#Until more than 40 minutes in‚ which means an inordinate amount of time is spent on the actual hazing and frat stuff.. Which is... An odd

[matcha-chocolate]

see titles related to: 'sickening dorks'

Reposting here because apparently the images aren’t showing up on Ao3 because OF COURSE THEY AREN’T. Anyway! For @hheroes for the Samsteve Gift Exchange. Fic’s below the cut. Rub your eyes on it. They were good roomies, really. Took turns cleaning up, always split the cost on pizza, got along with each other’s friends just fine. Just a few ground rules: no smoking indoors (Steve had asthma); no pets (because Bucky would immediately adopt 4 cats); no cooking anything complicated (this one was applicable to Steve only. He knew why.); and Bucky didn’t get up before 10 on the weekend. Steve was currently breaking rule #4.

  “Bucky. C’mon.”   “Nope.”   “I brought you coffee?” the voice behind the door was hopeful, a little bit sleep-hoarse. Because it was 7 in the fucking morning on a Saturday.   “Drink it yourself. Then throw yourself down the stairs.” Bucky didn’t even crack open an eye, his face pressed into the rough material of couch cushions. Behind him, Netflix was paused, frozen on its oddly plaintive ‘Are you still watching?’ message.   “I brought you coffee and a chocolate croissant and one of those fucking gross gas station burritos,” the man on the other side of the door continued. Bucky’s stomach growled loudly and he took a moment to silently curse its betrayal. He didn’t want to eat (yes he did), he wanted to sleep.   “It’s gonna get cold, Buck. My hands are full, open the door!”   “Fuck off, Rogers. You got more hand’s’n me anyway, you’ll figure it out.” Bucky had been born without his left arm, a fact he occasionally used to try to get out of housework (Steve never fell for it; they’d been best friends since they were in high school, so he knew Bucky could manage most things just fine.) Bucky heaved a heavy sigh as he heard Steve’s key in the lock; he’d apparently found a way to juggle the items in his hands enough to get the door open (as Bucky knew he would.) Steve should’ve known better than to think Bucky was going to break his sacred rule.   “Dude, why’re you on the couch? And you couldn’t tidy up the place?”   “Because House of Cards and beer . And shut up.”   “You’re an asshole in the mornings, y’know that?”   “Yeah. Gimme coffee.” Steve seemed to take his sweet time shucking his shoes off, grabbing a plate, carefully arranging Bucky’s breakfast on it (even though it comprised of exactly 2 items) and pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Bucky almost fell back asleep, but he jerked awake when Steve pressed the plate into his hand. It took half the cup of (really good) coffee and 3 bites of the (really gross) burrito before Bucky bothered to speak again.   “Okay.  I don’t wanna kill you any more. You gonna tell me why you’re up and bothering me so early?”   “Besides bringing you breakfast? Because I’m a kind and giving--”   “Don’t strain somethin’ patting yourself on the back there, buddy.” Bucky carefully set down his plate so that he could use his hand to swat his friend’s shoulder (which was like backhanding a fleshy wall.) Steve always came with offerings of food when he wanted something but was afraid to bring it up. And it better not be what Bucky thought it was, this time.   “So… you know that new bakery on campus?”   “The fancy-pants one? Yeah.”   “That’s where I got your croissant.”   “Uh...huh. I mean, thanks. It’s good. But you gonna get to the point?” Steve pulled another bakery bag out of his satchel and spent an inordinate amount of time fiddling with it, smoothing out the wrinkles and creases. “Anyway, I know you have… that research project thing. And I thought you’d want a snack... I mean-- you and your-- your partner.” Oh, god. Steve was blushing, and that could only mean one thing.   “My partner. You mean Sam.” Steve mumbled and shoved the large brown paper bag into Bucky’s hand. It was really something to see a man of his stature start going all pink and flustered. It was like seeing a deadly cheetah run facefirst into a tree-- unexpected, a little bit pathetic, and absolutely hysterical.   “Steve, how’d you know which day I was gonna meet him?” Bucky raised his eyebrows, almost fully awake now.   “You must’ve mentioned.”   “Or, or, you’re a fuckin’ creep.”   “I’m not. Am I? Did Sam say-- does he think I’m creepy?”   “Jesus, Steve, breathe. How many fuckin’ croissants did you get, anyway?”   “Uhm. I don’t know what flavours he likes so I might’ve gotten one of each...”   “You got one of each.”   “Yeah…”   “From a bakery called Le Croissanterie.”   “...yeah…”   “Steve, there are, what, 20 croissants in here?”   “Twenty-three.” Steve sounded a little guilty, and his brow was furrowed. “I know it’s kind of a lot--”   “You’re an idiot.”   “I’m not-- yeah. Well. Yeah. Can you give them to Sam? But don’t tell him they’re from me! I think I went overboard.”   “Oh, ya think?” Bucky sighed again. He needed new friends.

Sam Wilson was the epitome of ‘shows up 15 minutes late with Starbucks,’ but the thing was… The thing was, he was usually late because he was volunteering to train orphan puppies as firefighters (or something), and he always brought you your favourite Starbucks drink, too. So you couldn’t get mad at the guy.  “Sorry I’m late, I was--”  “Rescuing a newborn kitten from a tree?” Bucky smirked, accepting his matcha latte with a nod of thanks.  “You’re not gonna believe me,” Sam said, flopping into his chair with a tired groan. “Someone’s pet hawk got stuck in a storm drain and I stopped to help them.”  “Don’t fuckin’ bullshit me.” Sam held up his phone; the screen showed a picture of himself holding a large brown bird, and the tiny little old man beaming happily beside him. “Her name’s Redwing,” Sam said. The fondness in his voice made Bucky smile a little, even as he rolled his eyes at his friend.  “You going for sainthood, Wilson? Makin’ the rest of us look like assholes.”  “You don’t need any help there,” Sam said easily, raising an eyebrow. They’d become good friends in their second year of undergrad, when they’d both decided to present on the same topic (the depiction of violence and mental illness in war novels) and had ended up in the library, trying to check out the same books. Their sniping had given way pretty quickly to a lasting friendship full of barbed jokes and eyerolls. Sam was one of his favourite people on earth.  “Fuck off, Sam. Oh-- here.” Bucky dropped the paper bag of croissants on the table, already steeling himself to lie. Steve may be a total mess when it came to Sam, but Bucky had been keeping his promise to not say anything about his friend’s ridiculous crush on Sam. The real pain in the ass was that Sam had it just as bad, and he’d made Bucky promise to keep his mouth shut too, because Bucky Barnes’ life was a shitty romantic comedy.  “Bucky… what the hell?”  “I got too many, so I’m sharing. I’m nice like that.”  “Oh. Thanks, man.” Sam sounded oddly disappointed, which didn’t make sense until he added-- “Thought I saw Steve in Le Croissanterie earlier today…”  “Yeah?”  “I wanted to say hi but I was in a hurry, had to go see Fury about our new research parameters…” And you and Steve are pathetic around each other,  Bucky thought tiredly.  “He looked good today,” Sam continued wistfully, pulling book after book out of his bag. “His hair was doing that thing, y’know--”  “The ‘swoopy’ thing, yeah, I know,” Bucky groaned. “When’re you gonna tell him that?”  “When I’m damn well ready, Barnes. And you better not tell him, either.”  “Yeah, yeah.” A 4/10-on-Rotten-Tomatoes shitty romantic comedy.

Professor Fury was never late. This was mostly because whenever he arrived was when the meeting was scheduled, and that was that. So the fact that their meeting got started almost an hour after he’d asked them to come to his office? Coincidence.     “Barnes, am I boring you?” Nicholas J. Fury drawled, leaning back in his chair. His office was all dark wood, organized bookshelves filled with clothbound books that made Sam’s fingers twitch with want. The smell of coffee with the barest hint of expensive cigars always lingered. (No one ever mentioned the vanilla-sandalwood scented candle, but it was a nice touch nonetheless.) Bucky straightened in his chair. “No. Sorry. It’s just…” This meeting was supposed to be over 40 minutes ago. “Did we want only paper copies of the confidentiality forms for the interviews? No digital?”     “No,” Sam interjected, correctly interpreting Fury’s raised eyebrow. “We already talked about that, man. Like 10 minutes ago.”     “Okay, that’s enough. We’re done for now… and I’ll give you a little extra time to get the final questionnaire to me. Hint: sometime before I retire would be good.” Fury glanced up from scribbling in his appointment book, his mismatched eyes-- one dark brown iris, one milky grey from a childhood injury-- darting to the door. “If you don’t leave soon, Rogers there is gonna do himself an injury.” Bucky and Sam turned to follow Fury’s gaze, and sure enough, Steve was waiting outside, leaning against the wall opposite the door. Sam missed the way that Fury looked pointedly at him, but Bucky didn’t; he met Fury’s eyes and they exchanged a sort of visual exasperated sigh. The lovelorn glances that Wilson and Rogers aimed at each other -- always when the other wasn’t looking -- were obvious to everyone but them. When Sam turned back around, he wasn’t quite able to hide the soft little smile on his face, and it took all of Fury’s self-control not to tell Wilson to get on with it, already. Instead, he reached for his phone.     “Goodbye,” he said pointedly to Sam and Bucky, not bothering to wait for them to leave before dialling a number. “Hey, you. Mm-mm, nearly done… nah. Just checking in. You’ll never guess who didn’t make a move today. Again. In my office with damn … hearts floatin’ round his fool head. Yeah.” Bucky shook his head as Sam, oblivious, fussed with his coat and scarf. “Tell Professor Coulson hi for me,” Bucky murmured as he and Sam slipped out of the office.      “Mind your business, Barnes,” Fury said mildly, adding a very quick wink right before Bucky closed the door behind him. Nick sighed. “Were we ever this damn clueless, Phil? And what you makin’ for dinner?” He paused as he listened. “It’s not my turn to cook tonight.” Steve straightened up immediately as Sam and Bucky emerged from Fury’s office, hastily tucking his iPod into his pocket. “Been waiting long?” Bucky asked knowingly, waiting for the telltale pink to touch Steve’s cheeks (he wasn’t disappointed.)     “Hi, Sam,” Steve said, not even noticing Bucky had spoken for a moment. “Huh? No, I was only waiting ‘bout 5 minutes.” (This was a lie. He’d been there for over 20.)     “Steve!” Calm the entire fuck down, Sam. “Steve.” That’s better. But stop saying his name so much. “Hey, I didn’t know you were coming along.” Maybe Sam’s heart sped up a little bit at the thought of Steve joining him and Bucky for lunch. Shut up.     “Coming along…?”     “Yeah, Steve. Remember-we-were-going-for-lunch?” Bucky said, thinking quickly. Steve looked nonplussed, but suddenly got it (Bucky narrowing his eyes and subtly jerking his head at Sam was helpful.)     “Sure! Lunch. I like lunch.”       'I like lunch,' he mockingly repeated in his head. Jesus Christ. Sam, thankfully, didn’t laugh aloud; he merely aimed his million kilowatt smile at Steve before suggesting a nearby student-run restaurant.     “I hear they do really good tuna,” Sam added enthusiastically, reading from the Yelp reviews on his phone as they walked.     “Oh. Good. Great! I love tuna,” Steve replied, all but beaming at Sam.     “You fuckin’ hate fish,” Bucky hissed, sidling up beside Steve. His friend grimaced and then aimed a helpless smitten look at Sam’s back.     “Tell me you’re not gonna eat tuna just to impress Sam.” Steve half-shrugged, avoiding meeting Bucky’s gaze. “Rogers, you’re hopeless.” --- The server set down their plates, and Sam fought a full-body recoil. He’d chosen this restaurant based on its rave reviews, especially about the tuna, which he’d assumed would be something like a lightly seared Ahi tuna steak, or… basically anything other than the sad tuna sandwich that was on his plate. And it was clearly tinned tuna, too, which Sam damn well could have made at home, thank you very much. And maybe he could’ve invited Steve over too. But he couldn’t make himself look like a complete fool in front of Steve, so… Sam tamped down a scowl and lifted his sandwich to take a tentative bite. It tasted worse than it looked, which was saying something. Bucky didn’t bother to hide his distaste; he’d wisely gone for a simple hamburger and was eyeing Sam and Steve’s tuna dishes with something akin to amused pity.     “So, Mr. Food Snob… how’s the ol’ tuna sandwich treatin’ you?” Sam shot Bucky a narrow-eyed look before forcing a small smile. “I’m not a damn food snob, Barnes. Just because you can stomach truckstop breakfast burritos--” Steve snorted, grateful for the distraction from the fact that he was eating a goddamn tuna sandwich. But Sam seemed to like it well enough-- at least that’s what Steve thought the small furrow in the man’s brow meant. He didn’t want to insult Sam after he’d gone through all that trouble of picking a restaurant for them.     “Truckstop breakfast burritos are an ode to simple, down-to-earth cuisine,” Bucky retorted. Steve’s eyebrows shot up.     “You definitely dedicate some odes to our bathroom after you eat ‘em,” he laughed, before groaning inwardly. He and Bucky tended to be pretty childish around each other sometimes, but Sam was sure to be above that-- Except… he was laughing. Sam was laughing, and something small and warm unfurled in Steve’s chest. He’d made Sam laugh, even if it was at something gross.     “You two are nasty, what kind of meal-time talk…” Sam chuckled, setting down his sandwich.     “Not gonna finish?” Steve asked, a tinge of hope in his voice. If Sam didn’t finish, maybe he didn’t have to, either.     “I-- nah. I can’t do it anymore, man. It’s the worst tuna sandwich I’ve ever had,” Sam groaned, pushing his plate away from him. Steve grinned, following suit.     “Thank god. I didn’t wanna seem like a dick.”     “Hell no. You didn’t have to eat it,” Sam laughed, wrinkling his nose at his plate in a way that Steve found ridiculously endearing. “I just didn’t wanna insult your food tastes…” “Wha-- this isn’t my taste in food!” Sam said, sounding mildly outraged. Bucky allowed himself a small moment of triumph; his friends were finally talking normally and hadn’t done anything awkward -- “Then how do you taste?” Steve asked conversationally, before realizing what he’d said. His face did something interesting then, going pale before colour slammed back into his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I meant -- what I meant-- your food. How that-- wait, I meant, your food tastes.” Sam had made a sound that was very close to an undignified squeak, and Bucky filed that away to torture him with later. For now, though, he held back a long-suffering sigh as Sam and Steve fell back into their usual habit of talking in circles, being jumpy, and awkwardly stepping all over each other’s sentences. Bucky went ahead and ordered dessert. This was gonna take a while.

    “Sam!” Oh jesus, Rogers, yell louder why don’t you. Steve hadn’t seen Sam in over a week-- or rather, he had , but he’d been so embarrassed by their last encounter that he’d avoided saying anything until now. Sam looked up from his book, and the winter sunlight caught his face at just the right angle-- his cheekbones stood out sharply, and the rays transformed the dark iris of one of his large brown eyes (Bucky called them “Some Disney princess typa shit,” but what the fuck did he know) to the colour of carlisle honey, and then Sam smiled and the little gap between his teeth made Steve’s stomach do a weird little flip and He was staring. Steve was staring like a creep, and had been for about 30 seconds too long. Some small part of him was surprised that Sam didn’t ask him what the fuck he was staring at. “Uh. Hi! Hey. Hi.” Smooth. Steve walked over, carefully keeping the pace totally normal and his body language as casual as possible. He glanced down to make sure he didn’t trip on anything, missing the way that Sam fussed with his scarf and straightened his posture slightly.     “What’s up?” Sam called, tilting his head up to smile at Steve. You’re grinning like a damn fool again, Wilson. Take it easy.     “Nothing, nothing. Just hanging out. Y’know.” No, he doesn’t know, because you haven’t said anything sensible yet.     “Cool, cool. Same. Well. No, I’m--” Sam held up his book, smiling ruefully. “No rest for the wicked, y’know?” What is my voice doing? Oh fuck, was that my sexy voice?      “You couldn’t be wicked, Sam,” Steve smiled. Sam’s voice had been maybe a little bit lower and more deliberate at the end there, but it-- it was cold, and. His voice was probably hoarse from the dry winter air. Yeah. It was wishful thinking. Steve needed to get laid, that was all. And that was definitely not a helpful thought to be having around Sam, fuck. Sam, meanwhile, was still looking at Steve with a bemused expression. Did he just compliment me, or is he just being nice? Shit. He’s nice. He’s always nice. And cute, but that was beside the damn point.     “How do you know if I’m wicked or not?” Sam finally replied, huffing out a laugh that sounded nervous to his own ears.     “Oh, I bet Santa has you on the ‘nice’ list.”     “Nah, I’m plenty naughty,” Sam honest-to-goodness drawled and that was definitely his sexy voice. Steve’s eyes widened slightly, and Sam wanted to reach into his skull and slap his own brain (although he was fairly sure that would kill him.) Not for the first time, Sam wished he had wings so that he could hastily escape awkward situations. “I mean, haha. I have a lot of library books. That are overdue. So. Santa. Bad.” I’m a PhD. candidate and I just said “Santa bad.” Steve’s mind had slammed the panic button. Naughty. Sam? Naughty Sam. With the weirdly sexy voice and the way his fingers were tracing up and down the spine of the book and… Steve couldn’t take it anymore. He steeled himself.     “Do you wanna--”     “Listen, I’ve gotta run. Fury wants me to help him conduct some interviews and-- sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt. You were saying something?” Steve’s will melted away like a snowball in the oven.     “Huh? No. No, no, I was asking, if. Do you wanna-- ask-- tell-- tell Bucky that it’s his turn to cook dinner tonight?” Sam stood, tucking his book into his bag and quirking an eyebrow. “Uh, aren’t you guys roommates? You’re gonna see him before I do, right?”     “Haha! You’re right! I should go tell him now!” Steve said loudly, before waving stiffly and power-walking away. He squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself silently. He’d had an opportunity and fucked it up, like always. But… had he even had an opportunity? Sam had clearly been uncomfortable and backtracked hastily, so… Steve was probably reading too much into it. As always. Do you wanna get coffee with me? lay bitter and unsaid upon his tongue. Behind him, Sam lowered his face into his hands, and Steve was too far away to hear Sam groan “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”

Bucky barely glanced up from texting Sam as he heard the door close behind him, caught up in the absolute trainwreck that was his friends trying and failing to flirt. Or trying not to flirt, as the case was turning out to be. He did glance up when Steve flopped heavily onto the couch-- which, with someone his size, was no joke. “Sam hates me.” Bucky looked up as he distractedly tapped out another message. “Why d’you think he hates you now?”     “No, I’m sure of it now. I said something about Santa, and he got all weird, and then I got all weird, and then I pretty much bolted. He’s gotta think I’m a freak, especially after the restaurant thing.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut and repressed a groan; it’d been only a matter of time before he’d slipped up and mentioned to one or the other that they were mooning over each other… but maybe he could save it. He tapped out other messages as quickly as one hand would allow:

“--and then I go ‘Haha I gotta go’ like a robot and… I sounded like an idiot. I’m… I dunno what to do,” Steve sighed, coming to the end of the retelling of the tragic tale of Sam-and-Steve.    “Mm-hmmm.”    “You’re not even listening.”    “Hmmm.”    “Bucky, c’mon! I’m talking to you.”    “Is it about something other than you being a total fuckin’ embarrassment in front of Sam?”    “N-- hey!”    “See? I was listening.”

“Buck, you’re such an asshole,” Steve said matter-of-factly.

At 9:03am the next morning, Bucky’s eyes shot open. He had an idea. He wasn’t an asshole, dammit, and he’d help his two loser friends get together if it would make them happy. And if it happened to get them out of his hair, well. 

Bucky lied easily, reassuring Sam that Steve definitely absolutely for sure wouldn’t be there, so Sam didn’t have to get all weird and jumpy like he usually did.

(In his apartment just off campus, Sam heaved a small sigh of disappointment. He may have made a complete jackass of himself the last time he’d seen Steve, but some small part of him had maybe been hoping to see him. Okay. Not ‘maybe.’ Sam’s mouth twisted wryly as he texted Bucky that he’d be there.)

It was a simple plan.

A: Tell Sam to drop by anytime after 1:30pm. B: Shower and leave the apartment by midday. C: Don’t tell Sam that Steve would be there, nor Steve that Sam would come by; instead, casually mention to Steve that you’re going to play Xbox at Dugan and Morita’s apartment for a few hours. Was it the most cliched of cliched romantic comedy contrivances? Sure. Was it effective? Definitely.

Steve hummed tunelessly along with Bowie as he carefully dabbed blue paint onto one tiny corner of the thick paper he was working on. Since Bucky was out, he was indulging himself a little, playing his ‘corny indie art shit’ (thanks, Buck) loudly as he worked.

He would get the gradation of the sky right if it killed him (he felt like it just might.) The focal point-- the small figure of a man leaning against a tree, reading a book-- had been easy, had come naturally to Steve’s paintbrush almost without thinking. “Keep your ‘lectric eye on me, babe,” Steve sang under his breath, and hell, he could admit it-- he was thinking of the way the sunlight hit Sam’s brown eyes. He had it bad. Even though the figure in his painting was small, Steve had made sure to add little details like a wine-red peacoat, a black-and-white striped scarf slung casually around the shoulders. It was sheer coincidence that it happened to be identical to Sam’s favourite winter ensemble. Truly. Really. In any event, it was the background that was being a pain, and Steve sighed in frustration as he tossed his paintbrush into his coffee, not noticing that it was the wrong cup. His iPod jumped to another song , slower and more sinuous, and Steve nodded his head absently to the music, reaching for his coffee mug-- The knock at the door came just as Steve took a huge swig of bright blue paint water and choked. Because even after over a decade of making the same mistake, Steve Rogers still used coffee mugs for coffee and water to clean his brush. Still sputtering, Steve stumbled to the front door and yanked it open, assuming Bucky had forgotten his keys as usual. Instead, Sam was standing there, his eyes slightly widened from surprise, and because the universe was bent on punishing Steve, his music chose that moment to make things more awkward. The singer, singing slinky and smooth, crooned: you gotta know / I’m feelin’ love  made of gold, I’ll never love a / another one, another you  it’s gotta be / love, I said it It wouldn’t have been so bad if he hadn’t cranked the stereo up as he always did when he was painting. Sam was still staring.

   “You’re. You’re leaking blue,” he finally croaked. Steve instinctively looked down at his white shirt, which now had a spreading stain of his spit-out paint water. “Avant garde art piece?” Sam continued, grimacing a little and gesturing towards Steve’s face. Steve returned the grimace and saw Sam visibly repress the urge to laugh.    “Let me guess, my teeth are blue,” Steve said weakly. Sam nodded, his eyes dancing with mirth. “It’s for a series I’m working on called ‘Abject Failure,’” Steve joked. He swiped at his mouth with his free hand, moving aside to let Sam in. “Uh… grab a seat. I just gotta--” Steve gestured to himself much as Sam had at the door, and then headed into the bathroom to both tidy himself up and to scream silently into his hands. And to scream silently at Bucky, too.

When Steve finally convinced himself that hiding in the bathroom until Bucky came back wasn’t a viable option, he emerged to find Sam standing beside the bookshelf, his head tilted to the right so that he could read the titles on the book spines. The music was still playing loudly, something soft and cutesy (okay, maybe Bucky had a point in mocking Steve’s music taste); he moved to turn it off, and then he heard it-- Sam singing quietly along. Steve settled for turning the music down a little. “On your left,” Steve murmured as he stepped up beside Sam, smiling awkwardly. He was such a mess around the man, honestly. Sam, for his part, only startled slightly and straightened, returning Steve’s smile.    “Is all your music ancient indie?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows.    “Nah, just when I’m painting,” Steve lied. “What do you listen to?”    “Mostly R&B.” Sam paused, shrugged, and then huffed out a laugh. “And… ancient indie.”    “I was being nice by not pointing out that you were signing along,” Steve grinned.    “Gave myself away, huh? This is one of my favourite albums…” Sam trailed off, distracted by the way that Steve was looking at him. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but it was… intense. The guy tended to be very-- earnest. It was nice. “What?” Sam asked, biting his lip. “I got something on my face…?” No, but your favourite album is my favourite album and I didn’t think I could be any more gone on you, but here we fucking are.

Instead, Steve said “No, that was me, remember?” He gestured at his face, which until very recently had been half-covered in paint.    “Wh-- oh, the paint. You rinse your mouth out with robin’s egg blue every day, or…?” Sam asked, tilting his head slightly with a teasing smirk.    “Only once a week. And it was periwinkle blue,” Steve replied, smiling when Sam burst out laughing.    “So… what’re you painting?” Sam asked, more to keep one of them from saying something stupid than anything else. He was doing a good job of controlling his nerves-- or he thought so, anyway-- Stop messing around with your scarf, Sam. Steve’s eyes darted back up from watching Sam’s fingers curl around his scarf. “It’s a landscape. Did you… do you wanna see?” It was only when they were standing in front of the painting that Steve remembered the small figure. Wearing a wine-red peacoat. Sam had a strange expression on his face, almost a tiny smile-- but his brow was furrowed. Steve felt his heart kick into double-time. Nothing would scare your crush off like them seeing that you’d painted them. Even if they were a tiny figure in said painting. The coat and scarf were instantly recognizable; there was no way to pretend that the person in the painting wasn’t Sam. The moment stretched as Sam processed what he was looking at. Him. Steve had painted him. A tiny him,  but still-- that was definitely his coat, his scarf... and his stance, slumped up against a tree. He’d gotten lost in reading a book while leaning against various walls, lampposts, and trees more often than he could count. His fingers unconsciously tightened on his scarf as he pressed his teeth against his lower lip. What does this mean? He could feel Steve’s eyes on him again as he rolled his shoulders and glanced over. The other man was pink, which made Sam take a moment to fight down a laugh yet again. Steve turned pink a lot. A lot. Well… Around me. He turns pink a lot around me. “You got the colour perfect, man,” Sam said quietly, looking down at his coat again before returning his gaze to Steve. Steve exhaled hard, his shoulders relaxing.    “Thanks.” Oh thank god, he doesn’t think I’m a weirdo. Maybe. I hope. “Uh. I’m glad you don’t think I’m a weirdo.” Goddammit, Rogers. Get a filter.    “Who said I didn’t think that?” Sam asked, raising his eyebrows comically high. Steve looked embarrassed even as he laughed, and Sam shook his head. “No… it’s. I like it. It’s nice. Hey-- okay, look. You got bad taste in music--”    “Hey!” Steve interrupted with another laugh, this one genuine and more at ease.    “-- and you’re weird. Guess what?”    “It better be something good after the brutal character assassination I just got.”    “I did a little dance when you were in the bathroom.”    “Wh-- what? Why?”    “Because… just c’mere.” Sam flashed a smile at Steve before making his way back over to the bookcase. “You guys got a nice collection.”      “Yeah? Thanks… though I think most of these are Bucky’s…”    “Most of these are mine,” Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I guess this is what happened to all the books I lent your friend over the last… two… three… holy shit, five years-- I bought another copy of this damn book! I thought I lost it; I bet Barnes doesn’t even remember this one is mine. And this one, it’s the one I got all excited over. It’s a first edition, has a really rare typo on page 85. Instead of ‘brigand,’ it says ‘birdrand,’ which is a huge fuckup and definitely not a word… mine’s a third edition, I can’t find the first anywhere--    “Sam, you’re a huge nerd,” Steve laughed, earning himself a light punch on the shoulder.    “Yeah, and you’re a weirdo. I thought we established this.”    “Touché… hey, what about this one? I keep hearing that people either love it or hate it…”    “How much time you got?” Sam snorted. “‘Cause I have opinions about this book.”    “Me? I’ve got plenty of time.” All the time in the world, for you. Steve’s gaze followed Sam’s pointing finger as it moved from book to book (Bucky had a lot of Sam’s books, apparently,) but he couldn’t help but focus on Sam’s face as he talked about the books. He was so animated, wrinkling his nose, or rolling his eyes, or laughing, or biting his lower lip while he thought of the exact details of a particular book… and he kept making eye contact with Steve, almost as if he was worried that--    “Aw, geeze, man, I must be boring the shit outta you. Sorry, I kinda… get carried away about books,” Sam said, a little sheepish. No, please keep talking, Steve wanted to say. Some part of him wanted Sam to look at him the way that he looked at the books piled haphazardly on the shelves in front of them, but Steve wasn’t about to say that. Sam bent forward to squint at a book. “What’s this one? It looks really --”    “Oh god, not that book,” Steve groaned.    “I was gonna say it looked interesting. I wish I could draw.”    “Oh -- then this is definitely not the book you want. Here--” Steve took the book down and walked over to the couch. Patting the seat beside him, he began flipping through the pages with barely contained glee. Sam looked hesitant for a moment before flopping onto the small couch beside Steve. “Okay, so this was a joke gift from Bucky-- look at this! The proportions-- look at her eyes, jesus--” Steve moved closer to Sam to show him the terrible ‘manga’ style art in the so-called How To Draw book, too caught up in his excitement to feel nervous about being so close to the other man.    “Is this what you used to learn how to draw people?” Sam asked, a teasing edge to his voice. Steve looked mildly outraged for a second until he took in the mischievous grin on Sam’s face.    “No! Never, ever, fuck, no,” Steve insisted. Sam put on an exaggerated expression of disappointment.    “Shame. I was gonna ask for a portrait done in this style. Specifically.”    “I’d never ruin you like that,” Steve said easily, searching the pages for more embarrassing art with which to amuse Sam.    “Ruin?”    “Yeah. I mean, your features really lend themselves to a nice... sketch...” Steve’s brain seemed to finally catch up with his mouth, and he cleared his throat awkwardly. He then made the mistake of looking at Sam, who was still leaning near him to see the book, and his heart felt like it was about to pop (which would have been both awkward and traumatizing for all involved.) Sam felt like time had crawled to a stop. Did he just call me good-looking?  (Not that Sam was gonna fight against a compliment from Steve too hard, but...) He looked up from the book and met Steve’s blue eyes, and maybe it was a trick of the light, but Steve’s pupils were huge, and his cheeks were touched with pink, and his lips were slightly parted, and-- And --    “Starbucks!”    “Wha--?” Steve jerked slightly, startled by Sam’s sudden declaration.    “Damn. Sorry, I brought drinks and it must be melted by now…”    “Melted?” Sam stood, moving away to the dining table to grab the abandoned tray of drinks. “I got me and Bucky coffee, but I got you … well... you don’t like hot drinks, right?” Sam wasn’t quite meeting Steve’s eyes, which was just fine because Steve was pretty sure his facial expression was somewhere between “beaming” and “lovesick.” He’d only mentioned his dislike of hot drinks once in passing to Sam. “Sorry if it’s watery,” Sam murmured, pressing a caramel-coloured slushy drink into Steve’s hand.    “No-- thanks, Sam. Really. This is great.” Sam half-shrugged, his smile still a little embarrassed. Like he was worried it was too much. Like Steve had worried about twenty-three croissants. Like when Sam sent over a Thermos of his spicy chicken soup when Steve had gotten sick last month. Like when Steve had walked 45 minutes through the snow to help Sam dig his ancient car out of a drift (but pretended he’d happened to be in the neighbourhood.) Like when Sam had offered Steve his sister’s annual museum pass because she’d just moved out of town and wouldn’t be using it. Like when -- Fuck, they were stupid.    “Do you wanna get some coffee?” Steve said, a little too loudly. Sam paused in the act of lifting his cup to his mouth and glanced down at it.    “I mean… I like coffee as much as the next guy, but I’ve… got some right here.” Steve groaned inwardly. Time to be more direct.    “With me? Coffee with me?” Sam looked hesitant, and Steve felt a little bit sick. Had he somehow misread the whole thing?    “Uh. Sam. Sorry, are you-- do you go out with guys?” Steve regretted the directness of the question immediately, but if he’d been misunderstanding everything with Sam, he didn’t want to make things any more confusing. Sam raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Exclusively. Is that a problem?” Steve shook his head vigorously, and Sam’s shoulders relaxed minutely. “No. No, I just-- didn’t know. Uhm.”    “Well… it wasn’t really relevant,” Sam smirked, his tone still a little dry. Wait. Unless… “Why, do you like guys?” Sam asked carefully, thinking that maybe Steve was questioning and needed a friendly ear. Steve hummed thoughtfully before making a ‘so-so’ gesture with his hand. Sam surprised both of them by bursting out laughing, almost spilling his lukewarm coffee on himself. “What the hell does that even mean, Steve?” Steve rubbed at his neck, smiling ruefully. “Means… I dunno. Sure. Sometimes. Whoever I’m into, I’m into.”    “Sounds fair,” Sam said, smiling warmly. He waited a beat before pressing ahead. “Since we’re already being awkward here… when you asked about coffee, you meant--”    “Uhm. Y’know. Like a… date. Type of. Thing.”    “Oh…”    “If you wanted! Of course! If you don’t, that’s fine…”    “What? No, I mean, yes. I just don’t drink that much coffee... this is pretty much my daily intake,” Sam said, raising his small Starbucks cup with an apologetic expression.    “So you already had your coffee,” Steve replied, looking thoughtful.    “Well… yeah. But…” Sam set down his drink and stood up from where he’d settled into an armchair instead of back on the couch next to Steve. He moved over to where Steve was sitting and sat beside him, and Steve glanced at Sam’s hands as they smoothed over his scarf again. He’d always noticed that little habit, but he’d never quite put two and two together-- maybe Sam was nervous around him too? “We can still have the date part… if you want,” Sam continued. In the background, almost as if it knew that the tiniest of pushes was needed, a new song faded in i think i'm a little bit, little bit a little bit in love with you (but only if you’re a little bit little bit, little bit little bit in love with me) Yeah, okay. Steve could take a hint. He set down his drink and met Sam’s dark eyes again, hoping to see his own growing hunger reflected in them. Sam’s fingers ghosted over his own, a question lingering in his eyes. Steve answered by leaning forward and pressing his ice-cold lips against Sam’s warm mouth, feeling a shiver go through his entire body. Yes, he said without saying a word. Sam tasted like sweet coffee; Steve, like vanilla and caramel. cause I would give anything, anything, to have you as my man

---    “By the way,” Sam murmured much later, his voice muffled from where his face was pressed against Steve’s bare chest, “thanks for the croissants.” Steve barely had time to ask how Sam had known they were from him when the key in the lock announced Bucky’s return. Steve waited for his roommate’s shuffling steps to pass by his door before calling loudly, “Hey, Bucky?”    “Yeah?” Steve nudged Sam, who snorted. “You’re an asshole, Barnes.” A pause.    “Yeah, well, it worked. You’re welcome. Tomorrow’s pancake day, so... whatever. Stay. And we can get started on our research before Fury literally murders us.” Bucky continued to his room and shut the door, easing the apartment back into sleepy silence. Steve glanced at Sam, a hopeful look on his face. Sam leaned up, his eyes already half-lidded with sleep again.    “Don’t worry, I’ll be around for pancakes,” he murmured against Steve’s lips.

The next morning, Bucky finally snapped and sent a small flurry of texts.

Epilogue. (7 months later.)

Sam’s phone buzzed on his bedside table, startling him slightly, but the smile that came across his face when he squinted at the bright screen was as fond as ever.    “Hey, Steve.”    “Hi,” Steve said, sounding as exhausted as Sam felt. Sam rolled over in his bed, already feeling his arm cramp up from holding the phone to his ear.    “Lemme put you on speaker…”    “Won’t that wake your roommate up?”    “Steve, if Rhodey can get shuteye while he’s dating Motormouth Stark…”    “Point.”    “So, what’s up? Can’t sleep?” Sleep pressed insistently behind Sam’s eyes, but he loved hearing Steve’s voice, especially in the quiet hours of the morning.    “No, I just… wanted you to hear it outside a text.”    “Hear wh-- oh. Oh.” Sam felt the urge to hide his face in his pillow, which was a decidedly teenaged-girl thing to do. Sam was a firm believer in the eradication of gendered expectations, though, so he allowed himself to indulge in a little silent pillow-screaming.    “I love you, Sam.” Well, shit. Sam hadn’t expected the words to slam into him, to sink into his skin like that; he hadn’t expected the sudden rush of warmth in his chest; and he sure as shit didn’t expect to think The love songs were right all along.    “I love your dumb ass too, Steve. Even though you got paint on my new book.” Steve’s deep laugh made Sam close his eyes with pleasure. "I'll buy you a new one."    "Yeah, you will..."    "I'd buy you a thousand books if I could."     "I love it when you talk dirty, Steve."      "I love you."     "God, Rogers, stop." Sam was entirely unable to keep the smile out of his voice, and he heard Steve laugh again, low and happy.

(And yes, they fell asleep on the phone, listening to each other breathe. Yes, they were that kind of couple now. And yes, Bucky definitely took full credit every time he told the story to friends for years to come.)

#fic #my fic #samstevegiftexchange #writing #Freebird #Samsteve #hheroes #GOD the number of times I've had to reformat and reupload this fucking thing #my posts: the posts that hurt the most...s