Leg Day

Bucky Barnes is a mess.

Correction: Bucky Barnes is a hot mess.

Not 'hot' in the sense that he's blindingly attractive, but 'hot' in the sense that he is, quite possibly, the gayest man in New York.

Okay, maybe not the gayest. He doesn't wear rainbow tights and a feather boa wherever he goes. But he has a contact list with more numbers than he can put names to, he has a pair of sweats that say BABYDOLL on them in big block letters over the ass that he wears to the gym, and he can bake like a fucking champion. If a man's stomach is the road to his heart, then that road's got a little side-street that's a one-way ride to dick-town.

Bucky Barnes is a phone-loving shameless millennial who looks up recipes and pretends he's a culinary major on the weekends, who takes stupid photos of himself and sends them to half the people in his contact book, who gets a nice set of dick pics every Friday night.

Out of all of his contacts, one of the few that actually has a name attached to the number is his roommate, Sam.

Sam is long-suffering, but grounded. Sam complains about Bucky's constant selfies, constant documentation of his failed baking attempts, and sporadic dick pics. (And on a few memorable occasions, he'd given some constructive criticism on those.)

But Sam is Bucky's saving grace. Sam is the reason Bucky hasn't drunk himself into a ditch or ended up locked up in a serial killer's basement yet. Sam is Bucky's safety net, and he really, really doesn't deserve this.

"You don't understand."

"I think I understand."

"No, you don't." Bucky sets his bottle down and points a finger at Sam. Sam doesn't even look at him, just crosses his legs up on the footrest and keeps watching the game.

"Buck-o," he says, flipping the remote in his hand. "I understand completely. You just met Hot Guy of the week, and you're trying to talk him up enough to convince me to give you the apartment for the night, For The Greater Good. Trust me. I understand."

"Saaaammm," Bucky says.

"No." Sam flips the remote again. "You've defiled this place too many times."

"It's not just that," Bucky insists.

"No?" Sam takes the bait this time, abandoning the game and looking over at Bucky.

"I'm having a crisis," Bucky moans.

"A crisis," Sam deadpans. Bucky nods, keeping his eyes as big and woeful as he can. "How can you possibly be having a crisis? You had your gay crisis, like, fifteen years ago."

"You weren't there for my gay crisis, you don't get to use that as a reference," Bucky says, frowning. "And I'm not having another gay crisis."

"Are you having a middle-age crisis?" Sam asks, thoroughly amused. "Because twenty-nine's a little early for that."

"Oh, shut up," Bucky grumbles. "No. I'm having a crisis."

"I guess pretty much everything you do can be called a crisis," Sam reasons. "All right, I'll bite. What is it?"

"So there's this guy at my gym," Bucky starts, and Sam lets out a low moan.

"Come on, man," he says, holding the remote out to the heavens.

"What?" Bucky retorts. "This is a serious problem."

"Unless he's a serial killer who is actively stalking you, you don't have a problem," Sam barks. "I don't have time for your gay white-boy problems."