Sam's eyebrows go up, impressed, and he reaches over to squeeze Torres' shoulder, "This is amazing, kid. Thanks, really."
Bucky sits and watches in utter horror as the pink darkens on Torres' cheeks.
Oh, he realizes.
Oh.
Fuck.
Sam Wilson runs a small, independent investigative firm with his college friend Steve.
He's renowned for solving and uncovering just about anything that lands on his desk until random strangers start disappearing in his city. With only a hunch and an address, he heads to a dingy dive bar downtown for answers.
What he finds is so much more than he bargained for.
Thomas is waiting for James to turn around again, and when he does, Thomas holds the wooden spoon up to James’ lips and lets him taste the pasta sauce.
Something twists inside of Bucky. This is so softly domestic; for a moment it feels as though he’s looking at something he shouldn’t, something far too intimate and sweet for his eyes. But it is him. Those are his eyes, so he doesn’t understand this nagging urge to stop intruding until it’s too late.
“Oh,” Sam says, “Oh, wait, they’re—”
And then James leans down and kisses Thomas square on the mouth.
“You were saying?” He chokes out, staring ahead.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam nodding, “They’re uh… together. That’s a thing.”
OR Sam and Bucky are tasked with spying on themselves from another timeline and learn a few things.