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Bucky grumbles at the invitation again, continuing to look over the note stuck to the fridge as Sam chuckles at him from where he's sprawled on the couch.
"Do we really have to go to this?" Bucky groans. Sam looks up from the tablet in his lap, tilting his chin over the back of the couch as Bucky turns towards their living room.
"Aw, Buck, come on. One party. Don't have to be there long, but it should be fun."
Bucky almost resents that Sam genuinely seems excited. No one else would put a dent in his opinion half as easily, but Sam had a way of getting him to go along with things that were not particularly enjoyable outside of his involvement.
"A 'sexy costume' party," Bucky relays, a sneer with air quotes as though Sam didn't already know he wasn't looking forward to it. That a gaggle of minor celebrities, half-dressed and drunkenly showing off to each other, was not Bucky's idea of a fun Halloween eve.
Sam didn't have to know, however, that any of it was that Bucky also dreaded knowing they'd be hit on, how it stung to see people so inevitably drawn to Sam and his charm, the grace Sam had when he either let someone down gently or flirted back. Bucky's own reputation, too, has changed enough that he got some similar attention, but he wasn't smooth like he'd been long ago. It still felt more like being gawked at, admired like a caged animal, when people seemed attracted enough to him to say something about it. He wanted as little as possible to do with it, and besides, he wasn't sure how he'd manage to stick around Sam for the sake of being around someone he knew, while having to see others react publicly to Sam being hellishly gorgeous in whatever he'd come up with to wear, without completely losing his mind.
He barely had a grip on handling seeing Sam in his running shorts, and even that required some very secretive alone time in his room of their townhouse. As it was, he's probably going to faint when he officially finds out what Sam's decided to wear and all his blood bails on his brain. It'll inevitably happen eventually, but Bucky is yet to figure out how he'll explain that.
Sam rolls his eyes.
"Oh, what? Not enough to bribe you with free candy and the sights?"
Sam gestures dramatically, both his pretty hands angled at his face, one panning downward. Bucky shoves out something he hopes sounds like a scoff, though the odds were quite high he was also blushing red enough that Sam could tell. Not that he didn't already stumble over his words often enough that Sam really should have figured out that Bucky's support and admiration has bloomed into something....else.
"I'm literally looking at you right now, Sam," he somehow manages to declare, trying to seem less pleased with that activity than in truth. Maybe it was a staring problem, but if he never had to make himself look away, he'd probably spend an inordinate amount of time drooling, brain cells lost to the wind.
"You buzz-killing old man, you! Here I thought you'd enjoy some dress-up, see me be some sexy Cap, you know," Sam jests, thankfully seeming not to notice how Bucky's heart races.
Which...Bucky drags him into having an understanding of regardless. Because his own self-preservation instincts are almost non-existent, least existent of all where Sam is concerned, and his brain doesn't really work.
"Oh, I'm the buzzkill, says a man who may very well just be planning to wear his work uniform to a party."
Bucky doesn't even think twice about the words until he catches an intrigued surprise in Sam's expression. He'd have expected an immediate retort, so the pause that Sam takes throws him further off balance.
Bucky makes himself look away, and Sam forces a fake cough, drawing Bucky's eyes back towards him as he sits a bit taller. There's a new, curious lilt in his voice when he speaks.
"Well, I had thought I'd go for some short little dress get-up, cute patriotic showgirl costume type of deal, but if the regular good ol' suit is all it takes to get your cyborg gears going..."
Bucky gulps, wonders if he can somehow laugh this off, escape having to put words to a confession he knows would stain every instance of casual comfort they've developed at this point in their friendship.
"It's not my fault you could still look sexy in a trash bag," he grumbles, the closest thing to an excuse he can think of. "That's just...I've got eyes, Sam, dammit."
His heart beats harder, a familiar anxiety crawling through his chest. He runs his vibranium hand through his hair and turns back towards the fridge to occupy himself, to find something unrelated. He settles on grabbing the jug of cold brew from the fridge; Sam had gotten it from a coffeehouse a few blocks away, gotten the biggest size they sold so both he and Bucky could use it for a few days. So thoughtful, Sam was, always.
Bucky grabs a tall mug from a cabinet and fills it halfway with a handful of ice cubes from the freezer, then gingerly pours in enough coffee to nearly reach the top. He's running his thumb over the textured USAF logo on the mug's side when Sam's suddenly at his left, wrapping his own hand around it, fingertips curling into the handle and grazing Bucky's palm. It's barely a touch, but it's electricity as well, a spark generating sweat on his skin. He's stuck in place, his feet heavy as lead and his gaze trained closely on the ice cubes in the mug.
Sam leans into the counter, looking towards Bucky instead of continuing to face the same direction, then pulls the mug up to his own lips in a smooth swoop. Bucky's inability to meet his eyes is probably just as revealing as if he were to make himself look, but he's not sure he can move a muscle.
Sam takes a tiny sip, only a negligible amount less coffee in the mug when he lowers it, placing it into Bucky's hand with another brief electric touch. Even without moving in response, Bucky is painfully aware of the way Sam's looking at him, through him, and of just how unbearably close he is, and shit, how horribly obvious Bucky's interest must be, now that he's said something quite so bold. He may still be learning what it's like to be a person of the 21st century, but he knows that it's still rather incriminating of him to call his dear friend sexy, no matter how true that might be.
"So," Sam starts softly, tentatively, and Bucky grimaces. "Is 'do we have to go' old man speak for 'I've got better ideas, like getting out of costume and into bed'? Cause if I didn't know better, I'd think Suave Sergeant Barnes is having some thoughts, hmm?"
Bucky takes his own sip of cold brew, grasping for the first reply he thinks of that sounds more like a real joke than a confession.
"Sorry, Sammy. Suave Sergeant Barnes can't answer right now; he's dead. Please leave a message and Embarrassed James will get back to you in a few business days."
Sam chuckles, warmth dancing across Bucky's face with the sweet sound.
"O-kay, Mister Super Secretary." Sam stretches the words out; his tone is careful and diplomatic, but Bucky can hear his amusement. "Please let Embarrassed James know I'm on a tight schedule here and I need my peer feedback A.S.A.P."
More quickly than the first, Sam takes another sip of the coffee, this time pulling the mug up without bothering to get Bucky's hand unwrapped from it.
"Gotta know which edition sexy Cap is getting me that hot Halloween date night when we get back, you know."
He drops it so casually that, at first, Bucky's sure he's heard him incorrectly. The primary thing in his brain is a memory of a 90s computer crash Sam had once saved a YouTube video of so he could mock Bucky's so-called bluescreening when he failed to make sense of something.
"I'm not going outside in a trash bag, though. I've got a reputation to uphold here. One of us has to have a sense of fashion, after all."
Sam nudges Bucky's elbow with his own, and Bucky musters enough nerve to finally look at him again. His shining eyes are expectant, gentle, as easy as ever to get lost in.
"Wear whatever you want to, just...read me in on what you want me to do."
"For a costume, or a date?"
Bucky pauses, but Sam's question is soft and serious, and somehow even the pit swirling in Bucky's stomach lets him form an answer.
"Both."
Sam gives him a wink and a wide smile, and slips one of his hands into the nearest of Bucky's.
"Don't you worry, baby; I'll make sure it's a good time."