Chapter Text
It's all Sarah's fault when Sam's stupid crush comes to light. Years of repression, right down the drain because his big sister can't help running her mouth about Sam's pinup being his partner now.
(Bucky was not his fucking pinup. He wasn't. Having a fucking picture of a war hero on your wall isn't like that.
Except it was like that. Sam didn't yank it down to kiss it every single night or anything that mortifying, but he did stare at it a lot and then jerk off picturing that old news reel where Cap's best friend threw his head back and laughed, grin nearly splitting his face. His handsome face, sure, on top of a body Sam's more than happy to think about too, but the laugh's the real thing. Guy who laughs like that? That's a man Sam wants to know.)
He hadn't thought about that clip in years until Steve rolled up into his life. Finding out that guy in the reel was alive too, and that he'd nearly killed Sam? You'd think it would have killed the fantasy, but nah. Nah, somehow that just expands it some, and then Bucky's Bucky again and Sam has to drop the regained habit of thinking about that easy laugh when he needs something absolutely bulletproof to get him off. It feels too invasive—or it feels like Steve will look at him and know Sam's got a thing for his traumatized best friend. For a while, Sam convinces himself he's over it. Then they finally get Bucky back and he's a surly little shit.
Turns out Sam's not over it, and he's got a thing for both versions of Bucky. Just his luck.
Gold medal level regression is the only option after that, and Sam is not as good at it as he wants to be. He rationalizes it away, just so he doesn't have to stop. It's not like he's stealing the man's dirty laundry. He's not doing more than sneaking peeks and hey: Sam's only human. Abs are abs, and eyes are eyes, so it's fine for Sam to use his eyes to look at Bucky's abs. It's just looking, and not at all a sign he's still thirteen and pimply and wondering why everybody in class wouldn't shut up about Cap when his best friend was right there, a couple steps behind, grinning sly and pleased like he stole something and wouldn't you like to know what it was.
Bucky showed up with a battered army duffel and a shrug two months ago and the grin hasn't quite shown up yet, but the glimmers of it are about enough to turn Sam thirteen again for real. Complete lack of game and cold showers included.
"So you still got it pretty bad for him, huh?" Sarah bumps her hip into Sam's, startling him out of the entirely scientific study of Bucky stripping Joe from three slips down's broke-down car for parts with his bare hands. "I get it. He can actually fix things, unlike you, he's good with the boys... and look at that."
"I can fix things! I handle all my own tech in the field. I can fix plenty. I hate it when you do this to me," Sam tries to remember he's a grownass man and baby brother or not, he doesn't have to let Sarah yank him around. "You don't knock it off, I'm gonna jump into the gulf and keep swimming until I hit land somewhere you can't find me."
"Aw, bro. I think it's cute, your thing for him. You used to have that picture, remember? I swear to god, you woulda taken that thing to prom if you could have gotten away with it—"
"I, uh. Finished with the car."
Sam slams his eyes shut, refusing to acknowledge reality. "I'm gonna kill you, Sarah. Goddamn kill you," he tells the fucked up lightshow playing behind his lids. "Is he gone yet?"
"No. No, he's right here." Sarah's not even trying not to laugh. "He doesn't look mad, if you wanna open your eyes and see how that goes."
"Sam..." Bucky doesn't sound like he's about to have an old man meltdown, but you never know.
Sam cracks one eyelid open. "Yeah?"
"Prom, huh?"
"Okay," Sarah says, and heads back for the bait shop like the traitor she is. "Have fun."
"Look. Buck, she's—lying?" A child would see the only lie on the table is Sam's. "Or crazy. Both. Look, I do not want to talk about this shit. Any chance you can forget you heard it, chalk it up to sibling psy-ops?"
"Oh." Bucky's lips start to turn up, and then keep going and going until to Sam's horror the sly stole-something grin is happening in front of him, in real life, and the pictures did not do it justice. "So that means I shouldn't be jealous of whoever you took instead of me?"
Well. "I mean..." Sam wets his lips, heartbeat coming fast in an excited little "holy shit, they like me!" bump he hasn't felt since he really was thirteen. "Not if you wanna be."
"That depends." Bucky shrugs and takes a few steps towards Sam, bringing his face close enough Sam can count his eyelashes. "I could see my way around getting over it."
"Yeah?" Sam asks, leaning in even closer. "How?"
How is the kind of thing that sets a couple of the aunties sitting outside the store hollering at them, but it's all right. Sam doesn't mind, because it turns out Bucky's a hell of a lot better kisser than his picture was.