge in his voice, or maybe it’s knowing that Steve Rogers thinks Sam’s dress sense is just fine, but Sam finds himself taking more time with his outfit than he usually would. In the end he goes with dark jeans, a tight black t-shirt and leather jacket, just enough cologne that he knows he smells great. Bucky's shirt is low-cut enough his collarbones are on display, and it's basically see-through, nipple piercings clearly visible, but that's essentially standard at this point for Bucky so Sam doesn't see the point in arguing.

Inevitably, the club Bucky takes him to is one hundred percent grade A certified awful.

“Holy shit,” Sam says, “I swear you could catch an STD just from touching the walls in this place.”

“Nah,” Bucky says, eyes bright, and then grins sharp at Sam. “Well, maybe you could. You know I’m immune.”

“Awesome,” Sam says, hoping his absolute lack of enthusiasm carries, and Bucky just laughs.

“Come on, I'll buy you a drink.”

“Beer,” Sam tells him, “I just want a beer, no cake-flavored anything,” and Bucky pouts dramatically.

“You're no fun,” he says, “fine, I’ll buy you a beer,” and elbows his way to the bar, orders Sam a Heineken and himself a shot of something that’s so luridly blue Sam’s eyes hurt just looking at it.

“That sure is something,” he says, and Bucky grins.

“Still can’t really get drunk,” he admits. “But, y’know, I can try.” He throws back the shot, holds up two fingers at the bartender, slams them as they’re poured and wipes his mouth. “Okay,” he yells, “I’m gonna go dance. You coming?”

“Nah,” Sam says, “I’m good, seriously. You go. Have fun.” Bucky looks at him for a minute or two, wide-eyed and serious, and Sam nods, makes shoo-ing motions at him with one hand. “Go, I’ll be fine. You know where I am.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “yeah, I know where you are,” and touches Sam’s wrist, disappears off into the crowd. Sam sits back, elbows on the bar. Drinks his beer, checks his phone. Glances up to notice someone’s eyes on him, looks away, looks back and makes eye contact. Flushes a little. It’s nice to be checked out, okay, shit, he wasn’t expecting it, not here, not now, but. It’s nice. He’s suddenly glad he put on a tighter t-shirt than usual.

The guy slips off his barstool, moves closer, and Sam sips his beer, raises one eyebrow.

“You come here often?”

“Do I look like I come here often?” Sam asks, wryly amused, and the guy laughs.

“No,” he says. Looks Sam up and down, gaze just direct enough that Sam feels himself flush warm all over. His eyes are very green. “You look like you got better taste than that, actually.”

“Not gonna argue with you on that,” Sam sighs, and finishes his beer. “How about you? This a regular haunt?”

“No way. Friends dragged me in, I'm clinging to the bar so I don't have to dance. So you know, if you let me buy you a drink you'd be doing me a favor.”

“Oh, in that case,” Sam says. Meets the guy's eyes, and smiles wider. “Whisky rocks, and it's Sam.”

“Mark,” the other guy says. Shakes Sam's hand, his grip firm, before leaning over the bar to order their drinks. “So if I'm here because of my friends, you are…”

“Babysitting. My best friend is straight. His best friend…” Sam glances over to where Bucky is dancing, tilts his head in that direction.

“Is a glittery little twink who needs someone sensible to keep one eye on him,” Mark laughs. “Kids these days, huh.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. Sips his drink. “Kids these days.”

They talk for longer than Sam expects. Finish their drinks, and Sam buys another round, lets Mark brush his fingertips against Sam’s forearm where it’s resting on the bar.

“I gotta go,” Mark says eventually, “I better catch up with my friends, but I, uh… you think you could give me your number?”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “yeah, I’d like that, yeah,” and keys his number into his phone, watches him go. It’s good timing; Bucky slams back up to the bar, some muscle-bound blond in tow. Kisses him, messy and biting, pats him on the chest.

“That was a good time,” he tells him, “I’ll see you around.” Turns away, grins at Sam. His mouth is swollen, slick and red and wet, and Sam frowns, because-

“Jesus Christ, did you just blow that guy in the bathroom,” Sam says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“No,” he says, and his pupils are very large and very dark. “Don’t be stupid. We were in the alleyway.”

“Oh,” Sam says. Drinks his whisky. “The alleyway. Right. Of course.”

“Like you’ve never had stupid hook-ups,” Bucky says, maybe a little defensive, and Sam sighs.

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”

“You’re damn right,” Bucky says, “hey, you want another drink?”

“Why not,” Sam shrugs. Waits until Bucky’s taken a mouthful of whatever terrible liquor he’s throwing back before leaning in closer to ask, “so, Steve know you’re blowing Captain America lookalikes in seedy club backalleys?”

Bucky coughs so hard Sam’s pretty sure the liquor goes up his nose. Freezes, shoots a disgusted look at Sam.

“Don’t ever-” he starts, and Sam gives him a shit-eating grin, tips his drink in a toast. “Oh, fuck you, Wilson, very fuckin’ funny,” he says, surly, but he’s laughing a little too. “Fuck it, come on, let’s get out of here, this place is terrible.”

It is terrible, Sam thinks. Bucky’s hand on the small of his back as they shove their way through the crowd to get to a cab, that’s not so bad. That’s kind of nice, actually.

Bucky falls asleep in the cab home. It’s so slow Sam doesn’t notice at first, the way his head drops to one side until it’s resting on Sam’s shoulder. His mouth falls open and he snores, just a little, a soft little noise that Sam can’t help but smile about.

He fumbles in his pocket. Grabs his phone and takes a photo. It’s a little grainy, too dark to get much detail, but Bucky’s face is soft and slack with sleep, the sweat in his hair drying out until it’s fluffy, a little curly. Sam kind of wants to touch it.

He doesn’t. Just holds still, and lets Bucky sleep, the whole way home.

“Bucky,” he murmurs when they pull up at the curb. “Wake up, we're home,” and Bucky stirs, pushes his face briefly into the curve of Sam's neck and makes a tiny grumbling noise that really shouldn't be cute.

“‘m awake,” he mumbles, “need me t’ pay for the cab?”

“I got it,” Sam tells him, “let's go, it's past your bedtime.”

“Fuck you,” Bucky says, but he's smiling as Sam unlocks the back door. Yawning wide, looking more like a trash raccoon than ever, and Sam makes a face.

“Ugh, you need to go brush your teeth, your breath smells like a blowjob in an Everclear distillery.”

“That’s accurate,” Bucky agrees. Leaves the bathroom door open while he brushes his teeth, so Sam comes in, grabs his own toothbrush, smears toothpaste on it and steps back so Bucky can spit into the sink. He runs the hot faucet, leans down to splash his face with warm water. Sighs a little, not quite under his breath, like washing off the night feels amazing.

“I gotta spit,” Sam says thickly through his mouthful of toothpaste, and Bucky straightens up, grabs a towel.

“You have a good night?” he asks, glancing at Sam in the mirror as he dries his face. He's still got traces of eyeliner smudged below his bottom lashes.

“Yeah, actually,” Sam says, surprised that it's true. “I met a guy.”

“Oh,” Bucky says, sounding weirdly disappointed. “Neat.”

“I think so,” Sam agrees. “Well, good night.”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Good night.” He waits until they're both at the door to Sam's bedroom, runs a hand through his hair. “Hey, Sam?” Sam looks up, and Bucky is leaning against the wall, carefully casual. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“No problem,” Sam tells him. “I had fun.”

“Good,” Bucky says, “that's- that's good,” and reaches out, brushes the pad of his thumb over the corner of Sam's mouth. Sam feels his eyes go wide, and Bucky blinks, pulls his hand back. “You had a little-” he says, “uh, toothpaste, you had-”

“Right,” Sam says. Licks his lips. “Right, thanks. G’night, Barnes. Sleep well.”

“You too,” Bucky says, and touches Sam's shoulder, gentle, before he disappears into his own bedroom.

That was weird, Sam thinks as he gets into bed. He’s fucking tired - it’s way later than he’d usually go to bed, these days - but he can’t stop thinking about it, Bucky’s face all sleep-soft, the full curve of his lower lip. His hand on Sam’s lower back. The drag of his thumb over Sam’s mouth.

Weird, Sam thinks again, and rolls over, falls asleep.

Mark calls him the next day. Sam’s not expecting it; his phone goes off in the middle of dinner and he jumps up, goes out into the hallway to answer.

“Hey,” Mark says, “so. Sam. I was thinking about you, and me, and, dinner, maybe? There’s a place downtown, I figured we could get a drink, it just- yeah. Dinner?”

“Dinner,” Sam says, “yeah, I- that’d be nice. Friday?”

“Sounds great,” Mark agrees, “I’ll text you the details, okay?”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, a little more breathless than he means to be. “Yeah. Hey, Mark?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m glad you called,” Sam tells him, honest, and hears Mark laugh.

“Yeah, I’m glad I called too,” he says, and hangs up. Sam shoves his phone into his pocket, has to take a minute before he heads back into the kitchen, slides back into his seat. Steve glances up at him, a little curious.

“New friend?”

“Maybe,” Sam says. Eats a bite of his mashed potato. “Maybe a date.”

“The guy you met last night,” Bucky says, and when Sam looks at him his eyes are very sharp, a little challenging.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “That guy. Mark.” Bucky says nothing, just holds his gaze for a long moment, and Sam feels the tension suddenly spike between them in a way he’s not quite sure he understands.

“That’s real nice, Sam,” Steve says, supportive and over-enthusiastic, and Sam sighs as Bucky rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, Steve, you don’t gotta make it sound like I’ve never had a date in my life,” he says, mournful, and Bucky snickers.

“He’s got a point, though,” he says, sly, and Sam kicks him under the table.

That night, Bucky apparently discovers the joys of Tinder. Technically, he’s not breaking the house rules. He didn’t bring anyone home from a club, high or otherwise. But. It’s one in the goddamn morning and Sam has work tomorrow, for shits sake, this defeats the spirit of the fucking rules if not the letter. The wall starts shaking, and Sam sighs, grabs his earplugs, tries desperately to get some sleep.

It happens again the next night, and the next. Sam never sees any of these guys, they’re always gone by the time he gets up, but that doesn’t stop him hearing it. Bucky just keeps making these noises, Jesus, he should be banned. Sam doesn’t deserve any of this.

He wakes up in the middle of the night, goes to get a glass of water. The house is quiet, thank god, and Sam thinks maybe he’ll be able to go back to sleep. Maybe Bucky will act like a normal fucking human person for once.

There’s a low gasp from the next room, and then the sound of someone laughing. A high-pitched moan, and Sam groans to himself, lies very still like maybe he can just fall asleep through it anyway.

Bucky moans again, loud, and Sam feels it settle in the pit of his stomach. Oh shit this is not. This isn’t happening, he thinks, and grits his jaw.

Yeah, Bucky says, clearly audible through a pair of noise-cancelling earbuds and a goddamn fucking wall, right there, right there, fuck, oh god that’s so- and Sam feels himself go hot from head to toe.

Sam is not gonna jerk off to the sound of Bucky having sex. He’s not. That is fucked up.

There it is again, the moan Bucky makes when he’s really going for it, it starts out low and goes soft and gasping and desperate, and oh fuck, Sam’s really hard, he’s really hard, every noise is just making it worse.

He slides his hand inside his waistband, wraps his fingers loosely around his dick and squeezes just a little. Oh, it’s good, it sends sparks down his spine, he grips a little tighter and strokes a little harder and hears Bucky cry out on the other side of the wall. Yeah, you like that? Bucky gasps, and Sam’s awash with embarrassment but it doesn’t stop him, he’s carefully not thinking about Bucky’s mouth, what it looks like when he’s just finished giving head to someone whose name he probably doesn’t even know. How it’s swollen, kiss-bitten, practically fucking indecent, Sam’s definitely not thinking about that, fuck.

He arches his hips up. Hears his bed creak, just a little, but compared to the noise next door it’s practically inaudible. Bites his lip and gasps under his breath, pushes his boxers down, spits into his palm and keeps going. Oh god it’s wet and slick, even better, and Sam rubs his thumb over the slit of his dick, smears precome and spit messy on his fingers, rubs the sensitive spot just under the head. He lets out another gasp, louder this time, and fuck, what does it matter, Bucky’s going at it so hard nobody’s gonna hear him. Strokes faster, down and back up, twisting his wrist just right, and moans, thinking about someone’s mouth on his dick.

You gonna come for me, baby, Bucky murmurs, and Sam knows he’s not talking to him but it’s enough to make him come, sudden and surprising and so fucking hot, Sam’s in trouble. Sam’s in deep fucking trouble, oh god.

He doesn’t think about it the next day. It’s fine, It’s totally fucking fine, it was just a stupid late-night thing brought on by lack of sleep and Bucky being infuriating. Sam doesn’t have to think about it at all.

Friday rolls around and he irons a shirt, picks out the jeans that make his butt look the best, trims his beard carefully. He looks good, he knows it, he’s gonna go out on this date and have a great time and maybe even get laid, yeah, he’s got this.

“Have a good time,” Bucky calls as Sam leaves the house, and it sounds a little sarcastic but whatever, Sam will take it.

He does have a good time. At least, at first, he really does. They meet up at a nice bar downtown, drink whisky sours and talk their jobs, Sam’s running, the hockey league Mark plays for. It’s all going super nice until, very suddenly, it’s not.

One of the bartenders is mixing cocktails, all flashy hand gestures and showmanship, and it’s eye-catching enough that Sam and Mark glance over every so often. There’s one trick he does that Sam can’t quite figure out, some sleight-of-hand with ice and water, and he watches closer to see if he can catch what’s going on.

“Those freaks should all be registered,” Mark mutters, and Sam can't say anything at first, just stares.

“You- what?” he asks eventually, hoping he’s heard wrong, and Mark glances over at the bartender.

“He’s a, whaddya call them, Inhuman. You didn’t hear about it? They’re aliens, right. Some kind of genetic engineering. If you ask me, they shouldn’t be allowed to work in public like this, they’re too dangerous.”

“You’re serious,” Sam says flatly, “you’re- okay, no, fuck that, that’s bigoted as shit and I’m leaving.” He grabs his jacket, walks out without looking back.

He didn’t even finish his drink. What the fuck.

“You’re home early,” Bucky says when Sam gets in, and Sam sighs, lets the door slam behind him. “Things didn’t go well?”

“He-” Sam starts, and sits down heavily on the couch. “Turned out to be an asshole. Spouting off about Inhumans, what the fuck.”

“Rough,” Bucky says, and offers Sam some popcorn. Sam grabs a handful, settles back into the couch.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, it was rough. Whatever. Fuck that guy. What are you watching?”

“Just about to put on Terminator,” Bucky says. Chews popcorn with his mouth open, not looking at Sam. “According to Clint I gotta watch it.”

“Clint’s a troll,” Sam tells him, “but yeah, robo-arm, you do gotta watch it, it’s super great.” He reaches for the popcorn again, stuffs it into his mouth. “Ugh, we didn’t even get to dinner, I’m so hungry. This is the worst.”

“I just ordered pizza,” Bucky shrugs, “just eat with me, you know I always get too much,” and Sam considers his options for a couple of seconds.

“Yeah, that sounds good, actually. As long as you got one with no olives.”

“You have no taste,” Bucky mutters, and throws a piece of popcorn at him. “Now be quiet, the movie’s starting.”

“Oh my god,” Sam says, “you’re the one that’s talking, not me,” and Bucky pokes Sam’s knee with one toe.

“Shhhh,” he says, and Sam rolls his eyes, undoes a couple buttons at the collar of his shirt, stretches one arm out along the back of the couch. Bucky considers him thoughtfully and chews his popcorn. Sam glances over at him.

“Something on my face?”

“Nah,” Bucky says. Licks salt off his fingers, hits play. “Just. Sorry your date was bad,” he says easily, and stretches out, slides his feet into Sam's lap.

“Ugh,” Sam says, “you’re the worst,” but he doesn’t shove Bucky away, and when the pizza shows up and Bucky jumps up to get it, he settles back into the same spot. It’s fine. Sam’s comfortable, and it’s not like Bucky’s legs really weigh that much. They eat their pizza, and watch Schwarzenegger shoot things, and then the movie ends and Bucky queues up Terminator 2 and Sam still doesn’t move.

It’s a good movie. Better than the first one. Sarah Connor’s a badass, that’s all, he’s warm and he’s comfortable and he wants to watch it, there’s nothing wrong with that.

Bucky shivers a little, and Sam reaches for the throw blanket, tosses it over Bucky’s lap. Wraps his hand over one slender ankle.

“You wouldn’t be so cold if you actually wore socks,” he says, and traces his fingertip up the instep, watches Bucky shiver again like he’s ticklish.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “well,” and flexes the arch of his foot, wriggles his toes, lets Sam tuck the blanket in underneath his feet.

It’s comfortable, that’s all. A nice end to a crappy night. Sam’s okay with that.

The next couple of weeks, Bucky is weirdly quiet. No Tinder dates, no clubbing, shit, he hardly even wears eyeliner. Steve’s called away on some incredibly-dull political stint that Sam’s frankly grateful to have avoided, which means Sam and Bucky are left spending a lot of time hanging out and watching movies.

If Sam’s being honest, it’s kind of nice, kind of dull. He hadn’t really realized how much fun it was watching Bucky get up to every kind of messy drama possible. Maybe it’s because of the cold weather, Sam thinks, as if Bucky is some kind of delicate tropical flower who wilts when the temperature drops, and checks that the thermostat’s set nice and warm.

“You okay?” he asks one afternoon, and Bucky looks up from the blanket nest he’s created on the couch, tilts his head to the side.

“Yeah, I’m fine, why? Come on, I’m about to put on Die Hard, I heard Bruce Willis is even better than Schwarzenegger.”

“I suspect you’ll think that’s a dirty lie,” Sam tells him, "you've got that whole robot solidarity thing going on," but he sits down anyway, tucks his own feet under the blankets. This is nice, seriously, it’s just- “You don’t wanna go out tonight?” he asks, and Bucky pauses the movie, does that head-tilt again.

“Hadn’t really thought about it. We could go out, if you want to. Kind of got the impression it wasn’t really your thing, is all.”

“You calling me old?” Sam teases, and Bucky smirks.

“Pal, I’m nearly a hundred, I can’t start that shit. Yeah, alright, let’s go out. It’ll be fun. You think we can watch this first, though?”

“It’s four o’clock in the afternoon,” Sam says mildly, “I don’t really think any bars will be open just yet,” and Bucky laughs so hard he snorts, his eyes bright and his hair soft and oh. Oh no.

They go to a slightly less seedy club this time, although Bucky still fits in better with his eyeliner and tissue-thin t-shirt and tight wet-look jeans. Whatever. Sam looks good, he knows he looks good, even if his jeans aren't basically painted on.

“Drink?” Sam asks, and Bucky nods, his eyes widening when Sam pushes a shot of tequila and a slice of lemon over the bar to him. “What,” Sam says, “you thought I was no fun, huh?” and Bucky’s eyes go even wider.

“I didn’t-” he starts, and Sam raises one eyebrow, licks the base of his thumb and sprinkles the salt on it, catches the way Bucky’s gaze lingers on Sam’s mouth. Huh, he thinks to himself, and licks up the salt, throws back the shot, sucks a lemon wedge into his mouth. Bucky blinks, follows suit, ducks his head like maybe he’s blushing a little.

“I didn’t think you were no fun!” he yells, and Sam looks at him a little longer, cracks a smile.

“It’s fine,” he says, “go on. Go be with your people, you haven’t danced to bad club music in at least two weeks.”

“You’re not gonna come?” Bucky asks, and Sam shakes his head.

“Nah, go on,” he says, and Bucky chews his lip for a moment like he’s indecisive before handing Sam his leather jacket and moving into the dance floor. Sam orders another drink, sips it slowly. It’s not so bad. The music’s not even terrible.

Bucky reappears half an hour or so later, sweaty and a little out of breath. Grabs Sam’s drink and swallows half of it in one mouthful, grabs him by the arm.

“You gotta come dance with me,” he says, “Sam, you gotta-” and tugs him away from the bar. Sam resists.

“Bucky- come on, man, I don't dance-”

“There's a guy getting super fucking handsy with me, and I'm either gonna shank him or show him I’m taken,” Bucky hisses. “I figured this would be the less murderous option.”

“...Oh,” Sam manages. “That- yeah, okay. Fine. Let's dance.” Bucky slides in close, his hands drifting down to rest on Sam's hips. Sam can smell his sweat, the musky heat of his body, and the music is intense enough it's vibrating through his bones.

“Stop thinking so hard!” Bucky shouts at him over the beat, “I know you can dance, Wilson, you're a shitshow better than Steve,” and tugs at Sam's belt to make him move. Sam shrugs. Puts one hand on Bucky's shoulder, the other on the small of his back, and moves with the rhythm, and all of a sudden they're sliding against each other, chests and hips and thighs pressed close. The club is crowded; Sam wonders a little how Bucky isn't freaking out about this, the sheer number of people surrounding him, the threat assessment that even Sam is running in the back of his mind like it's second nature.

“I said,” Bucky murmurs, his mouth close against Sam's ear, “stop thinking so hard,” and his breath is hot and damp, lips barely brushing Sam's skin. His fingertips are just under the hem of Sam's t-shirt, ghosting over bare skin, and Sam shivers and moves even closer and feels the attraction hit him all at once. It’s simultaneously sudden and it’s been building for months, slow and frustrating, and two can play at this game, Sam might have outgrown his club years but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how it works.

Fuck it, he thinks, and rolls his hips, grinding up against Bucky in a move that's nothing except look, you're making me hard. Bucky gasps and hooks his fingers into Sam’s belt to pull him in until Sam can feel exactly how hard Bucky is too right now. Bucky's glistening, collarbones shining under the flashing lights, and Sam bends his head down to lick the sweat from Bucky’s skin. Nips at him with just the edge of teeth, and Bucky grabs at Sam, fingers digging into Sam’s hips. When Bucky pulls back to look at Sam his eyes are wide and dark and impossibly huge with smudged eyeliner and glitter.

“What,” Sam says, and Bucky shrugs. Ducks his head, leans back in, drags his teeth gently up the line of Sam's neck.

“I didn't think you'd actually-” he starts, and Sam slides his fingers up the nape of Bucky's neck, into his hair. Tightens his grip into a fist, yanks hard, pulls Bucky into a kiss that's all tongue.

“Fuck,” he breathes against Bucky’s lips, “fuck, I see what you mean about that piercing making kissing fun,” and Bucky trails the metal ball along Sam’s lower lip, leans into another kiss.

“Wait until I get your dick in my mouth,” he says against Sam’s mouth, and Sam shivers, kisses Bucky hard and biting just to hear him gasp again.

“You can’t blow me in a club bathroom,” he says, low, mouth up against Bucky’s ear, and Bucky grins sharp and sweet all at once.

“But I’m so good at it,” he wheedles, and all Sam’s willpower goes out the window. You know what, he thinks, fuck it, it’s not like it isn’t fun, and tilts his head in the direction of the bathrooms.

They get into a cubicle, and Bucky backs Sam up against the door as soon as it’s shut, kisses him like Sam might change his mind. He bites at Sam’s throat, pushes up his t-shirt so he can lick his way down Sam’s abs, slides onto his knees and looks up wide-eyed and messy and just a little desperate. It’s maybe the hottest thing Sam’s ever seen.

“Fuck,” Sam says, a little drunk and so turned on he might combust, and touches his thumb to Bucky’s full lower lip, cups the back of Bucky’s head with his other hand. His hair is soft and Sam tangles his fingers in it, pulls a little to see the face Bucky makes, and fuck, it’s good, it’s excellent, it’s everything Sam has been carefully not thinking about.

“Yeah, fuck,” Bucky agrees, and undoes Sam’s belt, unzips his jeans, pulls his dick out and gets it all the way down his throat in one smooth motion. Sam’s eyes roll back in his head.

“Holy shit,” he says, head lolling back until it hits the cubicle door with a loud thunk. Bucky just sucks harder like he’s determined to straight-up ruin Sam’s ability to form words. It’s. Honestly, it’s working. His tongue piercing, holy fuck, it makes things about a thousand times better than any blowjob he’s had in the past, or maybe it’s just that it’s Bucky, all sharp cheekbones and messy hair and big gray eyes, Bucky sucking Sam’s dick like he was born and made for it, Sam is seriously gonna come in about thirty seconds if this keeps up.

He pulls at Bucky’s hair again, a bit harder this time, and that just makes Bucky moan and clutch at Sam’s hips like it’s doing good things for him, like it turns him on to have Sam’s dick in his mouth and Sam pulling his hair and holy god Sam is gonna come.

Bucky swallows, keeps sucking until Sam’s so hypersensitive he’s shivering. Pulls off with a wet popping noise, licks his lips, blinks up at Sam and smirks very wide. Sam tightens his fingers in Bucky’s hair. Drags him back up, and Bucky’s eyes go unfocused, a little dreamy.

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, “that gets you off, huh,” and Bucky moans, tilts his head back like he’s inviting Sam to mark him up. “Oh,” Sam murmurs, “oh, fuck,” and licks over the pulse beating fast in Bucky’s throat, sinks his teeth in. Holds him tight by the hair with one hand and unbuttons his jeans with the other, shoves his hand down Bucky’s pants. He’s not wearing any underwear, fuck, and his dick’s hard, leaking a little wet at the tip. Sam wraps his fingers around it and squeezes, bites again, and Bucky gasps, his fingers scraping against the cubicle wall as he tries and fails to grab onto anything.

“Yeah, you really love that,” Sam tells him, “you- fuck, Bucky,” and can’t help it, sucks another bruise into the delicate skin under Bucky’s ear. “No wonder you always come home looking so marked up, huh. You beg for this, baby?”

“Yes,” Bucky moans, and “ Sam, Jesus, Sam,” and Sam strokes faster, twists his grip just hard enough to hurt a little, tugs at Bucky’s hair until he moans.

“Come on,” he says, “that’s right,” and bites Bucky again, and Bucky cries out and arches into it, his body one long bowstring held taut in Sam’s grip, and comes with a gasp all over Sam’s hand and the bottom half of his own shirt.

“Oh,” he says, panting, “fuck,” and Sam shrugs, wipes his hand off with a paper towel.

“Whatever,” he says, “it’s dark out there,” and Bucky stares at Sam for a minute, starts laughing breathlessly.

“Wilson,” he says, very slowly, “there are UV lights all over the place,” and Sam has to think for a minute before he starts laughing too.

“Okay,” he says, “okay, fine, yeah, that’s. Fuck. Whoops.”

“Whatever,” Bucky shrugs, “I’ll just take it off,” and then he does, tugs it off like it’s fine. Sam stares at him a minute. Touches his bare chest, his pecs, god, his nipple piercings, Sam’s been desperately trying not to think about them since that morning in the kitchen. He rubs at one with his thumb, watches Bucky’s face, how his mouth drops open in a silent gasp. Bends his head down to kiss along Bucky’s collarbone. When Sam sucks one of Bucky's nipples into his mouth and flicks at the metal bar with his tongue, Bucky makes a gratifyingly loud noise.

“I told you,” he gasps, “great for sensitivity, fuck, Sam,” and Sam takes the opportunity to get his fingertips on Bucky's other nipple and twist it just a little. Bucky moans again, even louder, exactly the same noise Sam’s been hearing through the wall the last few months, and Sam sucks harder, pushing Bucky back up against the door.

“God,” he says, kissing Bucky like they haven’t just come once already, “you make the best fucking noises, I swear to god.”

“You get off on it,” Bucky murmurs, “you like hearing how I moan, huh,” and Sam flushes hot, stutters a little.

“I-” he starts, and Bucky growls, bites at Sam’s earlobe.

“You think I couldn’t hear you jerking off to me fucking? I got super hearing, pal, you’re not that quiet.” He pauses, grabs Sam’s ass and pulls him in a little closer, mouths at the curve of Sam’s neck. “I wanted you to,” he whispers, “I wanted you to hear, I was- fuck, Sam, I was jealous of you going on a date, wanted you to hear it all, wanted you to get hard over it. Wanted you to want it. I didn’t think you’d actually-”

“Jesus Christ,” Sam says, “you could have just said,” and Bucky grins, a little mean.

“And miss tormenting the shit out of you like I did? Nah. Too much fun, sweetheart. But I’m asking now, Sam, if you want me I’ll moan for you so hard, you can make me scream, I want you to fuck me until I can’t move and then fuck me some more,” and Sam feels poleaxed with wanting, like Bucky’s dirty-talk is fucking weaponized, a goddamn missile he’s just deployed right here in a club bathroom with one hand down Sam’s pants and come drying on his skin.

“How do you feel,” Sam says, throat dry, “about going home, like, right the fuck now?” and Bucky’s grin gets wider, all sharp teeth.

“I thought you’d never fucking ask,” he says, and then his smile softens and softens as he kisses Sam. “Hey,” he asks, pulling back, “does it count as me breaking the house rules if I’m bringing you home from a club?” and Sam smiles back at him, touches the corner of Bucky’s mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, deadpan, “but I’m worth breaking the rules for,” and watches Bucky dissolve into laughter.

Sam’s a good person. He deserves- well, actually, he deserves all of this, it turns out. Deserves Bucky leaving smears of eyeliner on his pillow, deserves to find glitter all over his clean shirts, deserves to be ruined by Bucky eating him out until he can’t actually come up with speech for a good half-hour afterwards. Deserves to eat pizza and watch movies, tangled up with Bucky on the couch, and to go out and dance until they’re both damp with sweat and so turned on they could come just from pressing up against each other and making out. Deserves all of this and more, and it’s goddamn glorious, every bit of it.

He just, kind of, a little, feels sorry for Steve, nowadays.