It starts in Paris.
“You can’t steal things just because you like them,” Sam tells Bucky, feeling innately that this is a losing battle, and Bucky cocks his head to the side, considers Sam very thoughtfully.
“Really,” he says. “I’m stealing you, aren’t I?”
Sam knows Steve thought Sam’d be looking after Bucky. Turns out, those first few days, it's the other way around. Turns out, Sam was holding himself together more than he realized. Alone, Sam has nightmare after nightmare. During the day, his eyes ache with how tired he is. He forgot how bad this could get. It's been years, since Riley. Feels like months. Like days. He sits and stares at the lake for hours, lets himself go cold with lack of movement, and it's Bucky who brings him a blanket. A cup of herbal tea that never tastes of anything even when it should. Company, sitting down next to him, while Sam shivers.
If Bucky dreams, he’s quiet about it, but Sam knows that doesn’t mean he’s okay. Honestly, he never actually sees Barnes sleeping. He’s sitting up, on the couch, when Sam goes to bed, and he’s sitting up, same spot, when Sam stumbles awake again.
“You’re sending me on a two-man undercover,” Bucky says, helplessly, “staying in a vineyard retreat, alone, with Wilson.”
“Pack your swim trunks,” Daisy adds, “apparently it’s got a hot tub.”
Bucky looks at Sam. Sam looks back at Bucky. Sam’s arms are crossed over his chest, his forearms bare. Bucky carefully doesn’t look at Sam’s forearms, or the way his t-shirt is pulled tight over his shoulders, straining just a little at the seams. Bucky’s not looking at that at all. He makes eye contact, careful to keep his face neutral.
Sam’s eyes are soft and dark. Maybe a little amused. He has very long eyelashes.
Bucky swallows hard.
“Great,” he says. “That’s just— great.”
That seems to be the thing that breaks the ice between them; Bucky's never really hung out with Sam before, past being jammed into a too-small car for six hours and then two uncomfortable months in a safehouse trying not to get on each other’s last nerve. Now they’re getting lunch or coffee every few days. Sam falls asleep on Bucky’s couch three more times. Bucky joins him and Steve a couple of times on their morning run.
He doesn’t notice, is the thing; doesn’t notice how ever since Sam slept on his couch that night he’s been letting Bucky closer bit by bit, that as Bucky’s been wondering about the boundaries and structures of friendship, Sam’s been drawing in.
“I’m not sharing my room,” Sam mutters, knowing as he says it that it sounds exactly like he’s a fucking ten year old facing a new sibling. Steve hastily makes what Sam thinks is supposed to be an understanding face.
“Of course not,” he says soothingly. “He can bunk in with me, it’s not like we haven’t done it before. It's a twin room, anyway, there's already a spare bed.”
Sam guesses a bigger house is out of the question. Whatever; the three of them have spent eight hours crammed in a Mini, it can’t be that bad.
It’s not that bad. It’s worse.
It’s inevitable, the way it goes. He’s my friend, Steve says, and he is, he is, he must be. Sam’s best friend is Steve, and Steve’s best friend is a werewolf, that’s just how Sam’s life works now.
But once he realizes he’s attracted to Bucky and Bucky can tell, everything becomes, like, a thousand percent more difficult to negotiate. Sam’s just trying to live his life, that’s all, and he keeps getting confronted by Bucky Barnes in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair all soft and shiny. Bucky glances over at him and smirks, and this is really very embarrassing, how Sam can’t hide his attraction even if he keeps a totally straight face.