Chapter Text
Bucky hates this room like it insulted his mother.
Hates the beige-white walls that are supposed to feel soothing but remind him of psych wards. Hates the aggressively fancy reed diffuser stabbing his sinuses with fake lavender. Hates the way the silence here feels more like a threat than a comfort.
But mostly? He hates the woman across from him and the man beside him.
Dr. Raynor looks like she’s trying not to visibly hate them back. Or maybe she just hates the fact that she’s stuck playing marriage counselor to a couple who routinely show up late, emotionally constipated, and wearing matching resting bitch faces.
Bucky glances at Sam.
He’s lounged back in the loveseat, ankle on his knee, completely relaxed like this is game night and not couples therapy. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his forearms and there’s a stupid little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Which is probably why Raynor said they weren’t taking this seriously.
“Let’s try this again,” she says, with a forced kind of brightness that feels like someone flipping on overhead lights in the middle of a hangover. “How long have you two been married?”
“Six years,” Sam says immediately like he studied for this.
“Five and a half,” Bucky corrects.
Sam squints at him. “Really?”
“We got married in October. It’s May. Still a few months shy of six.” Bucky exhales through his nose.
Sam shrugs. “Close enough.”
“You round up for tips, Sam. Not your marriage.”
Dr. Raynor’s pen moves again. The sound scratches at Bucky’s nerves.
Then comes the next question: “How did you two meet?”
Sam turns to him with a grin that promises trouble. “Airport lounge. Flight was delayed, and the place was packed. Only seat left was next to him. I tried talking. He wasn’t having it.”
“You were drinking black coffee at midnight and reading a brochure on sleep hacks. I thought you were a psychopath.”
“And you were reading philosophy, which screamed ‘I want strangers to think I’m deep.’”
“I am deep.”
“Sure, baby,” Sam says with enough sarcasm to drown in. “He only started talking to me when his phone was dying and he needed a charger.”
Bucky snorts. “Yeah, and you took it back the second your boarding group got called.”
“But fate wasn’t done. We got seated next to each other. On the plane.” Sam leans back like that settles it. “Cosmic.”
Dr. Raynor makes a little sound that might be acknowledgement or disbelief. Hard to tell. Her pen keeps moving.
The truth is, Bucky never liked therapy. Never liked being told there was something broken inside him. But this wasn’t his idea, not really. It was Sharon’s, who went on and on about how counseling saved her marriage. Bucky offhandedly mentioned it to Sam, probably as a joke. And of course, Sam took it seriously.
“Since then,” Raynor cuts in, “what do you love about each other?”
Sam doesn’t even hesitate. “He’s honest and stubborn as hell and doesn’t let things go so he makes me honest too, even when I don’t want to be.”
Bucky blinks.
Sam nudges him. “Your turn.”
“He irons his shirts,” Bucky says. “Like, perfectly”
Sam looked betrayed. “That counts?"
“It makes me feel calm,” Bucky mutters.
.
.
.
“That went way better than last time,” Sam says, one hand on the wheel, smug as hell.
Bucky grunts.
Then Dr. Raynor’s voice from the previous session echoes in his skull: When was the last time you were physically intimate?
“Two weeks ago,” Sam had said.
“Two months,” Bucky had said at the same time.
They’d looked at each other like one of them had misread the entire relationship.
“I kissed your neck during that game show!”
“You were trying to grab the remote.”
“I was expressing love.”
“Did you get the remote?”
Dr. Raynor looked like she wanted to chuck her pen at them.
The car pulls up to a quiet brick townhome. Normal windows. Normal porch. A place for dog walks, tax arguments, and takeout dinners. Bucky unlocks the door. Sam drops his keys in the ceramic bowl. They’ve done this routine a thousand times.
“I’m hitting the gym,” Sam says, peeling off his jacket and hanging it neatly.
Bucky’s fingers pause at his collar. “Cool.”
“You could come.”
“I’m good.”
“I mean. You could come.”
Sam’s voice drops. His fingers brush lightly against Bucky’s as he walks by.
“I’ll make dinner,” Bucky says, turning toward the kitchen.
“What’s on the menu, Chef?”
“Tofu and salad.”
“You know I hate tofu.”
Bucky smiles faintly. “Exactly.”
Sam shoots him a look. “You love me too much, Barnes.”
.
.
.
Somewhere across the city, Sam tails a mark into a building. Mission brief was clear: no witnesses.
A few minutes later, he drops down the fire escape, slipping past security, crouching into the shadows. He checks the alley, making sure there are no tails, then pulls out a burner phone.
MISSION COMPLETED.
As soon as the message is sent, he smashes the phone, tosses it, pulls on a cap, and disappears into the night like he was never there.
.
.
.
“I’m home!” Sam calls, dropping his keys into the bowl again, hanging his jacket like always. He follows the scent of something a little too crispy into the kitchen. Bucky’s flipping toast like it’s his whole job.
“You’re early,” Bucky says without looking up. “Did you even go to the gym?”
“Sunday night. Packed. All the machines were taken.” Sam leans on the counter. “Figured I’d get my cardio in a different way.”
Bucky’s knife stops mid-slice. He looks up narrow-eyed. “What kind of cardio?”
“The kind that fixes our two-month dry spell.” Sam’s voice is low, suggestive. “You know, proactive therapy.”
His fingers find Bucky’s wrist, feeling warm skin and a fast pulse.
“You’re being a teacher's pet today,” Bucky mutters, putting the knife down.
“I’m just a very dedicated student,” Sam whispers, leaning close, breath brushing Bucky’s ear. “You just hate that you’re losing.”
“You love that about me though,” Bucky murmurs, turning until their mouths nearly brush. “Don’t you?”
Sam’s kiss hits like a live wire. Nothing soft about it. Nothing tender. Like two strangers in a bar deciding they need to feel something, anything, tonight.
Half their clothes are gone by the time they hit the bedroom. Sam has Bucky on his back, wrists pinned above his head. Bucky’s flushed, breathless, blue eyes blazing. It almost knocks the air out of him.
Sam swallows hard. Those eyes are gonna ruin him.
.
.
.
The world narrows to heat and breath and skin. Bucky gasps when Sam slides in deep. He bites his own lip to keep quiet, but Sam’s hands tighten on his hips, setting a punishing rhythm. One hand slides down, soft and precise, undoing him just as fast.
Bucky presses his forehead to the sheets, letting it happen, letting it take him. When he’s close, he bites into his hand so hard it stings, but Sam grabs both wrists and pins them behind his back.
“Let go, Bucky.”
That’s all it takes. Bucky shudders as he comes, eyes squeezed shut in frustration. He hates being told what to do. Hates how easily his body obeys Sam.
Which is exactly why Sam does it.
Sam follows a beat later, buried deep, gasping into Bucky’s shoulder. They collapse together, sweaty and wrecked and breathless.
Time passes.
“You’re heavy,” Bucky says finally, voice muffled against the mattress.
“Sorry,” Sam mumbles, pulling out and rolling off. Bucky pushes off the bed and heads straight for the bathroom.
Sam lays there, listening to the water start to run. His heart’s still pounding like he’s facing an enemy.
And he’s not sure what that says about either of them.