There's just something about a quinjet that screams "Not inconspicuous! At all! Look at us!"

Maybe it's because Bucky associates them with Avengers and enormous towers with A at the top of them and smashed airports and fancy fucking outfits that are just as attention-seeking as they are effective.

He's not bitter, though. He'd grown to like the giant Cat man, and Wakanda, and the security there. T'Challa was even designing a new arm to replace the one that Stark unceremoniously blew off of him. But things change, circumstances happen beyond his control, and now he's on a quinjet with Steve and Sam flying to a remote safe house in the states.

The states. Yeah, he is super excited about that.

After hours of being in this damn jet (and who gave Steve fucking Rogers a license to fly this thing anyway, hello, he crashed a plane into the Arctic on purpose once), they land in the middle of a field. Yes, a field. Literally right next to a fucking cow. They file off one by one, each taking in their new surroundings. Bucky moos hello to the cow.

"Did you just moo?" Sam asks. Bucky shrugs, and Sam rolls his eyes. "You didn't say a fucking word the entire flight, and yet, you greet a cow. A goddamn cow."

"Maybe it's one of the twenty languages he can speak," Steve mutters, never taking his eyes off of his phone.

Bucky sneers at both of them. "Where the hell are we?"

"Right outside of Cut Bank, Montana. About 30 miles from the Canadian border," Steve answers, wrinkling his nose. "I got the coordinates right, this is the place."

Coordinates his ass. "It's a farm, Steve."

Acres of farmland surround them, further than even their eyes can see. There's a house with a garden, and a shack for chickens, and oh hey, there's a turkey to go along with the cows. Did they actually manage to travel back in time? These days, Bucky wouldn't question any possibility.

Sam grumbles something about wifi and separate bedrooms and walks toward the house, not even paying attention to the ground in front of him. Bucky considers warning him, but doesn't really feel like putting the effort into it. He pats Steve on the arm though, pointing to the piles on the ground.

They hear a squelch, and a "goddammit", and an "I hate you, Barnes", like somehow it's Bucky's fault that Sam just stepped in cow shit. It's not like he asked to be saved, or told them to not sign the Accords, or shit on the ground.

Steve's nose is buried in his phone again, and he delivers a casual "watch out for cow patties" as he passes Sam, as if he would have known that already or something without Bucky giving him a heads up.

"I hate you too, Cap!"

"No, you don't."

Bucky laughs and heads off to look for a hose. This will be fun.

The house isn't bad, actually. Better than any place Bucky's ever lived in outside of Wakanda. There's high speed wifi, and three bedrooms, a comfy leather recliner that he has secretly already claimed as his, and all the basics they'd need to survive for a little while. The kitchen is only lightly stocked. They'll need more food soon.

On the counter by the refrigerator are Montana driver's licenses, with their new aliases and slightly modified pictures. Just like a mission. Bucky's heard of this Photoshop thing before, but didn't realize it could give him a haircut and a shave. It's a little creepy. By his ID is a phone, tablet, a razor, and fancy scissors. Fuck.

He shakes that weird icky feeling off and looks at Steve's pile. Same electronics and brown hair dye. Sam's pile has glasses. Okay, yeah, it could be worse. Hair grows back, and he doesn't know why he's so attached to this mop in the first place. Maybe just because it keeps Steve acutely aware of the fact that he's not the same Bucky Barnes he remembers from the 30s and 40s.

Bucky grabs the photo ID, scissors, and razor, then heads to the bedroom at the end of the hall. It has an attached Jack and Jill bathroom, so he closes himself in it for privacy. Or to hide. Same thing, really.

"Okay. We can do this." He props "his" picture against the mirror, anxiously comparing it to his reflection. The name catches his eye, and he frowns. "Bobby Burns, really? The fuck."

His life is so fantastical that he's convinced it's not real. How could it be? He knows he was born in 1917. He's 100 years old, and looks 30. One day he'll wake up from this shit as an old man, having a day of clarity from his dementia. And then he'll die. Finally.

But for now, this is it. Bobby Burns with short hair and no beard.

Start with the beard, he thinks. That'll be less painful. He opens the cabinets under the sink, finding an old can of Barbasol tucked behind a stack of towels. Instinctively he tries to open it with his left hand, because somehow he can't always remember that it's not there. Instead he bangs the top on the edge of the counter to pop it off, shakes the can, and squeezes it directly on his face.

Shit, he needed to get his face wet first. Start over.

Twenty minutes later the beard is gone, even the hairs that grow in the dimple of his chin. The hair though - how the fuck is he supposed to cut his hair with only one hand? Couldn't they have left a pair of clippers instead of shears? He could pull off a buzz cut without looking like a serial killer. Maybe.

His head is tilted and the scissors raised when the door to his right slams open. And it's not like he means to point to the scissors at Sam, but he just startled him and well, yeah. Gotta protect yourself.

Sam takes one look at the scissors and yelps, "Shit." Because Bucky has shot at him and kicked him off a helicarrier but his cause of death was destined to be Bucky in the bathroom with the scissors, obviously.

"I'm not gonna stab you," Bucky mutters, lowering the shears. He gives Sam a once over and scowls at his bare legs. "Where're your pants?"

Sam matches his scowl. "Someone got them all wet."

"Sounds like a personal problem."

Then Sam decides to be the bigger man instead of a jerk, and Bucky hates it. Sam nods to the scissors. "Looks like I'm not the only one with a personal problem."

Bucky could either deny this and end up with a hackjob coif or ask for help, and still potentially end up with a hackjob coif. He sighs and places the scissors on the counter, picking up the driver's license. "I'm supposed to look like this," he says, shoving it in Sam's face.

Sam leans back to focus on the picture. "Difficult task. This guy actually looks good."

Bucky puts on his murder face, and Sam laughs at him. "Look, some guidance. Free of charge. If you want something, ask for it. The worst that can happen is that the answer is no."

That's not actually the worst thing that can happen, Bucky knows, but okay. He'll play along. Sam is good. He's the human equivalent of a bird's asshole, but he's good. Trustworthy. "Will you...cut my hair. Please."

"Was that so hard?"

"Yes," Bucky answers. He doesn't know why it was hard, it just was. He actually sort of likes Sam, has ever since the man made it clear that he wasn't going to give him special treatment just because he was damaged. But even though he doesn't dislike him, it's still easier to deal with him in a rude, snarky fashion.

Sam just smiles, and it's weird. He doesn't have any smartass remarks either, just pulls a stool out from under the counter. Sam wets a comb from the drawer as Bucky sits. The timing is good, since he's starting to feel a little light-headed. The stool at the counter, the bright lights, the comb yanking his head back as it works the knots out. He sees a girl with a scowl that matches his. He sees his mother apologizing.

"Gotta get the tangles out," Bucky says, like she used to say.

Sam doesn't apologize. "At least it's clean."

"Not an animal."

"No, you're not." Sam shrugs, reaches for the scissors. Bucky closes his eyes and wonders why the Bird is being semi-nice to him all of a sudden. "Why not ask Steve?"

Lots of reasons. "He wouldn't go by the photo."

"Maybe not, but maybe he would. Just because you think he doesn't accept you for who you are doesn't make it a fact."

Bucky clenches his fist. "What are you, the president of the Steve Rogers fan club?"

"I'm his best friend," Sam replies, and Bucky struggles just a little bit with that. "Which means I know your real answer should have been that his impatient ass would have given you a shitty chop job because he can't stand in one place longer than two minutes."

"That was my second reason." Bucky snorts. He tries so hard to relax, but he can hear the first snip of the scissors in his hair and he wants to run. Run back to when haircuts were something to be proud of, not a functional necessity. He took pride in his looks at one point in time. Maybe that's something he should try to do again.

He opens one eye to peak a look at his reflection. Shit, half of his hair is gone already. Fuck. Shit. Breathe. Close eyes again. Talk, and be nice, this guy has scissors. "Is this the first time you've cut someone's hair?"

Snip, snip, snip. "Nah. I mean, I don't make a habit of it, but there have been a few times in the past when I helped someone out in the desert or something."

Right. Sam's a soldier, like him. Like Steve. They can all get along, be friends. Bucky not only likes Sam, he trusts him for some reason, and has since he first talked to him in Berlin. He's almost easier than Steve because Bucky has nowhere to go but up as far as likability goes.

"So, since we're asking questions and conveniently ignoring this oddly intimate situation, what with the hair touching and lack of pants...is there a reason you immediately disappeared into the bathroom instead of helping us unload shit off the plane?"

Bucky answers without thinking. "Have to be mission ready."

"This isn't a mission, Barnes."

"I know," Bucky winces. He knows, he knows, and he still can't get that way of thinking out of his head. Every place is a potential trap. Every word should be analyzed, every person suspicious. At least he can think and feel on his own now, but as much as he wants to take that half of his brain out and stomp it into the ground, he can't.

Sam runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, and okay, this is the first time he understands what Sam meant by intimate situation. The doctors in Wakanda touched him, his handlers with Hydra touched him, his mother, Steve, but nobody ever ran their fingers through his hair. What the fuck, why is that so nice?

"It ain't perfect but neither are you," Sam says, and pats the hair off his clothes.

Bucky opens his eyes fully, and wow. Not that he's checking himself out, but he looks pretty damn good. Sam deserves a tip or something cause Bucky looks like a normal person somehow.

Sam claps his hands together. "Okay, so, if you want a mission, you can wash my damn pants."

Hmm, maybe no tip after all. "Fine," Bucky mumbles. "Thanks for lending a hand. No pun intended."

"Did you just make an armless joke, seriously?"

Bucky shrugs. "I can be funny."

"Yeah, you're hilarious."

And Sam disappears, leaving Bucky alone with his reflection. He makes a few faces and poses, and thinks about flexing in a show of faux masculinity but yeah, just the one arm. Life is a fucking bitch.

There's a broom and dustpan in the closet, so he cleans up the mess in the bathroom before exploring the rest of the house. Steve is in the great room, drying his much darker hair. When he sees Bucky he freezes, like he's looking at a ghost. Sorry Steve, but this guy's been a ghost for a long time.

"You cut your hair," Steve says softly.

"Sam cut my hair," Bucky corrects him quickly, not wanting to dwell on this. "You dyed yours."

Apparently Sam suddenly being a barber confuses Steve, but he recovers quickly. He tugs at his hair. "What do you think?"

Bucky wrinkles his nose. "You look like a giant choad," he jokes. Truthfully, Steve looks great, but he doesn't want to actually say that.

Steve's eyes flash. He ducks his head and laughs. "Well, I'm gonna grow a beard, too."

"So you'll be a hairy choad, then."

Steve laughs harder, holding his midsection, then practically falls into Bucky. He wraps his arms around Bucky's waist and squeezes, and this is a helluva lot of touching for one day. "I'm so glad you're here."

Bucky smiles and squeezes back as best as he can. He's not sure yet if he's glad that he's here, but he is glad that he's with Steve. Good thing, too, because it doesn't look like Steve is letting go anytime soon.

Take that, best friend Sam Wilson.

Some lady with brown hair drives up in a Ford F250, parks it, and flies off in the quinjet.

Whatever.

Habits aren't easy to break, especially ones that get ingrained into one's head for survival purposes. So yes, Bucky searches every room for audio/video recording devices and locates all the weapons in the house. Not surprisingly, there's a veritable shit ton of them. Each common room gets a rifle or a shotgun, and each of the bedrooms gets a pistol that Bucky thinks best suits the current inhabitant.

Steve gets an old .45 caliber 1911 because the chances are slim that he's fired a gun since World War II and that's the most similar to what he carried back then. Sam gets the Glock so he doesn't have to fuck with a safety. And Bucky saves the Sig Sauer for himself, because if either one of these idiots think they're taking a Sig away from him they clearly don't know him at all.

When Bucky finishes his task of further securing an already freaking secure safe house, he notices that someone has confiscated his phone and tablet. He's about to wage a war until he realizes that Sam is just setting up an account and downloading a plethora of music and movies for him. Some of the purchases he knows, most he doesn't.

"You're not gonna like everything," Sam says.

Bucky stares at his electronic devices, frowning. "Is it strange to you that we have StarkPhones and StarkPads, even though the guy tried to kill me and was kinda responsible for you ending up in a prison below sea level?"

Sam quirks an eyebrow. "No, actually. Not at all."

Bucky starts with the music first, skipping through and listening to the songs that make him want to get up and move. Most of the songs are popular, or were at one point in time. He used to dance - not to anything like this poppy shit that he's a little shocked to find he's actually enjoying, but music he could swing to. He sees that Sam included some Louis Armstrong and Benny Goodman, but that music is just more fun to dance to with a partner.

The familiar songs bring back a raw unfamiliarity. Places and voices and people without faces, taunting him because he should remember them and he doesn't. He can't even apologize to the ones he forgot that deserve remembering.

No old music. New shit, definitely new shit.

Bucky finds an album he really likes, one that makes him shut and lock his door so he can listen to it in peace and absorb the intensity of it without judgment. He likes it so much that he searches the artist on YouTube, and that's it, the whole day is shot to hell after that.

Bucky wonders for a brief moment before bed if this Beyonce goddess would possibly leave that cheating asshole Jay-Z for him.

Routine is good, great even. It keeps Bucky focused on the things going on outside of his mind instead of the goings on within. He goes to bed by 11:00, but he doesn't sleep much the first night. Or the next night. Or at all, really. Too many unfamiliar sounds in this new place, not to mention the snoring coming from the other bedrooms. Sometimes he dreams, quick little bursts of nonsense. He dreams in languages he doesn't speak. He dreams of memories that aren't his.

Unfortunately, Sam likes routine too, and he gets up just as early as Bucky but it's by choice, not because he just can't lie in bed anymore. And he's not quiet about it, either. He watches the news. He curses at the coffee-maker because it sucks apparently. He hums.

Like, okay. He gets it. Birds are morning creatures but please shut the fuck up.

Until, anyway, that one awful morning when Bucky is actually sleeping deeper than he has since he first came out of cryo in Wakanda and the doctors were still pumping him full of feel-good medicine. He's in so deep that he knows his mind is waking up but his body doesn't yet. His eyes open but he can't move, just like so many times before when he was being forced back to life by the Germans, the Russians, the Americans...

And he panics, a full-fledged attack because his mind is so fucked up that he thinks he's paralyzed, or maybe he actually is paralyzed. It's about time this body finally gave out on him.

Yes, this is it. He's dying.

"You're not dying," a soft voice says. Angels don't talk like that. A morning person talks like that.

Bucky hears the bed creak, and Sam speak again. "Keep breathing. Can I touch your hand?"

Nod. Shit, he can't nod. "Okay."

And he feels two hands envelop his, and that's good, he can feel at least. It feels good, like the fingers in his hair did. "I can't move," Bucky says.

"Try to just focus on breathing and talking for now, okay?"

"Okay," he says again.

"Do you have medication you can take?"

"Yeah, but. I'll be okay." Bucky just breathes, and he listens to Sam talk about nonsensical things for a little bit, until he's tired of hearing about his massive comic book collection back home. He'd never taken Sam for a geek. "Tell me something relevant," he interrupts.

Sam pauses, and Bucky thinks maybe he just won't say anything. What he'd said was a little rude. Then Sam sighs and simply says, "I miss my mom."

Me too, Bucky thinks. He squeezes Sam's hand, a small victory because it is slow but he's moving again. "You're a good person, Sam. You deserve better than this shit."

"Finally," Sam laughs. "Somebody else sees it."

Bucky laughs too, and then Sam is gone, off to yell at the coffee-maker again. And that makes Bucky smile, because routine is good. It's comfortable.

The closest town to get some quick necessities is Cut Bank. There's a big penguin with a sign that says "welcome to the coldest spot in the nation," and Sam is already bitching about that. That guy has a lot to complain about, but honestly his feelings seem pretty justified on most subjects. The cold thing, though. Sam knows nothing about cold.

The farm itself is there to keep its inhabitants as secluded from society as possible. The garden has vegetables and herbs growing now, but they have to sustain it and store for the winter. Milk comes from the cows, eggs from the chickens, and apparently meat from hunting and fishing. Sam says it's like fucking Oregon Trail out here, whatever that means, and then volunteers Bucky to die from Dysentery.

Bucky would probably hate Sam if he didn't actually really like his snark and insults. Steve makes his bitch face when either he or Sam say something out of line, and it's actually kinda fun to mess with him.

Speaking of Steve, he's really taking to the whole nature thing. Since Amazon can deliver with drones now - seriously, what the fuck - they're all allowed to order a few things with their fake aliases' credit cards. Makes it seem more like normal people are living here, Steve explains. Like Bucky really needs a lesson on being a spy, but he just lets Steve have this one thing.

One day Steve is his normal Captain America with the dark hair self, the next he's like a fucking mountain man with flannel shirts and boots and a beard. He wants to do the hunting and the fishing and take care of the animals, even though Bucky reminds him that he's from fucking Brooklyn.

Sam has glasses that he rarely wears, but he's supposed to start teaching a class at the Blackfeet Community College for the fall semester so he buys some nerdy sweaters and slacks to go with his wire-rimmed spectacles. It's quite a look, like if Clark Kent wasn't actually Superman and was really just a giant dork. Since Steve is gathering most of the food, Sam volunteers to cook for them. Something to do with him not liking boiled chicken.

And then there's Bucky with his short hair and no beard and one arm, and the inexplicable need to make this crazy safe house a home. Whether it's the idiots he's living with or because for the first time in recent history he feels rooted to one place, he doesn't know. But he cleans and tends to the garden and somehow feels a little less lost, a lot more grounded. He likes it.

Steve also steals Bucky's phone, but only to add a few books that would have appealed to Bucky 1.0. Turns out, his taste is basically still the same, and The Martian is his entire reason for living for two straight days.

He's being dramatic by thinking that. Obviously he's been spending too much time with Steve.

Sam's making a huge vat of spaghetti, Bucky's picking up the house, and Steve's trying to nap because he's been up since 3:00 a.m. Bucky's still not sure how his life has evolved into a sexless domestic threesome, but yeah. It has.

Living with Steve brings back a very old memory - the guy is a fucking slob. Sam's actually surprised at how messy good ol' Steve Rogers can be, because it certainly doesn't fit with the pristine Captain America persona. He's not going to pick up after him, though - Sam likes hearing Bucky chastise Steve relentlessly about it too much to cover for the big guy.

"Steven Rogers, you are a neanderthal!" Bucky picks up Steve's boots from the middle of the kitchen floor, hissing at the streak of mud below it. Honestly, why the fuck does he even bother to clean?

"You sound like your mother," Steve snaps back from the great room.

Bucky points the muddy boots in Steve's direction. "Say that again and I'll castrate you."

Oh God, he does sound like his mother.

Then Sam nearly trips over Bucky while he's cleaning up the mud, kneeing him in the face as he catches himself on the counter. "Why are you on the floor, man?"

"No, that's okay, I'm fine," Bucky grumbles. "Did you not hear me yelling at Steve?"

Sam shrugs in apology. "I tune you out most of the time, to be honest. Hey, do we have any oregano in the garden? I can't find any of the dried stuff in this place."

So Bucky launches into a ten minute speech about how the fresh shit tastes better and he's learning from the internet how to dehydrate them and then returns from the garden with fresh oregano and basil because flavor, Wilson. And Sam looks as scared as he did when Bucky pointed scissors at him in the bathroom on the first day, but he takes it with a thank you.

And the spaghetti is fucking awesome. Sam even gives him double the portion Steve gets, probably because he feels bad about kneeing him in the face.

Sam is done, gone to the bathroom or something, and Steve is intently watching Bucky wipe up a dollop of sauce with his thumb. "What?" Bucky asks, sucking the sauce off with a loud pop.

Steve keeps staring with his head cocked for at least a minute before he actually speaks. "He's fattening you up."

Bucky blinks, confused. "Is this some sort of slang I'm not aware of yet? I'm trying to keep up with memes but it's a lot of fucking work."

"No, idiot." Steve laughs. "You remember Mary Ellen Conway, from high school? Skinny thing-"

"You're one to talk."

"-coulda leaned her against a wall and mistaken her for a mop," Steve finishes.

Maybe Bucky remembers her? He's not sure. "What about her?"

"She got married straight out of school to some guy in Manhattan who was pretty well to do," Steve says, and if it bothers him that Bucky's a little clueless he doesn't show it. "A year later I see her back in Brooklyn, she has tits and an ass that won't quit. Well fed, well fucked."

"Okay. I still don't see what this has to do with you calling me fat, which I'm pretty sure you just did."

Steve rolls his eyes and stretches his legs. "I did no such thing. I'm simply pointing out that Sam feeds you first. And the most. And maybe the seams of your pants are feeling a bit of pressure, is all."

Bucky stares, dumbfounded. The need to pinch his midsection is strong as fuck, but he resists. "You think - Sam thinks - I'm the wife? I am not the wife! We are not married! This is not a domestic threesome!"

"Domestic threesome?"

"Nevermind!" Bucky grimaces. He needs to do the dishes, and shit, not think of whatever fuckery that need might imply.

"I'm not saying you're anybody's wife, or less of a man-"

"Or fat."

"Or fat," Steve adds with a smile. "Sam is very nurturing by nature, and he's apparently chosen you to be the newest recipient of this affection. I've been there, it's a good feeling. He may talk a lot of shit, but he wants you here with us. He just has a different way of showing it."

Bucky tries to tuck his hair behind his ear even though it's far too short to do that anymore. "Okay," he says, and clears the dishes off the table because he really doesn't know anything else to say or do.

"Or he might just have a chubby kink," Steve adds lightly.

Bucky drops the dishes, and now there's spaghetti sauce all over the floor, which is not so bad because this will give him a much needed distraction before he retires to his room to google "chubby kink."

Everything is a damn kink these days.

Okay, but seriously, everything is a kink these days.

It's making Bucky's head hurt trying to process how dressing up like an animal is arousing. He thought it was a joke. It's not a joke.

If he's being perfectly honest, he's not even sure what would arouse him. Cryostasis isn't exactly conducive to an active sex drive, or boners in general. He can get it up, he's pretty sure, he just hasn't had a reason to.

He still doesn't have a reason to.

But a little research never hurt anybody, and it's pretty entertaining actually. Nothing that tickles his fancy or whatever, which is confusingly annoying. Bucky Barnes, the sexual animal, might have died as a figment of his imagination. Fuck, he doesn't even know if he's had sex before.

It's past Steve's bedtime, but oh well. Bucky creeps up the hall to Steve's room. He sleeps with the door cracked so Bucky just slides inside, hissing Steve's name as he does.

"No," Steve mumbles.

"Steve!" Bucky hisses louder.

Steve sits straight up in bed with his eyes still closed. "You wanna start some shit, I will fight you."

Even in his sleep he is trying to fight, what the hell. Bucky sits with his legs crossed on the bed and stares at his friend. A few seconds pass and Steve opens his eyes, blinking in confusion. "Buck? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, I just wanted to talk for a second."

And Steve's face lights up, making Bucky realize that he must not do this anymore - just want to talk for no reason. Talking to Steve used to be as much a part of life as breathing, and now it's...he has to remind himself some days that he isn't alone anymore and should take advantage of it. Bucky feels a little bad about this now because he'd up and decided to do it while Steve was sleeping. He should say something instead of just staring. "Sorry for waking you, I wasn't thinking, but this is a you topic, not a Sam topic."

"Okay." Steve flattens his duvet over his legs. "What's on your mind?"

"I don't remember sex," Bucky says, worrying his bottom lip with his teeth. "And I don't really feel that interested in doing it, to be honest. I mean, but I did before, right? Please tell me I'm not the world's oldest virgin."

"Well, there are some people out there older than you..." Steve trails off, rubbing an eye with his fist as Bucky groans loudly. "I mean, I don't know for sure, but I think you would have boasted about something like that."

Well, that explains why he doesn't remember sex. Steve snaps his fingers. "Evelyn something-or-another, she gave you a hand job. Pretty sure."

"Okay." Bucky doesn't remember Evelyn something-or-another. Maybe it's not so bad to have one little piece of purity in an otherwise tainted life. It's possible he could still make it as a Saint one of these days...

"Is this because of what I said earlier? Because I was just joking. Well, mostly."

"Kinda." Pulling his legs up to his chest, Bucky rests his chin on his knees. "I'm still trying to adapt to being-"

Don't say human, his mind screams.

"I know," Steve says. He squeezes Bucky's hand like he understands, and maybe he does a little bit, but not to this extent. There's no point in trying to put it into words, though. Nothing can accurately describe it.

He wants to deflect without pushing Steve away. Having someone hold his hand is nice, but if Bucky voices that, Steve'll probably never let go. "So," Bucky says. "You got one of those kink things?"

"Do I?" Steve laughs and turns as red as a tomato. "Wow. Um. I dunno, maybe."

"Come on, indulge me. I got nothing here, man."

Steve wrinkles his nose. "You know, being sexually active doesn't validate your humanity."

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Thanks for the encouragement, Mr. Rogers. Can I not just be curious?"

"Okay then." Like he's about to deliver some horrible news or something, Steve sucks in a big breath of air. "It might be kinda fun to have some group sex with a side of light bondage. Not that I know; I don't know that would be fun, I just think that might be fun."

Bucky blinks, because what the fuck. It's not like he can judge the guy, though. Who knows, group sex with a side of light bondage...nope. No. "Every time I see a rope I'm going to kinkshame you now. And yes, I know what that means, I literally just read it."

"Whatever," Steve says, playfully pushing Bucky away.

"Never took you for an orgy guy."

"See if I tell you anything ever again."

"I'm actually scared of what you might confess next."

"Good night, Buck." Steve covers himself back up as he falls back on his mattress. "Have fun reading about weird kinks. Or just watch porn."

"Night, Steve." Bucky uncurls himself and climbs down off the bed. Even if this conversation was a little - okay, a lot - weird, it still filled him with a sense of goodness. Friendship, bonding, and all that shit.

And porn. Why didn't he think of that?

Porn is...meh.

Maybe it's not for everybody.

With fall approaching soon, the guys are essentially preparing for hibernation mode. Steve's transformation into Captain Mountainman is pretty fucking wild. He's built shooting houses in trees in the wooded area on the property, learned how to process animals for eating, and chopped down a bunch of trees for firewood.

That little guy from Brooklyn is barely visible anymore.

Chopping wood looks like fun. Bucky watches from the house while Steve and Sam do it, racing to see who can fill up their pile the fastest. He feels a twinge of jealousy that he wasn't invited. They had their reasons, he's sure. The lack of arm. A recovering assassin wielding an axe. Ya know. Reasons.

He'll just have to wait until they're not looking.

Late in the afternoon the next Sunday, Sam is snoozing on the couch and Steve is watching the Giants game on television. Bucky slides into a pair of jeans and boots and sneaks out the back door of the house. For a September evening it's hot and humid, but he figures he should enjoy the warmth while it lasts.

Bucky stares at the large chunks of wood and the axes. It's been awhile since he'd found an outlet (secret bedroom dancing notwithstanding) to get some of his energy out. Sure, he runs and does push-ups and sit-ups every day, but that is boring. He really wants to utterly fuck this wood up.

Grabbing a chunk of wood, he sets it on the cutting block and snatches an axe. Steve and Sam swing with both hands, so Bucky takes his time adjusting to the weight and balance of the weapon before he finally swings. It connects and splits the wood down the middle. He repositions and connects again. Fuck yeah, he can do this.

Another chunk, another swing. Again and again until sweat is dripping off his brow and his jeans cling rudely to his thighs. He reaches for more wood and holy shit, it's the last piece. Steve's just going to have to cut down another tree, dammit, even though they now have an actual fuck ton of firewood.

Bucky tosses as many pieces as he can into a sling to carry to the side of the house. As he shakes his head to get the wet bangs out of his eyes he catches a glimpse of the audience he didn't realize he'd had on the porch. Country living has allowed him to drop his guard a little bit, apparently. Steve is scowling, no doubt because Bucky finished one of his tasks and Steve loves his goddamn tasks.

And Sam is...Sam is looking at him with a funny little smirk. Bucky meets his eyes and Sam nods his head, shouting across the lawn, "Looking good, Barnes!"

That definitely meant "for a guy adjusting to his physical disability", but Bucky's feeling really good about himself right now, so he winks and blows a kiss to Sam. Steve laughs, patting his belly with one hand and shoveling imaginary food with a fake fork into his mouth with the other. What an idiot.

Not waiting for a response from Sam, Bucky drops his head and checks himself out as he carries the wood. This body of his was built to be utilitarian - he's strong and fast and used to be slim, but now the added weight from his consistent meals has made him bulky. Not fat, Steve Rogers. Obviously it's not intentional on anyone's part, no matter what Steve says, but maybe Bucky likes his new body better than the old one. His appearance is softer now. Less like a single-minded assassin.

When Bucky drops the wood on top of the pile, a small flash of gray lightning shoots across his feet. A cat. And not a damn bobcat, like, a normal little fluffy gray cat. "Whoa dude, you are lost," he says, tentatively sticking his hand out for the little beast to smell. "How the hell did you end up all the way out here?"

The cat knocks his nose against Bucky's knuckles and purrs. Shit, do they have a cat now? Where the fuck did it come from?

"Okay, listen little guy." He picks up the cat, inspecting it for bombs or bugs because you never know. "Sorry. Little girl. See, I live with a man that thinks he's a bird. If I bring you inside he might freak out and fly off or something."

Little girl meows, and Bucky laughs like the kitty actually spoke to him. "I know, right? I know a guy that thinks he's a cat, too. He's a king and pretty badass, you'd like him. Why am I talking to you like this is normal? This isn't normal."

Bucky returns the cat to the ground and finishes loading up his wood. The feline follows him back and forth, and goddammit he wants to keep the cat. Before he goes inside he promises to sneak her some food after dinner.

Sam fixes his plate, and his portions of fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, and sliced tomatoes are bigger than everyone else's. "Shut up, Steve," Bucky grumbles.

"I didn't say any-"

"Shut up, Steve!"

After the dishes are done and the kitchen is clear, Bucky sneaks back in and opens the refrigerator to look for some leftovers for his little kitty friend. And maybe some dessert for himself, he could really go for some pie or pudding or something. Chocolate, preferably.

Then something smacks him on the ass. His eyes go wide and he freezes, thankful that his face is shoved deep in the refrigerator. That was definitely a hand. Someone's hand was just on his ass and oh shit, he thinks he might have enjoyed that a little bit.

"Move that thick booty, man, you're blocking traffic," Sam says.

Sam. Touched. His. Ass.

Bucky emerges from the refrigerator with...some green beans from the day before. Oh. Sam's looking at him expectantly, so he holds the tupperware of food up and mutters, "Beans."

Hopefully the cat isn't picky, because he has to get out of the kitchen before Sam realizes his face is red and that he can't form a sentence.

Perhaps he does have one of those kink things after all?

Little girl likes green beans, but probably because Sam is a fucking awesome cook and puts ham in them. Bucky should find a way to tell Sam that he really appreciates the food without asking if he has some sort of ulterior motive. Or while subtly asking that.

The kitty needs a name. Sasha Fierce seems appropriate.

The next morning, Bucky hems Steve up in his room before he pulls his disappearing act for the day. "I need a favor, Steve."

"Shoot."

Bucky nods. "I need you to spank me."

Steve is confused and possibly a little terrified. "Have you been...bad?"

"No, I just..." How does one answer that kind of question? "It's for science, okay?"

And Bucky never noticed it before but Steve looks like a Labrador Retriever when he tilts his head. "Science?"

Dammit, that reason always seems to work on the internet. "Yes, science. Can you just do it?"

"This doesn't have anything to do with Winter Soldier stuff, does it?"

"No," Bucky whines, bending himself onto the bed. "Just once is fine."

"I dunno."

"Goddammit, Steve, just slap my ass!"

Then probably just to shut him up, Steve spanks his ass hard enough that Bucky feels his glutes jiggle against his sweatpants. What was it Sam had called it? A thick booty? Maybe the guys were right.

Sadly, that was the only thing Bucky felt. No blushing or funny tingles in his tummy, just annoyance that Steve has to do everything at 110%. His ass burns as he rights himself and heads back to his room, tossing a "Thanks, pal!" over his shoulder as he leaves.

Luckily this is a teaching day for Sam, so Bucky gets the house to himself and Sasha, who he sneaks in to keep him company. He doesn't actually want to be alone, he's just not sure if he's cool enough to form intelligent sentences around Sam right now. Most likely he would squeak out a ridiculous insult like calling him Spanky or something and then run off to the woods to die.

To distract himself, Bucky cleans. He dusts everything, washes the windows, vacuums and mops the floors, all the while washing all of the laundry in the house. Cleaning is a chore, yes, but for some reason he likes doing it here, like he is contributing equally to the household instead of being the burden that forced them all into this situation.

Time quickly gets away from him. He's blasting the disco playlist from his StarkPad while trying to fold towels and attempting to dance, because if you got booty you gotta use it, when he realizes that Sam is already home from work - in full teacher mode with glasses and a fucking cardigan - and staring at him like he has two heads.

Bucky might have been singing, too.

"I can never unsee that!" Sam yells above the music.

"Sorry," Bucky says, pausing his music app. Sasha hops onto the couch and immediately hisses at Sam.

"Whoa!" Sam points to the cat. "What the fuck is that?"

The kitty allows Bucky to pick her up and bring her to Sam without further discourse. "This is Sasha Fierce."

"No."

Bucky scowls and stage whispers to Sasha, "Don't eat the bird, okay? I know you can smell fear."

"This is a safe house!" Sam yells, flailing his arms about. "You can't have a pet at a safe house!"

Sasha meows. Bucky holds her up to Sam, who backs away. "But Sam," Bucky says in a high-pitched voice, "I'm the most bomb pussy ever."

Sam closes his eyes. He's either about to laugh or kill something. Probably kill something, which is saying a lot since Sam is easily the most level-headed person he's ever met. He exhales slowly. "First off," Sam speaks slowly, "that is not the kinda pussy my wife is referring to in that song."

His wife? Hell no. "Don't presume to know what kind of pussy my wife was referring to."

"Secondly," Sam says, his voice growing louder. "Keep that damn cat in your room, okay? S'not my problem. I ain't feeding, petting, or cleaning up after that thing."

Sasha meows again, and Bucky's pretty sure she understands English. That meow probably meant something like "pretty bird", just 'cause she seems like she could be a bitch like that.

"And thirdly," Sam opens his eyes. Bucky tries not to stare directly into them because he can't help but notice that they're big and brown and kind, and they make him feel funny. Now's not the time to think about that though, because Sam actually looks deadly serious. "Where's Steve?"

"Steve?" Bucky frowns, feeling uneasy all of a sudden. It's almost dark outside. Where is Steve?

"Yeah, the tall blond geriatric that lives with us. It's 6:00, he's usually back by 5:00 at the latest."

Oh. Shit.

It's the two of them, a 4-wheeler, a rifle, and a shotgun against the unknown. Bucky isn't pleased that he has the shotgun and pumps it one-handed with a glare to show his displeasure, even though that does nothing but fucking prove Sam's point.

They drive the little Honda ATV to the edge of the property's tree line and navigate from there on foot. It seems unlikely that there's anything sinister behind Steve's absence, but they could never be too sure. They are fugitives, after all.

"You even know how to shoot that thing?" Bucky teases Sam, with just a slight hint of honesty behind it.

Sam scowls in the faint light of the sunset. "I've fired at you with one of these before."

"I'll take that as a no, seeing as how I'm still here to not remember that at all."

"Shut up." Sam casts a glance in Bucky's direction, sizing him up. But instead of issuing another comeback, he gives an apology. "Sorry if I overstepped last night. That's the kinda thing that wouldn't be a problem with Steve, but you and I aren't in the same place as he and I are."

Oh.

Had Bucky really acted that upset last night? He'd just awkwardly said beans and ran away, so yeah, maybe. When really, it wasn't so much a problem as a...

As.

A good thing. Shit.

Bucky swallows down his embarrassment to respond. "Not a problem. I appreciate it, actually."

Sam stops in his tracks. "You appreciate me calling you thick and slapping you on the ass?"

"No!" Bucky yells way too loudly. "No, I - I appreciate that you are comfortable with me. That I'm not some homicidal stranger to you."

"Okay." His eyes narrow but Sam keeps walking. "Haven't been that for a while to me, but okay."

Time for a subject change. "Anyway, the whole thick joke is fine, whatever, Steve must have said something to you about you feeding me more than him."

That was basically the opposite of changing the subject. Disaster.

And Sam is scowling again. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Nevermind."

"Bullshit, don't cover for that sassy little shit, what'd he say?"

Bucky shrugs his shoulder. "Basically...he was joking...about you fattening me up due to possibly being married or..." Bucky coughed, "a chubby kink. In summary."

"Uh huh. Okay then." Sam nods his head to the right and they veer off deeper into the woods.

"That's it?"

Sam tilts his head as if to say "how the fuck should he respond to the most insane sentence in the history of the English language?"

Bucky nods. "Fair enough."

"You're both idiots," Sam grumbles. "But I might marry you if you can make me a decent cup of coffee."

"Coffee, huh?" Not too far from them is a flannel clad figure slumped against a tree. They both take off running, the chorus of broken sticks beneath their feet alerting Steve to their oncoming rescue long before they get there. He lifts his head and nods, much to Bucky's relief.

"Jesus," Sam huffs, sounding slightly winded. As he should, since he's managing to keep pace with Bucky while they are running. Bucky slows down, searching the surrounding area with his gun raised while Sam slides to Steve's side. "What the fuck happened to you?"

Steve's clothes are ripped and he has dried blood covering scratches that look like they're already starting to heal. Bucky echoes Sam's thoughts. "Seriously, what the fuck happened to you?"

"I got into a fight," Steve answers, holding his hands up weakly. Sam is fussing over him, checking for broken bones and any signs of internal bleeding. "Sam, I'm fine."

"Like hell you are. Do we need to call in an extraction?"

Bucky lowers his gun, ignoring Sam's concern. Steve is tough as nails, always has been. "Yeah, I've heard all of this before. What the hell did you get in a fight with? A mountain lion say Canada is better than the US or something?"

Steve winces. "A bear."

"A bear said Canada is better than the US?"

"I fought a bear." Steve grits his teeth. Sam's trying to help him stand up and Steve is being a stubborn ass as usual. "But I won, though."

Bucky drops his gun to the ground. If Steve didn't look so beat up he'd punch him himself. "You got into a fight with a bear. No, you picked a fight with a bear."

"Not exactly."

"No!" Bucky shouts. "You are so full of this fucking fight-me attitude that you're out here picking fights with fucking wildlife because there's nobody else to take this shit out on. Goddamn chill the fuck out before you get yourself killed, you asshole."

"Bucky."

"You can go fuck a bear for all I care," Bucky growls, stomping away like a child throwing a tantrum. He's relieved and he's pissed and he really wishes he still had a metal arm so he could punch a tree. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Sigh. "Goddammit."

Bucky turns on his heel and stomps back, ducking down to sling one of Steve's arms over his shoulders. Steve grunts when they lift him, twisting his head to look at Bucky. "Just like old times, huh?"

"Fuck you."

Steve laughs. "Just like old times."

Sam rolls his eyes. "You two are fucked up, you know that?"

Bucky sleeps in Steve's bed that night, just like old times.

In the morning, Steve is out of bed before he is. Not like old times.

"Mornin'." Bucky yawns as he greets Steve in the kitchen. It's early as fuck but Steve is up and about like nothing out of the ordinary happened the day before. He's moving a little slowly, so maybe he'll manage to avoid trouble for one day.

"Morning, Buck. Coffee?"

"Sure."

Now, Bucky likes coffee but he's not as hyper about it as Sam is. Steve has two mugs of hot water, dropping crystals of instant coffee into them and that's fine with him. But then he watches Steve push the canister of coffee back beside the coffee-maker and it's like getting smashed over the head with a hammer. Duh, Sam. "That's instant coffee," he says.

"Yeah." Steve nods to the refrigerator. "There's a pack of the ground stuff in the freezer but it-"

"What?" Bucky smirks. "Tastes too good?"

Steve smiles and slides a mug across the counter. "Kinda."

"Does Sam take his coffee black?"

"He's military," Steve answers, as if that should have been obvious.

A few minutes later, Bucky taps on Sam's door with a warm mug full of liquid fuel in his hand. Sam grumbles something that could possibly be interpreted as "come in" so Bucky pushes the door open with his foot. "Good morning, Sunshine."

And apparently Sam sleeps without a shirt, which is perfectly normal but also very attractive and what the actual fuck is going on with Bucky's head that he is thinking these things? He can't just ask Steve something like, "Oh yeah, I know you said I'm probably a virgin but what's the likelihood that I'm also a homosexual? In percentages, please."

Sam sits up quickly once Bucky enters the room. "I smell coffee."

"That's because I made you coffee," Bucky replies with a tight-lipped smile, handing the mug over. It could taste like shit. Knowing Bucky's luck, it definitely tastes like shit.

Sniffing the mug suspiciously, Sam takes his sweet time bringing it to his lips. When he does finally, his eyelids flutter happily. Score. "Such a good husband-to-be," he jokes, taking another sip.

"Steve uh," Bucky laughs and scratches his head, "he implied that I'm the wife."

Sam grunts. "I'll let you in on a little secret."

"Okay."

Sam's finger curls, signaling Bucky to step closer, and it's not like he's going to say no to that. He wants to hear the secret. Obviously. Sam speaks in an octave lower than usual. "When it's two dudes, they're both husbands."

Right. Of course. Bucky licks his lips, wanting to pry a little further. "That something you know a lot about?"

"I know enough," Sam answers, arching an eyebrow.

Okay then. Bucky thought he wanted to pry but now he feels a little panicky so he takes a step back. "So yeah, funny story. Steve put the instant coffee in the canister next to the coffee maker so you've been brewing that instead of the real stuff. Crazy, right? How did you not notice the difference? Anyway, gotta go."

"Nuh uh. You're being weird, even for you."

Bucky takes another step back. "No, I'm not."

Sam pats the bed. "Sit." And that's just a horrible idea but Bucky does it anyway. "Are you homophobic?" Sam asks.

"What?" Bucky scoffs. "No."

"Look, I'm not gonna jump all over you about social issues because I get it, you guys grew up in a different world with different ideals and beliefs. That just doesn't necessarily mean I like it or want to hear it."

It usually makes Bucky uncomfortable to do this, but he forces himself to look Sam in the eyes. "I'm not homophobic," he repeats.

Sam nods, taking another sip of his coffee. "Okay."

With a dejected sigh Bucky slides off the bed and heads for the door.

"Thank you for the coffee. It's good." Sam smiles and it seems genuine, not forced at all. "Quit pouting, I believe you. You just looked scared shitless by the conversation, what was I supposed to think?"

"I'm not pouting. And ya know, hate isn't only reason people experience fear." Bucky clucks his tongue. "Glad you like the coffee."

It takes Steve a week to notice there's a damn cat living in the house. He's drawing out The Adventures of Steve vs The Bear or something like that one day and she just jumps in his lap and pounces on the paper. They stare at each other, and Bucky and Sam stare at them staring from the couch. Steve just shrugs and says, "You always did want a pet."

Bucky takes his word for it and allows himself to be happy that he actually got something he always wanted.

"Just rip the arm off," Sam suggests. "Winter Soldier aesthetic."

The cold weather has crept in seemingly overnight. Bucky'd been living in sleeveless tee shirts during the summer so he spends days walking around the house with a blanket wrapped around him until the new winter clothes he ordered are dropped in by one of those weird delivery drones.

And actually, Sam's the one who ordered the clothes, because he "saw how you were dressed in Romania, looking like Joey from that Friends episode where he puts on every item of Chandler's clothing and does lunges." That made no sense whatsoever, so the two of them proceeded to binge watch ten fucking seasons of that show.

And now Bucky is trying his new clothes on, but he's not like, modeling them or anything, just simply asking the opinion of the person who picked them out in the first place. He tries not to let it bother him, but the loose arm on the otherwise tight-fighting thermal shirt is frustrating. Tucking it inside the shirt is uncomfortable because yeah, these clothes are kinda tight.

His jeans are...very tight.

"I don't wanna rip the arm off," Bucky says. "It lets a draft in. Choose another aesthetic. You picked all these clothes out, what look am I supposed to be going for here?"

Sam rubs the scruff on his chin. "Hmm. Soft winter hermit."

Bucky flips Sam the bird.

"Which part of that was problematic, the soft, the winter, or the hermit?"

"The -" Bucky's not sure, exactly. "The hermit, I guess," he answers, fiddling with his loose sleeve. "Not much to do about it, though. This draws attention."

Sam shrugs. "We can hide it pretty well if you wanna venture out tonight."

"Out?"

"Sure. We can go into the city. There's not much there but it's okay if you just want a change of scenery. It's not like you can't leave the property, just stay off the goddamn news and we'll be fine."

Going out is something he didn't realize he wanted until the option was given to him. He hasn't even left the farm since their first trip into the city as a group. It's been one, no, two months. It's time. "Okay. Let's do it."

Sam pumps his fist. "We're doing it."

Steve yawns. "I'm not doing it."

"I swear, I was charming in another life," Bucky grumbles, taking a sip of his whiskey. "Is it so wrong to talk to a stranger about my cat?"

Sam's face contorts into grimace. "Really?"

"Sasha is very interesting!"

"Sasha is a bitch, but the disbelief was aimed at the thought of you ever being charming."

Ugh. Bucky shakes his head. "You're an ass. And you're not doing much better than I am, by the way."

"It's the glasses." For emphasis he pushes them further up his nose. "Or it's you. Really, it's a toss-up."

Bucky likes Sam's glasses, and he's had just enough to drink to tell him that. "I like the glasses. Makes you look intelligent."

A hand tugs on the empty sleeve of his military style jacket. "You saying I don't usually look intelligent?"

"No," Bucky balks. Another sip. "I know for a fact that some birds are extremely intelligent, actually."

"Haha. Fine, cute. But you know that social birds exhibit signs of a much higher intelligence than solitary ones."

Bucky's pretty sure he just got called a bird of lesser intelligence. "Why do you know that?"

Sam laughs and looks into his empty beer bottle. "So when assholes start calling me a bird I have a comeback. Gotta arm your body and your mind, Buckboi."

Buckboi? Bucky snorts. "Ya know, I don't think you've ever just called me Bucky before. Got something against it?"

The bartender, a middle-aged heavy-set lady whose demeanor screams "don't start shit, won't be no shit", brings Sam another beer and gives the two of them a suspicious side-eye. Bucky's sitting to the right of Sam, and in this dark hole in the wall bar the whole lack of arm thing is barely noticeable. Instead of flinching like he usually would at being sized up, Bucky offers a winning smile in her direction.

See? He can be charming.

"Well, Bobby," Sam says, putting too much emphasis on Bucky's alias' name. But then he loses his train of thought, like he forgot what the end of that sentence was supposed to be. "Yeah, I dunno. Maybe because I had to hear Steve say it so many times while sounding so goddamn sad. And it's intimate. It felt like something that only he called you. You got too many fucking names, you know that?"

"You should be able to keep up with them all, considering how gregarious you are, bird-guy." Bucky extends his hand. "Hi, I'm Bobby. But you can call me Bucky."

"Nice to meet you, Bucky." Sam smirks and shakes Bucky's hand. "My name's Thomas, but you can call me Daddy."

"Oh," is all Bucky says, because what the fuck, oh God, that is a kink he read about. Daddy? Jesus.

Sam laughs so hard that he falls off his stool. It's not that funny, damn.

"Someone actually said that to me at a bar once," Sam wheezes out as he rights himself again, holding his hand to his heart. "Except he was being serious."

"That is terrifying." Bucky laughs awkwardly, looking around the room. They hadn't talked to many people tonight, but maybe Montanans just don't like strangers. "I don't think you've got any potential Daddies hitting on you tonight. Or anybody hitting on you, period."

"Eh." Sam shrugs. "None of them are really my type anyway."

Bucky clears his throat. "What is your type, exactly?"

"Alright, honey," the surly bartender lady interrupts, startling them both. Seems she can't help but overhear half the conversations going on around her. She points to Bucky's drink. "Look, I'm gonna need to cut you off."

"What?" He pulls his drink closer and frowns. "Why?"

"Because clearly you are intoxicated if you can't see something as obvious as your friend here," she says, jamming her thumb in Sam's direction. "The man's practically sitting in your lap. He hasn't taken his eyes off of you once since you've been here. Obviously his type is pretty white boys with killer bone structure and good hair."

Sighing loudly, Sam runs his hand over his face. "Thank you. For that."

Bartender lady winks and points a finger gun in his direction. "Advice is on the house."

"That was sarcasm," Sam grunts.

So this is what having a heart attack feels like, Bucky thinks. What a way to go, though.

"Hey. You alright?"

Sam's hand is on his shoulder, the metal one, and he wants to recoil just from that but he's frozen in place. Nothing is working. His body hates him.

"She was just being dramatic," Sam says soothingly. He pulls some cash out of his pants pocket and leaves it on the bar. "Come on, I think you've had enough 'out' for the day."

Bucky nods and lets Sam lead him to the truck. God, he wants to talk but he can't figure out the words in English and he's pretty sure Sam doesn't speak Chinese or French or anything else for that matter. So he sits in uncomfortable silence while Sam drives them home. The tension is thick enough in the confined space that he feels like he's suffocating and if he could just speak it would dissipate.

Okay. One word. "So..."

Sam chuckles. "Yes, I'm gay. No, I wasn't hitting on you. You'd know it if I was."

"I'm honestly not so sure that I would," Bucky confesses.

"Trust me." Sam cocks his head to the right and gives him a look that sends Bucky back into heart attack mode again. "You would know."

All that talk about kinks and sexualities or whatever on the internet didn't really apply to Bucky, he'd figured out a while back. Except now he realizes he's kind of an exception to all of that thinking - his kink is a person, someone who was snarky and fallible and kind when he needed it, and always knew which one to be. Shit. Sam is his kink.

"I guess I'll take your word for it." Bucky runs his hand through his hair, his good hair according to that bartender. It's getting long, but if Sam cuts his hair and runs his hands through it again he might actually combust. "May I ask why you didn't confirm what I'm guessing is an important fact about yourself until now?"

Sam shrugs. "Steve knows. It's not like I'm gonna introduce myself as Sam Wilson, Homosexual. Straight people don't announce that they're straight, why should I do the opposite unless I feel it's relevant to the conversation?"

Because I wanted to know, Bucky thinks. Not gonna say it, though.

"Besides," Sam continues. "Life is hard enough without giving one more thing for people to judge you for. Some people look at me and all they can see is a black man, not the lives I saved in the Air Force or the struggles I faced before and after that. They see Steve as this larger than life being and don't know he takes enough anti-depressants every day to choke a horse. They see you, without an arm and with your sad eyes, and think you're weak or damaged without knowing you survived things that no human could ever dream of coming back from. So, fuck what people think they know. In the end, it doesn't matter. All that matters is the people you choose to surround yourself with, those who you trust to know your true self and love you because of it."

Bucky doesn't respond, just watches the dark trees pass by while he tries desperately not to fall in love with this beautiful flying jerk-face. It's not working, especially since he now realizes that he's a part of Sam's inner circle of people that he trusts.

"Sorry about the rant."

"You're good," Bucky says. "I think that rant was a life-changing experience for me, actually."

Sam laughs, not realizing that Bucky wasn't actually joking.

Well, this is new. Not the inability to sleep, but the reason for his insomnia.

Bucky's got a boner. Not a full fledged hard-on, just a semi, but still. The only time his body responds like this is first thing in the morning and that usually fades within minutes.

It's not going away. Just like Sam, snoring in the next room. Just like the memory of Sam not actually hitting on him, but also not denying that Bucky is his type or that the bartender was right about Sam not taking his eyes off him once the entire night.

Sasha jumps on the bed then, curling up practically on top of his head. Great. Thanks, cat.

You'd know if I was hitting on you, Sam had said. So, yeah, there's only one solution here.

Bucky's going to have to get Sam to hit on him.

"Mornin' Steve," Bucky says a few days later, his voice chipper despite the fuck-awful nights of sleep he's been having lately. Sam's very existence is still taunting his mind and his dick on a daily basis. "I need a favor."

"Okay." Steve wipes his hands on the kitchen towel after rinsing out his coffee cup. "Bend over."

"Huh? No, no spanking today." Bucky shakes his head. "I used to be attractive, right? Like, girls wanted to date me."

"Yeah, sure, for a giant nerd. Every girl you ever tutored in math fell in love with you."

Somehow Bucky doesn't think Sam needs a math tutor. "Okay, what else?" He points to his body. "How do I make this appealing to another human being?"

Steve scrunches his nose. "You used to be a good dancer?"

Yeah, with two arms maybe. Bucky sighs. "Look Steve, I just need you to be a little gay for a minute and help me out here. I wanna be hot, like, to the point where it's difficult to be around me for extended periods of time without wanting to fuck me."

"Um." Steve blinks, then whispers, "You don't want me to fuck you, do you?"

"No, I don't want you to fuck me!"

Steve gasps dramatically, like. Way. Too. Dramatically. With his hand over his mouth and everything. "You want Sam to fuck you!"

"Would you shut up?" Bucky hisses. "This is just a hypothetical scenario."

"Nope." Steve points his finger at Bucky's face. "You want Sam to fuck you. It's so obvious now. Since when are you into guys?"

"I'm not into guys, plural. Just. One guy." Bucky shrugs.

With his arms crossed over his ridiculously large chest, Steve surveys Bucky's posture and mannerisms, like he's trying to figure out if he's caught in the middle of a prank or something. When he's finally satisfied that this is a legitimate dilemma, he nods his acceptance. "Okay. I get it, though, Sam's literally a gift to mankind."

"Right, I know," Bucky agrees. "It's terrible. I have no control over my emotions or my dick anymore. I went God knows how long without an erection and now it's getting hard every fucking day and I don't know what to do about it."

Steve grimaces. "Damn, really?"

"Don't be an asshole, I doubt your dick sprang right back to life after you were frozen."

"The damn was about you not knowing what to do with it. Just jerk off, man."

Bucky makes a face. It's not like he hasn't thought of it, but doing that himself seems more like a utilitarian task than something pleasurable. Plus, the porn he watched before wasn't all that great. "Eh, I dunno."

Steve clasps his hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Treat yo self."

"Treat...myself?"

"It's a saying from a show Nat got me to watch. Just do it, it will help you think straighter. Not straighter as in Straight, just straighter as in more focused. In case it turns out that you've just got a case of the 100 year old virgin going on or something."

"Yeah, okay, if you say so." Bucky sighs pointedly. "But this still doesn't fix the whole making myself fuckable issue."

With an extra shoulder squeeze, Steve smiles. "You're already fuckable, pal. But we'll work on a plan."

Stressing about masturbation is going to have to wait. Instead, Bucky takes Steve's first piece of advice - put actual clothes on instead of pajamas around the house. And it's not like Bucky always wears pajamas at home, it's just that, yeah, he does about ninety percent of the time.

So now he's standing in front of the bathroom mirror, checking himself out in some of the new clothes Sam bought him. He's picked out a pair of light-colored skinny jeans that are apparently supposed to look like they're twenty years old and a thin navy blue sweater that makes his eyes look blue and his chest look bulky. Good bulky, though. Steve helps with the sleeve issue, and yes, it's far less irritating to tuck it in with an undershirt on. Bucky likes layers, anyway.

Now, the hair. It's getting long again but not long enough to pull it into a ponytail to keep it out of his face. He rummages through the bathroom drawers until he finds some old hair gel and manages to keep his hair out of his eyes with that. Except now he has this big poof of hair on the top of his head. Actually, it doesn't look that bad, especially paired with the two day scruff on his face. Good, yes. Fuckable, only time will tell.

He's tidying and then vacuuming while waiting for Sam to get home while Steve watches on in amusement. The amusement quickly becomes annoyance when the vacuuming doesn't ever stop.

"How many times are you gonna vacuum that fucking rug?!"

"As many times as it takes!" The rug in question is situated right by the front entrance and has a small table on it, perfect for Bucky to use as an excuse to bend over and show off his assets when Sam walks in the door. He's not proud of himself, but he's actually not ashamed either.

Unfortunately, he's not quite as smooth in executing his plan as he thought he'd be. When the front door opens, Bucky mistimes his bend and ends up slamming his ass right into Sam.

"Hey, whoa!" Sam grabs Bucky's hips and laughs, scooting himself out of the way. "Watch where you aim that thing, man."

Bucky doesn't speak, just straightens himself and tries to continue living. He knows what Sam's hands feel like on his hips now. Suddenly his chore of masturbation feels like it's going to be a lot easier to accomplish.

"You..." Sam puckers his lips, checking Bucky's new appearance out. "You look good. Your hair is winning right now. Good for you. You gotta feel good about yourself sometimes."

And that wasn't the point of this, but it's still true. Bucky does feel pretty good about himself. Damn you Sam Wilson for turning an attempted seduction into a personal growing moment.

"Bucky was just commenting that you're a few minutes late. He was getting worried," Steve throws himself into the conversation. Bucky looks at him with murder eyes, for obvious reasons.

"Not like I'm gonna be out there getting into fights with wolves and bears and shit. He's just worried he's not gonna get fed."

No, Bucky mouths, shaking his head. Sam pats him on the belly. "Don't worry. I'll pop in some frozen pizzas, wouldn't want my fake husband to starve."

Goddammit Steve, if you -

"Told you so," Steve says as soon as Sam disappears. Bucky slaps him upside the head like they're twelve years old again but Steve just laughs. "Uh huh, that's probably what he thinks about doing to that jiggly ass of yours - oh shit fuck, is that why you wanted me to spank you? Oh my God."

Bucky tackles Steve.

They wrestle until Sam breaks it up.

Sam touches Bucky's hair at the dinner table to put in back in place.

Jerking off...not so bad at all.

Step two according to Steve's grand master plan - confidence.

Not cockiness, which Steve himself has plenty of, but confidence. Sam exudes confidence. It's appealing and respected. It's sexy to be self-aware and accepting. Bucky is severely lacking in both of those categories.

Standing bare ass naked in front of the bathroom mirror after his shower, Bucky decides to try out this whole confidence thing. Self-aware. Accepting. There are scars but smooth skin, too. Mostly hardened muscle but still a couple of soft spots. He pinches a little bit of a love handle, but doesn't consider it a bad thing. The outline of his hips seem more prominent because of it. He winks at himself in the mirror. "Sexy."

Nope. He can't do this. Start over. "You," Bucky points to himself, "never missed with your Thompson rifle."

Accurate, yes, good. He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear. "You should make the guys call you Bucky with the good hair."

He laughs.

"You can do a hundred pushups with one arm faster than Sam can with two."

"You've almost caught up with modern technology."

"Animals like you."

"Some people even like you."

Bucky nods to himself, then thumps the stump of metal attached to his shoulder. He knows he's never going to get rid of it, and that's probably a good thing. Reminders and such. "You are alive, and you actually want to be."

Okay, getting too serious. Sam knows about the load of anti-depressants that Steve takes on a daily basis but has never mentioned Bucky's own daily doses of pills, plus the anti-anxiety meds and anti-hallucinogenics he has on reserve for those special fucked-up occasions. "Hey," he says, making a finger gun at himself. "You don't take yourself too seriously."

A loud cough sounds from the other side of the bathroom door. "It's kinda cute that you talk to yourself in the bathroom but damn, you're taking forever in there!"

Oh shit. Sam heard him. And he wants in the bathroom. Meanwhile, Bucky is dick-dangling naked and giving himself pep talks in front of the mirror. Awesome. He wraps a towel around his waist, which is not easy one-handed, and opens the door with as much confidence as he can muster. "Sam."

Sam is standing with his arms crossed. A flicker of shock at Bucky's state of undress crosses his face but he recovers quickly. "Bucky."

"I'm sorry but," Bucky says with a grin, "all I heard was that you think I'm cute."

"It. I said it is cute."

"It?" Leaning against the door frame, Bucky purposely places his hand low on his hip. Confidence is kind of fun, actually. "I don't think cute is a preferred compliment for...it."

Sam narrows his eyes. "Are you flirting with me?"

"Nah. You'd know it if I was."

"Is that right?" Sam asks. He's trying so hard not to smile but can't hide the glimmer in his eyes.

"Yeah." Bucky nods, stepping back into the bathroom. "If you'll excuse me, I have to tell my ass how fantastic it looks. Then I'll be out of your way."

Then he closes the door in Sam's stunned face.

What the fuck just happened? His face is bright red. Oh well. As he turns to go to his room, he catches a glimpse of his ass in the mirror. It actually is pretty fantastic.

Birds? Bucky doesn't know jack shit about birds. But Steve says - find a common interest.

He and Sam already have Steve as a common interest. And music now, that's a new one. Good food. Fighting a war, though they don't ever talk about that. So, Bucky's going to try birds.

He sits down in the great room and blurts out, "So you can like, talk to birds, right?"

"Huh?" Sam turns his attention away from Netflix and some weird show he's watching. "You mean like, parrots?"

Bucky frowns. "No. Other birds...that don't...nevermind. What are you watching?"

"Stranger Things. I like how it looks like the eighties but it's more modern than actual eighties TV shows and movies."

"I hate the eighties," Bucky grumbles, but settles in to watch the series anyway.

"You listened to Michael Jackson's greatest hits for literally 3 straight days, how can you-"

"Shoosh, I'm trying to watch this show."

Sam smacks him in the face with a throw pillow.

"Be myself?"

Incredulous. Yeah, that's the best way to describe Bucky's face. "Do you want me to act hot and confident or be myself? I can't do both."

Steve quirks his eyebrow. "You're kinda dumb, you know that?"

"Well." Bucky taps on his head. "Brain damage."

"Not funny. Don't joke about that."

"Don't tell me what I can and can't joke about."

"Fair enough," Steve concedes. "But that has nothing to do with your inability to see that you're hot and confident and even funny when you're actually just being yourself."

"So what, Steve's guide to Sam's heart was just some scheme to make me embrace my true self?" Bucky bristles. "Lame, Steven. Lame."

A brisk wind from the north cuts straight to Bucky's bones despite the coat and scarf he's wearing. Snow will be coming sooner than they'd like, so Steve and Bucky are surveying the garden to pull as much as they can from their fall harvest to freeze. It's almost Thanksgiving, and they're both hoping Sam is planning an awesome feast for the three of them.

They've made their way to the far edge of the garden now. Steve picks up one of their few pumpkins and tosses it in the air. "I really wanna smash this thing."

"Nice change of subject," Bucky grumbles. "I feel you, though. I'm not exactly a catch, what with the murderous history and shoddy memory shit."

"Oh God, shut up," Steve groans, resting the pumpkin on his hip. "You must not be as bad as you think, seeing as how I had to deal with the 'I wanna fuck Bucky' conversation long before the 'I wanna fuck Sam' one. Idiot."

An "I wanna fuck Bucky" conversation? Sam. Holy fucking goddamn. "Hold the fuck up. I need to hear that again. Sam wanted me?"

"Wanted. Wants? I dunno. But you know how he is. He needed me to talk him out of it."

Bucky's going to scream and smash that damn pumpkin on Steve's head. "You talked him out of it? What the fuck?"

"Uh, yeah. For one, you made it seem like sex was something you couldn't find interest in. Remember?"

"But I want to with him, though!"

Steve nods in some weird show of understanding. "And that's beautiful. Also a little confusing to me, but whatever. Your budding sexuality isn't something I have to figure out. I do know one thing, though. Friendship is more important than a convenience fuck."

Bucky sighs. "It's not that. I swear, okay? Look, these are your reasons for talking him out of it. What are his?"

"Crutches."

"What?"

"Not the kind like when you break your leg." Steve smiles. "He thought you deserved a recovery that you could call your own and be proud of because it's your accomplishment. He knew he deserved better than to be treated as a crutch while that was happening. And he's right."

Bucky's lips are starting to feel chapped. He licks them even though he knows he shouldn't. "And if I never fully recover?"

"Do any of us ever?" Steve asks.

"I guess not." Bucky's honestly still a little hung up on Sam wanting him for a while now. And Steve knowing about it. And Steve being a teasing little shit. "You fucker, you've been messing with both of us about this, haven't you?"

Steve shrugs, grinning. "I get bored, sue me."

"You're an asshole," Bucky laughs.

Okay, new master plan. Screw getting Sam to hit on him. He's going to hit on Sam.

The three of them stand outside, staring down one bird. The lone turkey.

Steve shakes his head. "I don't wanna do it."

"But that's why it's here, right?" Sam asks. "Why else would we just have one turkey?"

"I figured it was your long lost cousin or something," Bucky answers.

Sam is not amused. "Okay, you kill it then."

"I don't wanna kill it."

"But you're the assassin."

"Reformed," Bucky says. "Reformed assassin. I'm a pacifist now."

Steve rolls his eyes. "You have a pistol tucked into your pants."

"I'm just a prepared pacifist!"

The turkey looks at the three of them, shaming their very presence in its yard. If turkeys could speak it would have said, "Sac up, it's fucking Thanksgiving, assholes."

Steve kills a chicken instead.

Sam asks Bucky if he minds helping out with the food preparation and he easily agrees. The problem is, it's a little more complicated than he anticipated. Apparently there are multiple types of flour. Baking powder and baking soda aren't the same thing. Sugars aren't interchangeable. And this is just all for the fucking carrot cake for dessert.

At least he can crack the eggs beautifully.

"You're a mess," Sam says with a laugh. "Is that flour or sugar in your hair?"

Bucky pours some confectioner's sugar into the stand mixer for the frosting. When he turns it on, a cloud of sugar puffs into his face. He licks his lips. "Both."

Sam snorts. "Lemme know when you finish the frosting. I need the mixer for the potatoes."

"Sweet or russet?"

"Both. But not together."

Bucky adds a little more sugar. "How do I know when there's enough sugar?"

"You taste it."

"How scientific."

"Hey, food science is real," Sam retorts, and here comes his inner nerd, creeping out to rear its dorky head. "I follow most recipes to the tee. And I know exactly how to cook this stuff so nobody gets sick. The internal temp of that chicken will be exactly 165 degrees when I pull it out. And I make dressing instead of stuffing to prevent bacterial contamination. I kept your curious ass from licking the cake batter because hello, raw eggs."

Bucky smirks. "Thanks for the lesson, Professor. So please explain why frosting is exempt from all of these rules."

"Because I said so." Sam smiles. "Never underestimate the many powers the human mouth possesses."

Don't. Overthink. That. Statement.

Bucky flips the mixer off, dipping his finger into the blend of cream cheese, butter, and sugar. He catches Sam watching him out of the corner of his eye as he licks the frosting off. It tastes good to him, but then again, most sweet things do. He needs a more discerning palette to know for sure.

Do it do it do it, his brain cheers. Why the fuck not? Bucky swipes the inside of the bowl again and slides over to Sam. "I need a second opinion," he says, presenting his frosting covered finger without trembling in the slightest.

Sam hesitates for the longest three seconds ever before enveloping Bucky's finger in his mouth. And this small act almost turns into the story of how Bucky dies, because sucking down to the second knuckle is completely unnecessary. There's not enough frosting to warrant this type of attention. He can hear his heartbeat in his eyeballs, if that's even fucking possible.

And under no circumstances will he let himself whimper.

When Sam withdraws, he licks his lips. This is the fucking worst/best day of Bucky's life. "Delicious," Sam says. "Don't change a thing."

Move, Bucky thinks. Speak. Fuck, do something. "I," he croaks.

Sam is obviously waiting for him to finish that sentence. "I," he starts again.

"You..."

"Would really like to lie in bed with you and talk and maybe snuggle but also grind on you and see what your face looks like when you come," Bucky blurts out. Oh God.

Miraculously, Sam doesn't laugh at him. He tilts his head and gives a little half smile. "Okay."

Bucky blinks. "O...kay?"

"Okay," Sam repeats. "But not right now. Now, you need to frost the cake."

What the hell? "That's it? I say something as off the wall as that and you just say okay like I asked you to pass the salt?"

"Look, I'm not dramatic. Steve is dramatic enough for all of us. I told you a while back that if you want something, just ask for it." Sam tosses a few handfuls of green beans into a pot of boiling water. "I would also like this snuggling orgasm situation you proposed, so I said yes. It's really very simple. Now frost the damn cake, please."

They watched football. They ate. They ate some more. And now they're acting like the old men that they are, drinking scotch with full bellies in the dim light of the great room.

Bucky stares grumpily at his belly. "I think I have a food baby."

"I've never had a Thanksgiving meal this," Steve pauses, burps, continues, "good before."

"My family does it up twice as big as this," Sam says. "With an actual turkey. And my mom always makes us say what we're thankful for."

"Running water," Bucky says.

Steve nods. "Internet."

"Being back in the states, even if it is as a fugitive." Sam sighs.

Bucky takes a sip of whiskey. "You assholes."

"I'm pretty sure that was a compliment. Sam, opinion?"

"From him, definitely a compliment."

Steve stands up from his seat and stretches. "On that note, I'm calling it a night. You kids don't have too much fun."

"Fun?" Bucky asks. Steve shrugs innocently and walks away.

Sam claps his hands on his thighs. "You planning on being up for a while?"

"I could go to bed," Bucky answers before Sam can complete his sentence.

"Okay," Sam laughs. "Whose room were you planning on doing this talking snuggling grinding business in?"

"You're not going to let me forget that word vomit, are you?"

"Hell no. You're lucky I didn't list it as one of the things I'm thankful for. I have joke fodder for years."

Bucky scowls ineffectively. "Your room. Sasha doesn't like to share."

"Can't blame her there."

This is strange. They both put on pajamas, brush their teeth, do all the normal bedtime rituals as if nothing has changed. But instead of returning to his room, Bucky stands in the doorway of Sam's. "Is this normal?"

Sam pulls back the sheets and climbs in. "You've been watching too much TV. Get over here."

"Yes, sir," Bucky salutes, then cringes. Nothing is safe from kinks. He slides onto the empty side of the bed, sitting on his ankles. "Sorry, I didn't mean that in a weird way. I really have no clue what the fuck I'm doing here."

Sam chuckles. "Noticed. First off, try to calm down if you can. You're tense and you really don't have anything to be worried about. You know me."

"Right, yeah, I know. I just."

"You just."

"Exactly." How does he even begin to explain this? That he craves touch but it terrifies him just the same. Violence was the default for so long that tenderness still feels like new, unchartered territory. He reaches for Sam, placing the palm of his hand flat against his chest. "I don't really know how to touch people. Or be touched."

"I figured," Sam says, and Bucky's not really surprised by that. Sam and Steve might not talk about the elephant in the house - seventy years of torture and manipulation, hello - but they remain acutely aware of it. "It's probably best that we start with that. Save the grinding and coming all over each other for another night."

Bucky flushes. "Okay, but don't talk about it or one of those things might accidentally happen, fuck."

It's obvious that Sam wants to laugh but he holds it in. Instead he crinkles his nose and gently cups Bucky's jaw, resting his thumb in the cleft of his chin. "You're obnoxiously hot, do you know that?"

Licking his lips, he glances down at the hand on his face. It's good, it's great, he likes it. "Well, I do tell myself that in the mirror as often as possible."

"Not as often as Steve does," Sam jokes. His finger moves from Bucky's chin to his lower lip. "I like the way you say fuck. You put so much emphasis on it that sometimes you bite your lip when you say it."

"Maybe you should try to make me say it."

"Oh, I intend to." And this time Sam does laugh. He lets go of Bucky's face. "You're going to be a lot of fun."

"Yeah, life of the party right here." Bucky lets Sam curl his fingers in his hand and shamefully feels the ghost of the one he lost. But if Sam doesn't say anything about it, he won't either.

"Is this enough of the new touching or do you wanna keep going?"

Bucky blows a puff of air out of his mouth. "Just 'cause it's new doesn't mean I don't like it."

"That's why I said you're gonna be fun." With his free hand Sam runs his fingers through Bucky's hair. "It's like a clean slate. You don't know yet what you do or don't like, and it's pretty awesome to discover that kind of stuff. For example, judging by your eyes right now, you really like having my hands in your hair."

The lids of his eyes keep getting heavier and heavier, and he thinks he looks like his damn cat does when he pets her. At least he's not purring. "Yeah, just a little bit."

But then there's a slight tug on his strands. Bucky's eyes shoot open and he's alert again. Sam looks pretty pleased with himself. "Seems like you like that, too."

"That a bad thing?" Bucky asks.

"Hell no. Here in la chambre de Sam, enjoying yourself is a good thing."

"Je comprends." Bucky responds, his French still sharp as ever despite lack of use. This reminds him that he wants to download Les Misérables in its original French. He's never read it.

Sam yawns. Bucky doesn't take it personally - it's been a long day with a whole lot of food. "Ready to lie down?"

"Sure. But can I do something first?"

As if to say okay, Sam does a full body shrug. And this is what is still hard to believe, that someone actually trusts him enough to agree to such a nonspecific request. Bucky untangles his hand and traces the soft curls of the beard on Sam's jaw. He feels his lips and watches his eyes go crossed when he taps him on the nose. And while Sam's hair is longer than usual, it's still shorter than what Bucky is used to. He likes the way it feels under his fingertips. He likes the way Sam feels.

"It's just you, ya know," Bucky says softly. That probably doesn't make sense, but it's the only way he knows how to say it.

"I like you, too," Sam responds, like he either understands or is completely fine not knowing the motivation behind Bucky's actions yet.

So they crawl under the covers. Within minutes Sam is snoring but tonight he has his arm draped over Bucky's waist, every exhale of breath tickling the back of his neck.

And Bucky sleeps, God, he sleeps.

"Ahem."

Bucky wrinkles his face, burying it deeper into the pillow. He's warm, so unbelievably warm.

"Ahem!" The rude sleep stealer clears his throat louder.

"Go away, Steve," Sam mutters from behind him.

And oh. Oh!

"I guess this means we're not going Black Friday shopping?" Steve asks, sounding like a grade-A little shit.

"Go away, Steve," Bucky grunts.

"Okay, fine, sure." That's Steve's way of saying they'll talk about this later. "By the way, your cat is pissed that you left her for a man so she slept in my bed last night."

"Go away, Steve!" Bucky and Sam yell in unison as Sam throws a pillow at the door.

Bucky yawns. "Honestly, we're lucky he didn't jump in the bed with us."

Sam mumbles something about not wanting an ass whooping and tightens his arm around Bucky's midsection. "So soft."

"Oh God, Steve was right," Bucky groans. "Chubby kink motherfucker."

"Shut up with the chubby kink. There's nothing wrong with liking someone who's cuddly. And you," Sam whispers in his ear, "are very cuddly."

"I have a six-pack, jerk," Bucky responds but doesn't fight the snuggles.

Snuggling. Bucky can't put a date or even a location to the last time he actually snuggled with somebody. It's nice as fuck and he's not even remotely ashamed that he thinks that. He wiggles himself into the embrace, freezing when he gets a generous helping of incidental boner against his backside.

"Don't even," Sam warns. "You were in the Army, I know that's not the first morning wood you've had against your ass."

He does seem to remember sleeping sandwiched between Monty and Steve on a few very cold nights during the war. Shit, that means he got it from both sides. Bucky laughs. "Okay yeah, but this is the first time it's happened that I actually wanted to do something about it."

Sam rolls Bucky onto his back and raises an eyebrow. "You wanna do something about it?"

"Um." No panicking allowed. "Yeah. You think I can't handle it?"

"Never said that. Just seems a little fast for two people that haven't even kissed."

In his mind Bucky imagined this would be...awkward? Yet somehow this fantastic situation is almost comfortable. He twists his hand in Sam's tee shirt. "So do something about it. Unless you're scared of a little morning breath?"

"Ain't scared," Sam smirks. "When was the last time you kissed somebody, anyway?"

1942? '43? Fuck if he knows. "A long ass fucking time ago. Fix it."

Sam nuzzles his chin, testing the water a little bit. "Bossy little thing."

"Who're you calling little? M'bigger than you."

"Hmm? Guess we'll find out soon enough." Sam's kissing his cheeks and chin and still talking. Obviously he's trying to kill him. This is all some sort of grand scheme, retribution for destroying his car all those years ago. "You know, the Brooklyn accent comes out when you're horny."

Bucky whines, "You're fucking killing me, man." And Sam takes pity on him, or wants to shut the whining up. Either way, Sam's mouth is on his and yes, it is just...yes. Kissing anyone else is like a vague, cloudy memory or a dream, but this is real and much different from that. Bigger, stronger, deeper, dirtier. Fuck.

Steve didn't close the door behind him but apparently Sam couldn't care less about that. Maybe he was a frat boy once. Maybe Bucky should remember to ask that at some point when Sam's hands aren't gripping his ass through his sweatpants and his cock isn't rubbing against his and driving him fucking insane.

"More," Bucky breathes, 'cause it's the only damn word he can manage. More friction, more tongue in his mouth, more pressure against his hips, give him more of everything until he can't breathe, think, or feel anything other than this.

Sam bites his lip and he whimpers, coming in his pants like a goddamn teenager. Bucky'd be embarrassed if Sam didn't look as wrecked as he feels, so he lets Sam guide his hand under the waistband, and oh shit. His hand is on Sam's dick and he doesn't know why this is some life-altering realization but it is. He likes it, and he loves watching Sam, always fucking cool as hell Sam, come completely undone right before his eyes. Afterwards he wishes he could draw like Steve, so the memory of that bliss could be kept forever in case his mind ever fucks him over again.

"You good?" Sam asks, because Bucky must've been staring off into space for awhile.

"I think I am super fucking gay," Bucky responds, and laughs and laughs because he is beyond good. Except, laundry is one of his chores. He expects he'll be doing a lot more of it in the future.

Worth it.

Honestly it takes Bucky a while to get moving after that, long enough for Sam to brew two pots of (good) coffee and Steve to come barreling through the back door with a fir tree.

"I got a Christmas tree!"

Bucky sizes the fir up. It's better than any other Christmas tree he's ever had. But still. His news is bigger. "I had an orgasm. With Sam. On purpose."

Sam sips his coffee and fingers the needles of the tree. "I can't complain, I'm benefitting from both of your announcements."

They pop popcorn and string it up with cranberries as garland. Steve finds a few strands of lights, the gaudy colored ones with the huge bulbs, in the attic and when they put it all together with a fire in the fireplace, the setting is perfect.

Too perfect for a safe house. Bucky is too happy. They're too comfortable. Everything is too much, like he's being set up for heartbreak. This isn't Bucky's life he's living but he wants to steal it, claim it as his own forever.

"Hey." Steve points to the windows. "It's snowing."

Yeah. Too perfect.

Sam's playing with Bucky's hair one night, twirling it between his fingers. "You finally ready for another haircut?"

"I need one." Bucky shrugs. "I'm still hoping for a little bit more of that hair pulling you teased me with, though."

"You could do a mohawk. Or a faux-hawk. Short in the back and sides with a poof on the top."

"Still enough to tug?"

"I'm the one cutting it, I can control these things," Sam states. "Why're you so worked up about that?"

Bucky blushes, rubbing his palm against his thigh. "I was just. Kinda thinking. 'Bout what it'd be like if you were in my mouth and holding onto my hair. Is all."

"Damn," Sam sighs.

"Guys." Steve slams shut the book he's been reading. "I'm literally right here."

Bucky gets a faux-hawk and sucks his first dick all in the same day, and then tells Steve about it because he's the "type to boast about that kind of thing."

Goddamn right he is.

Steve Rogers is like that one dad in the neighborhood that acts really strict but then sneaks dirty magazines to you so he can maintain cool points. Right now he has his arms crossed and a stern look on his face, which probably just means he's about to either have a talk about boundaries or fart. Or both.

"Sorry, Dad," Bucky says. Sam snorts.

Steve rolls his eyes and tosses a paper bag from one of the drug stores in Cut Bank on the table. "Why am I always the dad?"

"Because you straight up look like a father of three headed to the farmer's market on a Saturday morning in that shirt." Sam peers into the bag. "Ah, sweet."

"What is it?" Bucky's curiosity gets the better of him so him sneaks a peak, too. "Oh."

So they're about to have that talk.

"I've witnessed some scandalous behavior going on in the house lately," Steve starts.

Sam shakes his head. "Jesus Christ."

"And I just want to guarantee we don't end up with any babies running around here." Steve's stern look falters and he breaks into one of his giggles. "Sorry, I just really wanted to see the look on Buck's face. I don't give a damn what you two do to each other, I just don't want to see or hear it."

Meanwhile, Bucky's still fighting a little bit of panic at the bag of condoms and lubricant, plus one goddamn pregnancy test because Steve thinks he's hilarious. Bucky's split down the middle on the actual penetration aspect of sex...specifically, he doesn't want to be literally split down the middle. Sam is cool, though. They'll talk about it. No pressure.

"I do have just...a question, though."

Bucky shoots a look at Steve and it's like that motherfucker can read his mind. He shakes his head. "I can already imagine this question is going to be wildly inappropriate."

"How do you know?" Steve asks anyway. "Ya know. Who pitches and catches?"

"Oh God," Bucky groans, even though he's actually dying to hear Sam's answer.

Sam tilts his head. "Bottoms get tattoos of a big red arrow pointing to their ass," he deadpans. "Jesus, Steve, your straightness is really extreme right now. It's not fucking baseball."

"Sorry." Steve shrugs apologetically. "It's a legitimate curiosity. I don't want to know your personal preferences or anything. Just. Educate me."

So Sam talks, about how there's not a set of guidelines or clues that have to be figured out in order to have a relationship. Some people have preferences, others change based on their partner. When he says that every relationship is unique, it makes Bucky feel a little better and also a little worse.

Because he realizes that just six months ago a team of doctors was working on his head to prevent him from becoming a killing machine again, and now he's sort of in a relationship with someone. Holy shit. He never saw that coming.

The thing about Sam is that even though he's far from perfect, Bucky and Steve both act like he is. Steve takes any word out of Sam's mouth as gospel. Bucky practically worships the ground he walks on. And he is trying to find flaws to match his own, but so far the only one he can think of is that Sam is a total cover hog.

"What's this scar?" Bucky asks, pressing on Sam's right shoulder. He's sitting on Sam's butt, because it's comfortable and he really likes the view.

Sam grunts. "Yours, you asshole."

"Oh. I was just adding a little character to an otherwise unblemished canvas, is all." Bucky smirks. There's no need to apologize again for past actions. What's done is done and it can't be changed. He draws an imaginary arch over the scar, extending it over the curves of his bicep and down again.

"What are you doing?"

Bucky repeats the path on the left side. "Drawing wings," he answers without snark. With his nails he lightly scratches feathers where the wings would be. "I remember taking a few art classes when I was younger, mostly just because Steve wanted to. I was never very good at it, but I tried. For him."

Sam turns his head to rest a cheek on his forearm. "You two are pretty intense."

"I can see why you might think that. Some days I can't figure out if I know him better than I know myself or if I know nothing about him at all."

"He likes to pretend he's mysterious. I wouldn't take it personally. You know Steve better than I do. I know Cap better than you do. Sometimes it takes a village to put a superhero in his place."

Bucky snorts. "Yeah, obviously. Sorry about his line of questioning earlier."

"Even though you were dying to know the answer?"

"Shut up, you don't know me."

"Okay," Sam chuckles. "Roll over."

Bucky freezes. "Am I about to get a first hand explanation of not-baseball?"

"You're an idiot." With a roll of his hips Sam flips Bucky over and pins him on his back. "Your big butt is just getting heavy."

"You like it," Bucky mutters but doesn't resist. Actually, he kind of likes Sam on top of him. A lot. He wonders what it would feel like, if Sam held him just like this but was actually inside of him. The thought is terrifying and exciting.

Sam thumbs over the dip in Bucky's clavicle. "We'll discuss this some other time. Like, when I'm not thinking about Steve trying to understand the logistics of gay sex. Preferably."

Bucky nods. "Do you know what his deal is, anyway? Sexually, I mean. I know he loved Peggy. And he kissed her niece? But he just doesn't seem like the dating type."

"He's not." Sam drops and settles into Bucky's side. "He more than loved Peggy, she was the love of his life. And I'm not sure exactly what happened around the time of Ultron and Sokovia, but he told me that he knew that he'd never fall in love again. That dream was shattered, so he doesn't really even try anymore."

"But...if anyone deserves love, it's Steve," Bucky says with a frown.

"He loves, though, just maybe not that way. He loves you and you better believe he loves me," Sam jokes. It's pretty close to the truth, though. "And Natasha, Wanda, Clint, Rhodey, Bruce, Thor. That guy...you should meet him. He even loves Tony, whether he knows it or not."

Bucky sighs. His chest feels heavy, and it's not because of Sam's arm. "Come on. I have this strange urge to go hug that jerk. You should, too."

"Okay." Sam shrugs. "Should we take some rope in there and tell him we're gonna make his wildest dreams come true?"

Oh God. "Ugh, no. Why does he tell people these things?"

Steve's still awake and a little confused when they sneak into his room and make a Steve sandwich out of him in his bed. "What?"

"We love ya, pal."

Steve smiles and wraps his big arms around both of their necks. "Love you guys, too."

It's so fucking cold that the sun hides for over a week.

With the steady snow and Community College classes out for the semester, all three of them have become soft winter hermits. And crabby, too.

Steve has too much energy and is messy. Sam doesn't like to share the TV. Bucky gets cranky when he can't get any alone time. Together they're the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the Canadian border.

"No gifts," Bucky grunts. "We're a hundred years old for fuck's sake."

"But Bucky-"

"No gifts!"

They finally compromise on gag gifts, because Steve just really wants presents under the tree. Bucky wants Steve, and Sam, to be happy because they're just so good. There's no other word to accurately describe them.

And then before he knows it, it's Christmas Eve and they're all drinking eggnog and opening presents wrapped in paper sacks from random little stores they visit in the city. Bucky'd found a tiny birdcage for Sam, "for when you get Redwing back." Sam gives Steve noise cancelling headphones, which is actually a pretty nice gift but it still makes Steve laugh. And Steve has knitted a sweater out of brightly colored Christmas yarn for Bucky. It only has one arm and it's the ugliest sweater known to man but Bucky loves it. He immediately puts it on because it's warm and it's perfect.

Some Christmas music special plays softly on the television, putting Steve straight to sleep because he's an old man. Bucky watches Sam watching the flickering of the bulbs on the tree. He could watch him all night. "Merry Christmas," Bucky says, he thinks for the first time in seventy years.

Sam smiles, but it's not exactly a happy smile, like he's lost in thought.

Bucky tilts his head and takes a big sip of eggnog. "You should fuck me."

Well, that gets his attention. "What?"

"You should fuck me," Bucky repeats, more slowly and with extra emphasis. Liquor doesn't have a huge effect on him, just a little of that floaty feel-good sensation, so he won't bother blaming his boldness on the booze. It's just time, is all, and Sam looks like a fucking angel bathed in twinkling lights and he really wants to corrupt him.

"That simple, huh?" Sam quirks an eyebrow.

Bucky shrugs, tries to be cool. "I've seen you watching, checkin' me out in this sweater. Bet all you can think about is getting me out of it."

"You're funny." Then Sam licks his lips like the last thing on his mind is Bucky's sense of humor. "You're being serious, though."

"I seriously want to crawl on my hand and knees and climb in your lap right now, like a sexy three-legged pussycat."

The eggnog Sam is drinking nearly comes out of his nose. "Goddammit, stop trying to make me laugh. I'm having a moral dilemma over here."

"Why?" Bucky doesn't crawl but walks to the couch, straddling Sam's hips as he slides into his lap. The sweater, honestly, probably isn't helping the situation so he tugs it over his head, leaving his hair a wavy mess on the top of his head. He cups the back of Sam's neck. "Are you saying you don't want to fuck me?"

Sam's hands are already on his hips and he knows how weak Sam gets for even this tiny glimpse of dirty talk. To cover it up, Sam casts a surly look his way. "Don't be ridiculous."

"Samuel..." Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Do you want me to fuck you?"

"Quit with all the fucking talk for two seconds, damn, let me think." Then he sighs. Rubs a hand over his face. Sighs again. "Both?"

Bucky lights up brighter than the tree. "Both," he says, and curse Sam because he can feel the Brooklyn drawl taking control of his voice. "Fuck, I've been thinking about what you'd feel like inside of me for days."

"Oh, hell." Sam hoists him up with a grunt, pretending like it's some huge struggle to make it to Bucky's bedroom before he drops him on the bed with ease. Sasha runs to Steve, her savior from the horny bastards that keep ruining her sleep routine.

"I'll make it so good for you, baby," Sam promises. It's so cliché, like of course he's going to say that, but Sam doesn't say or do anything unless he means it. And he means it, he does, he fucking does.

"I'll make it so good for you, sweetheart," Bucky says later, and Sam accuses him of stealing his line but he can't stay mad because as it turns out, he really likes being called sweetheart by a former assassin whose heart seems to grow bigger by the day.

At midnight, when they sneak out for a snack of milk and cookies, Steve is still asleep on the couch with Sasha curled up on his belly and his new headphones on his ears.

He must not be a fan of Marvin Gaye.

Bucky opens his eyes on Christmas morning.

The sun is shining through a crack in his curtains and it's quiet. Too quiet.

No coffeemaker. No news. No fidgeting. He sits up and looks around his room. The bed is a mess but Sam isn't in it. The cat, she's nowhere to be seen either. Within seconds he has pants on and his Sig Sauer in hand. His brain toes the line between admitting paranoia and accepting mission status: compromised.

The redhead is in the kitchen - and when did he revert back to descriptions instead of names? Routine is good, diversion from routine is bad, and now it feels like he's lost all the progress he made in the half year he's had to live and socialize with people on a daily basis. She nods and he drops his gun on the counter, only because she's holding his damn cat.

"Dobroye utro, Yakov," she says. It hurts his head.

"Where are they?" Bucky asks through gritted teeth.

"Outside with the others." She nods her head to the large window by the dinner table. "They've been in New Mexico. The snow is a welcomed sight."

The thought of looking through the window scares him. His world has changed and that will only confirm it. Still, the urge to verify that Sam and Steve are still with him is stronger than his fear. Bucky walks to the window, touching the cold glass with his fingertips. Bulletproof glass, he considers. Still cold, though.

The scene is almost like a damn Christmas card on steroids. Steve has his shield, hurling it back and forth with Sam like a frisbee. The shield means Tony Stark of course, standing off to the side in an expensive coat. He has a Starbucks cup in hand even though there's not a shop within two hundred miles of this place.

Wanda is forming snowballs with the strange magic shit she does. Bucky still doesn't understand how that works. But she's tossing the snow mercilessly at Clint and Scott - it looks like fun. They look like a family, a family he doesn't belong to. "Why are you here?" Bucky finally asks.

Sasha meows, because she's his cat and always responds to his questions.

"Senator Ross was indicted on ethics charges two days ago. Twenty countries, including the United States, have withdrawn their support of the Accords pending a rewrite by a unified committee," she says. "You can go home."

The glass is breaking under the tips of his fingers, though it's not. He just feels like it is. But this is my home, he thinks. Even if it isn't theirs.

"Do you remember me?"

"You're Steve's friend. Natasha. Sorry for trying to kill you. I usually start with that apology, to be honest."

"Chto-nibud' yeshche?"

Head. Fuck. Bucky doesn't answer her.

"Darf es sonst noch etwas sein?" Natasha tries again.

Bucky clenches his jaw. "Speak English."

Her eyes are boring into his back, observing him like a lab monkey in a cage. "Did you lose all of them?"

"Non." He shakes his head. "Seulement russe et allemand."

"Très bien. Given the short notice, reprogramming seemed a better option than deprogramming. I had to make sure it stuck, though. I'm sure you understand."

Bucky turns to face Natasha and rolls his eyes as obnoxiously as possible. He loves the way people discuss his brain as if it were a computer's hard drive or something. "It worked fine. Your French accent on the other hand, not so much."

Her smile is surprisingly warm. For a Russian, anyway. He can almost see why Steve and Sam are so fond of her. "It might be nice to have someone to practice with from time to time."

Yeah, okay. Maybe? Maybe.

Natasha nods to the window. "You should put on a coat, go out and say hey. Before Steve starts thinking we're fighting in here or something."

"Ha, okay. Last time Stark saw me he tried to kill me. Probably not a good idea."

"Tony's an idiot," she says fondly. "But he has a good heart deep down in there. Way, way down. Give him the chance to surprise you."

That damn shield is flying at his head as soon as he steps outside. Steve grins like an idiot when Bucky snatches it out of the air and hurls it in Sam's direction. Muscle memory is a funny thing. They used to do this during the war, he and Steve, back when Steve was still learning how to control it. Bucky has always connected the Captain America persona to the shield more than Steve himself. Legends are unbreakable, like vibranium. Not like humans.

"Where are your wings?" Bucky shouts to Sam. "I wanna go for a ride."

"Oh, I'll take you for a ride, baby!" Sam winks. "But some asshole didn't bring them."

All eyes turn to Tony.

"I'm just going to ignore that, because, let's be honest, the man's not entirely wrong," Tony responds with an exaggerated pout. He makes eye contact with Bucky for a millisecond, nodding as if to say, hi, I may not like you but I accept you. Just like with his mouth, Tony can fit a lot of words into a tiny amount of eye contact. "But am I the only one that just heard Birdy call him baby?"

All eyes turn to Sam. He shrugs. "Y'all gotta problem with it?"

The chorus of "no, what, no problem here" throughout the group makes Bucky laugh. Then a snowball hits him on the side of the head, and the guys start throwing the shield to deflect them. And maybe Bucky's not as much an outsider as he thought he was.

"Hey! Um..." Natasha's standing on the porch with a steaming mug of coffee, or tea, or vodka. Who knows. "Which one of you owns the cup that says 'I like my coffee how I like my dick'?"

All eyes turn to Bucky.

"Actually, that's mine," Steve says, holding his hand up awkwardly. "I don't really understand it, I just thought it was funny."

"Jesus, Steve," Bucky mutters just as Sam tackle-hugs him. He lands in the snow with an oof. "Damn, and you call me thick?"

Sam plants a kiss on his nose. He looks so happy, God. "You're gonna love my mom," he murmurs into Bucky's cheek, then spanks his ass. "She's an even better cook than I am."

Sam is taking him to meet his mother. And okay, wow, he really gets it now. This place is temporary, was always supposed to be, but everything else? It's not.

They're going home.