Ch. 3- Fitness

Fuck. That. Noise. Bucky smacked his alarm clock so hard that it fell off his bedside table with a thunk.

And that one. And god, thoughts are loud. He barely opened his eyes enough to type out the number he dialed before whispering for Steve not to expect him at the gym for their usual run. Steve would understand although Bucky admitted that at that moment, it physically hurt to care at all, and he fell back to sleep within seconds.

Sam laughed in Steve's face when he caught the blond running the track alone.

"Don't start," Steve warned. "That jerk is always perfectly fine until he is completely not fine. Zero to sixty sheets to the wind like that-" and Steve snapped his fingers as Sam began jogging beside him.

"Yeah...I caught that," Sam snorted.

"On your right," a fellow runner called to Sam as he raced past. The man was shorter than Steve but just as blond, just as bulky, but his gait required significant effort to hurl him forward at the pace he ran. Sam thought there was no way he could sustain that for long. He was wrong. Lap after lap, while he repeatedly fell behind and caught up with Steve at his normal and steady pace, the new blond overtook them, on the right, over and over. Sam would have been annoyed if not for the bright white smile the man flashed at him every single time.

Finally, Sam had reached his limit for the day, completing a solid six miles-no easy feat for a mild-hangover day-and stopped to refill his water bottle.

The new blond came up, resting his hands on his hips as he panted still. "Nice job out there."

Sam scrunched his lips to the side. "A comparatively mediocre performance, I'd say."

"No way, man." The pearly smile remained. "Hey, are you doing the half-marathon this summer?"

Sam indicated the man's speed by swiveling his finger in the air. "You mean the same one you just ran? If I was thinking about it before, I'd be scared shitless now…"

Steve finally jogged up to grab a cup of water himself, noticeably avoiding their conversation and walking a wide berth around Sam's side.

"John Walker," the new blond said, offering his hand to shake, "and not to brag, but I run a marathon a couple times a year. Don't, uh, judge yourself by that. I've been told it's...that I'm pretty intense."

"Sam Wilson." He released their handshake. "I've been called serious but never intense."

"Something to look forward to then," John beamed, ducking his head to let a bit of wavy hair fall over his forehead. "Guess I'll see ya around, Sam."

Sam smacked Steve's outrageously large bicep. "That's Steve. He has no manners today."

John nodded, smiled wider, giving a quick wave and another shy tilt of his head directly to Sam before returning to his laps. Sam felt exhausted just watching him, turning to a quiet Steve.

"What's your problem?"

The bigger blond's brow creased. "Nothing."

Sam snorted. "You are such a boy scout. You can't lie worth beans!"

Steve's mouth skewed in distaste and he peeked around Sam's shoulder as if he might find Walker hiding in the far corner. "Guy runs like that...pretty sure he's taking something."

"Fair," Sam allowed, "what? You worried he'll steal your title or something?" Steve's sour look grew, tinged with guilt for judging a man he'd just met. "Alright, Captain Morals. How 'bout I buy you a protein bar? Then you can go reclaim some high ground..."

The banging on the door was only slightly louder than the banging inside Bucky's head, and he promptly pressed a pillow over his ear in retaliation.

A muffled voice came from the door. "Hey, my hands are full. Open up!"

Bucky didn't move.

"Steve texted you might need bagels. Come on, B, or I'll lick yours. I'll do it."

Sisters. Little sisters. She'd do it, too, so Bucky sloppily raced over to his apartment door and twisted the-today specifically-very noisy latch, swinging the door wide enough to let Becca in but still allow him to rest his forehead on the cool, painted metal. He stood up too fast, and the rush turned his stomach the wrong way.

His sister turned to look at him. "Yikes. Good thing I grabbed you a mega coffee."

"I hate you and I love you," Bucky managed to mumble while steadying himself, eyes shut tight against the daylight spilling in.

"But mostly love," Becca chirped. She spun back around to set the food on the little table. Bucky stood against the door for another solid fifteen seconds before braving movement. She always bought the best cream cheese. "I'll just tell Stevie you're alive, shall I? Er...awake..." Becca slid the brown paper bag over for Bucky to choose; his sister was obsessed with always having a choice, a variety, options, and while Bucky understood the concept, he also wanted something consistent and familiar. He picked out the plain bagel.

Once successfully smeared with a thick layer of smoked salmon cream cheese and heartily consumed, the bagel lost Bucky's interest. "What'd he say," Bucky mumbled through the last of his chewing. "Punk just loves to rat me out."

"Hardly! He seemed impressed."

Bucky tilted his head at her. "No, he didn't."

"No," Becca giggled, "he didn't, but all he said was you were probably worse for wear and might need some T-L-C today." She then stared with palpable judgment as he drew the chocolate chip bagel from the bottom of the bag. "Uh, that's mine," she started. "But I'm taking it with mostly love," Bucky cooed back. Becca slammed her hand down on the table. "There's cinnamon sugar in there for you. Don't touch my chip!"

As the much smaller brunette launched herself across the tiny table, Bucky jumped over the back of his couch, reaching his hand up. "What happened to all that sisterly shit?"

"You're full of it. Now give...me...the-damn it," Becca huffed, jumping toward the bagel held too high above her brother's head. "Seriously," she whined, "B, please." It was more pathetic than the occasion of a lost chocolate source warranted. He knew something was up when she stopped trying for the food to rest her fingers on her gold 'B' necklace, absently rolling it in her hands.

"Why, what's wrong?" Buck watched her face fall, squinting at the jab of pain from looking at his backlit sister. His stomach was settled enough after food, but his head would need more time to recover. Becca flopped down into the couch, scrolled to something in her phone-always on that phone- and handed the device over. He squinted some more, unfamiliar with the nuance of social media, but he could clearly see the handle 'BecBucBarns' at the top of the screen with an icon of a paper plane. The Instagram direct message from 'dannitrannilova' read: it's over, Bec. i need to work on myself and your drama is too toxic rn There was no period at the end, something that particularly annoyed Bucky, but Becca just slumped into the cushions and sighed, "I got dumped."

There were several other things he did not like about this girl for Becca. First, Danni calling Becca dramatic and toxic-which she wasn't-was the pot calling the kettle black. Second, social media. That was his whole thought. Problems equal social media. It was why Bucky had no accounts of his own, but he let Becca post whatever she wanted about him because-again-he didn't care. The most hilarious thing that ever came out of her obsession with phone apps was setting up Steve's account with the handle 'CaptMericaRogers' before Steve even knew what hit him. Third, anyone who called themselves 'lova' unironically was doomed to be immediately written off by Bucky. It was just cringeworthy. "Can you even consider it's a relationship through this thing? You texted her all yesterday."

In fact, Becca had been so fidgety and so annoyed that she'd demanded Bucky type out her responses to Danni while Becca furiously braided his hair. This, in turn, prevented Becca from screaming into the phone and tossing it into a wall, a semi-annual occurrence her brother strove to avoid. He tipped the phone back into her lap and pushed her a little to make room for himself to stretch out, happy the couch faced a darker wall and the black screen of the TV. With deliberate flair, he tore the bagel in half and handed a piece over.

Becca took his offering with a mock sneer. "This thing is how I know you had a fucking dance-battle last night!" Bucky coughed on his bite. "Yeah, dude," she continued, "Tony Stark posts fucking everything."

His stomach turned a little more, flashing on how Sam Wilson could have an incriminating photo from an event the man did not attend. Problems equal social media.

"That one didn't seem to like your-" Becca tapped her shoulder with a bagel end "-abilities." Bucky chewed slowly, memories thick and sluggish like the chilled liquor the night before. "He's cute," she tried again. Bucky continued to chew, watching her scroll through the several videos and pictures on 'OaOTonyStark's feed (short for 'One and Only' she'd explained before) until finally, Becca hit a photo of Steve walking Bucky out with an arm over his shoulder. "Definitely right on the big coffee then," she mumbled.

His head pounded again in the strain. "I don't remember that." Bucky tried to think his way through the black, but nothing came.

"So...anything happen?"

Sam Wilson was nowhere to be seen in the last photo. Bucky's thoughts rolled back through what he could remember, and to his disappointment, nothing had happened. He'd sat beside Sam in the booth and yelled about work. Sam had a sister, and the thought made Bucky tuck his hair behind his ear, feeling that Becca's plaits had completely unraveled in his sleep. Sam had stood very, very close to him for a few moments on the dance floor, and he had smelled so fucking good…

"Nope," Buck chirped, "nothing."

Becca deflated before popping off the couch to steal the last of his coffee. "Lame. Where's your remote?" There it was again. Options.

Even though Sam tried to focus on his own exercise, he couldn't look away. Tight calves beneath rippling hamstrings were a bit of a weakness of his-that and a nice, thick thigh-and these were all pristinely on display before him as John Walker watched his hammer curls in the mirror at the gym. Sam's eye wandered over while he rested between incline press sets and then he found himself losing his count. They'd exchanged a smile and nod about half an hour ago when Walker arrived to begin with reverse flys on the cable machine. That was a great view, too. Juicing or not, the man was a specimen, and Sam could at least watch the show, encourage the performance, since why else would someone lift with such showmanship?

If Sam ignored how heavy Walker lifted, he could almost enjoy the catch of bulky shoulders under a stretched shirt. The man was cocky (by the bulge of his shorts, in more ways than one) and undeniably strong. However, Walker was absolutely correct in describing himself as intense because that was the only word Sam could think of watching that guy do pull-ups and single-arm push-ups. He tried to focus on his own tricep kickbacks, but then Walker settled himself into bench presses, his legs spread wide, crotch pointed directly at Sam.

He knew the type: bold and brash, wants what he wants and doesn't really take no for an answer. Walker had a nice body, but Sam couldn't tell which side of the intense-personality-spectrum he fell onto. Walker could grow on him by showing a heart of gold or piss him off with possessiveness. It was way too early to tell.

Sam could watch and see how it panned out though, laughing at his own pun silently. No harm in looking when John Walker clearly wanted to be looked at...

Bucky was no spring chicken, so even by the next morning, he walked into work wearing sunglasses and moving a little slower. He hardly acknowledged the stunted chuckle from Steve. His friend said nothing for several minutes but kept glancing over his computer in Bucky's direction.

"What? Am I late or something?" Bucky checked his watch which only now read 7:03. Not late.

"Nothing," Steve lied. He winnowed about with his drafting and emails for a few more minutes before letting out an exasperated sigh. "I thought you'd be making fun of me by now."

Bucky squinted. "For what?"

"For Peggy being at the club."

"The bartender?" She wasn't in any pictures Becca scrolled through on Tony's feed, but more oddly, Steve made a face like he'd been slapped.

"Actually, she owns the jazz club," Steve added quietly, "but...yeah, she came by."

Bucky scratched his neck. "Was she? I...I don't remember that." He tried to think. Buck remembered dancing, remembered hands on him-or maybe his hands on someone?-then having a hard time hearing, remembered staring at Vision's lips trying to read them in response to...something. He remembered a redhead handing him a glass of water, and then the cool glass of a window against his cheek and the glow of city lights against clouds.

"Oh," Steve returned to focus on his screen, "nevermind then. Gosh, you really were gone."

Bucky chuckled and rubbed at his forehead. "Did everybody else get home okay?"

Steve nodded, flipping through a packet on his desk. "Saw Sam yesterday. Tony posted about a lunch with Pepper. Texted me with some half-rant about match-making skills-do you have the blueprint for Compound 4F? Ah, found it-" Bucky's eyes shifted to check the coffee level of the pot in the breakroom. Less than a quarter full. Barely a decent mug worth. He'd have to make more. He'd wait for someone else to refill it. "-I'm just glad he was distracted when Peggy was there. Don't need that guy...being Tony and mucking it up."

Bucky leaned back in his chair, tilting his head to look over the shades. "And what is it at this point?" Steve paused his paper shuffling. "New" was his only reply. Buck counted to three in his head, watching for the tiniest crack in Steve's stoic armor. Boy had it bad; Bucky had never seen Steve quite so guarded. Rogers' M.O. was generally to talk circles around his feelings until he convinced himself it wasn't worth it, that he and whatever woman were not right for each other, then he'd move on. Bucky hated that Steve was alone, but Steve also never stayed in something that wasn't working. It was his power and his curse: to know something wouldn't work.

Steve's voice snapped Bucky back. "Any email from R&D about 4G?" Salt on the wound.

Buck rolled his shoulders to release a ping of tension at the reminder. "Stress test failure, but Lynn is pretty sure there was a tempering issue. She's gonna run another print."

"Ok, we'll stay on it," Steve said flatly.

"Sure thing, boss man." Bucky changed his mind; he needed the coffee.

Steve sighed and dropped all of what he was holding, swiveling his upper body to eye the same nearly empty pot as his friend. His head nudged toward the 'kitchen.' "Anyway, how's Becs?"

The rest of the day, and the rest of the week, slipped by like sand in an hourglass. Lynn reprinted the test pieces, initial results looked good, but the whole project was running a bit behind schedule. Extra work hours meant the most time Bucky got to unwind was about twenty minutes in his apartment to do some pull-ups, push-ups, squats, and lunges each morning. He couldn't wait to get back into his actual routine.

One small problem. In the morning, on the phone, a pinch as if from some giant lobster creature clamped across his left side. It was an inconsistent yet familiar feeling. Bucky tried to ignore it all day, but the twitching, burning sensation across his left shoulder, shooting under his arm, was hard to ignore. The old war wound was completely healed, the damaged tissue devoid of nerve endings, and Bucky knew-he understood-that the pain was not happening though it sure as shit felt real. It still jumped and jolted. It still gave him pause. It still left him fucking annoyed.

The absent ache made him tired and drained most of his energy even while sitting at a desk, popping aspirin-which he knew could not help-and chugging coffee as if it were in his job description. He didn't feel comfortable lifting weights while the phantom pain remained, so he opted to run with Steve, only suffering through a dozen or so laps-couldn't even count while the odd thrumming continued-before waving his friend on. All Bucky had to do was point to his shoulder, and Steve knew. What else were best friends for?

While Buck walked back to the locker room, rolling his shoulder in the hopes some random angle might provide relief, he saw Sam playing basketball with a man he didn't recognize. The bulky blond skittered across the court with remarkable speed for his size, not looking at all tired compared to Sam's heaving chest and sweat-drenched shirt. Another reason Bucky wished he could feel nothing instead of so much at the moment.

He learned long ago that there were generally two options to temporarily rid himself of the phantom pinch: alcohol to numb the brain or pressure to feel something else. A shower would do nicely. The stream of hot water pulsed enough to keep restimulating the area, giving the living nerve tissue something to tell his brain other than lies, yet constant enough to soothe and relax the rest of his fatigued body. The feeling was so good he stayed under the water much longer than he usually would. Other men came and went. Bucky tuned out the sounds around him, let a good sense take over for a time, lathered his hair with just his right hand while the pressure stayed on his left side, smelled the fruit and the steam before something else hit his nostrils.

"You're still in here?" The shock in the deep voice didn't quite match the words, and Bucky turned to tilt his head under the water with a furrowed brow. Sam Wilson stood watching him with dying amusement as his eyes raked over Bucky's shoulder slowly, seeming to notice not only the scars but that Bucky was favoring his right to rinse himself. The concern grew on his face until their eyes met, brown eyes dark with sympathy, blue eyes tired and sad. Bucky heard Sam's flip flop move against the tile, could hear nothing else and see nothing but Sam in the steam of the room, shifted involuntarily to let the water cascade down his face and into his mouth. Instinctively, Buck took a wide step out of the shower stream and wiped his face down, but Sam still moved forward, cocking his head, his focus on Bucky's shoulder.

"Barnes." It was almost a whisper, inaudible outside of the foot of space between them. "You good?" Bucky nodded, unwilling to explain all the history of what led to today. "Rogers said you went home, but you're…" Sam seemed lost for a split second, scanning Buck's body, perhaps searching for more scars, and Bucky steeled himself for an inevitable question.

"Glad you're back," Sam finally said, softly but firm, not at all what Bucky expected. "Took you a bit to recover, huh? Surprised you can do all that at the club if it-" Sam lifted his right hand to indicate Bucky's left side and his words went almost ghostly "-hurts sometimes."

Bucky could only nod while he thought back to the club and what he could remember of their dancing. "I think we ended in a tie," he chirped quietly, attempting sass in his relaxed and exhausted state.

Bucky's little smile was met with an instantly devious curl of Sam's lips. "For the record, I win in the bedroom." Bedroom? Sam twisted his body closer, forcing Bucky to roll back against the tile of the shower wall, a leap of excited fear curling in his stomach. "Oh, no? You don't remember? You had the upper hand for a minute there, just like this-" Sam's right hand pressed against the wall right at Bucky's left shoulder. Bucky's skin shuddered, not painfully but the feeling was still strong enough to keep him mute, waiting, wanting to know or wanting more he couldn't tell.

Bucky's breath caught and his heart seized. He could have done a lot. Once when he was on leave and went to some college party, he ended up streaking through a neighborhood to impress a frat guy. Then there was the time he met a really shy girl, Yana, who was into one of his friends, and to help her get Rich's attention, Bucky talked her into taking off her bra which he proceeded to wear over his own shirt. Bucky told his friend "just thought you should know what she's working with under there," and three years later was toasting their wedding, making a speech with absolutely no mention of that story. So, yes, Bucky could have done a number of wacky and wonderful things, but he couldn't remember what he did to Sam Wilson last week.

"Do you...want to guess where your hand was?"

Oh shit.

Sam reached his left hand to Bucky's ear, curling fingers through the wet hair dangling in his face and tucking it away. "Here?"

Whether because Bucky wanted to feel anything other than the pain of his shoulder or because he really wanted to feel Sam, he couldn't tell, but the moment consumed him anyway. His mouth went slack, and his vision tunneled onto just Sam's face. He hung on every word, every minute flicker in Sam's expression, devouring the hunger radiating from one body to his. Sam's finger moved, dragging down Bucky's jaw until it jumped over his neck and down to his chest. His skin was still so hot from the shower that Sam's touch felt like cool sandpaper and yet burned him in the best way. Bucky completely forgot the question by the time the rest of Sam's fingers joined to splay across his right pec.

"What about here?" The words were gravel now, burying Bucky, anchoring him to the wall beneath Sam, and he shocked himself by letting out a whimper he hadn't felt coming. His body wasn't his own today, but Bucky was relieved to relinquish control to this...this different type of fire. "You're right. Not there." God, I wanna be wrong. The hand left him, left his whole body scrambling to feel the return wherever it may land, but Bucky was still unprepared for the graze of flesh at the cut of his hip. His breath cut through him like a knife, pushing him into the back of Sam's finger for just an instant before focus returned to his eyes. They were staring at each other again, Sam still a foot away but focused and unblinking while Bucky now tried to remember how legs work.

"Ringing any bells?"

Fuck you. No… Fuck me. What did I do?! Bucky stopped. His body froze. Hell, time stopped while Sam just watched him. Could he tell how Bucky flailed inside though his body didn't move? Could he taste the change in Bucky's mood? The feral mood almost always looked so significant on Bucky; several people had mentioned the difference when his 'animal' side came out. Today, that animal was caged, however, and begging-whimpering apparently-for a treat. One single word rasped out of Bucky's almost closed throat. "Sam…"

Instead, the hand left the tile beside him and the firm press of knuckle left his hip. "That's not what you called me the other night."

Bucky's mind screamed. He had no idea how far he'd gone, but goddamnit he wished he could remember, could do it again, and more possibly. At the moment though, he still couldn't move.

"I should take a picture for reference," Sam said finally, flicking a dangling wet hair away from Buck's face, "because that is the exact shade I want for RedWing." He drank in Bucky's panic, smiled wider as a raspy breath broke Bucky's paralysis, and nodded at his own handiwork. "See ya around, Sneaks," and Sam disappeared into the steam.

All feeling had left Bucky save for the heavy, needy knot in the pit of his stomach. It was the best he'd felt all week.

A/N: You bet your ass I am this evil. Bwahahahaha