Chapter Text
Bucky had no idea how terrible it felt missing something that he never had.
He'd driven away from the bar a couple of days ago with something rock solid and heavy in his chest. He'd driven away knowing Sam wasn't in it the way he was, didn't feel the same. Or he would have said something, right? Yeah.
And sure, Sam had been there on business, he'd been hanging around at the bar for info and clues and investigator stuff, and Bucky has no place being upset that Sam didn't reciprocate his feelings. He knows that's not what it was about for Sam.
Thing is, he thought there had been something between them. God, he'd been so sure. He saw the way Sam looked at him- differently than all the other clients, differently than Pierce and Garret, and he thought just maybe…
When they danced, when they kissed... It felt like more, felt reciprocated for a brief moment.
But Sam's silence proved otherwise.
Bucky stood there waiting, silently begging him to say something, and he never did.
"Well, god, Bucky, why didn't you say something then?" his sister said, half-hysterical, on the way back to her apartment that day. She'd been about ready to turn the car around and drive him back to the crime scene. Had his heart not been all kinds of bitter and sore, he would have let her.
And now? Now he's been living in Becca's spare room in Jersey because the police told him to get out of dodge for a while until they catch up with Malick.
But hasn't been entirely useless; there's no point in it. He needs a job, probably a new apartment, and honestly, keeping busy keeps his mind off what could have been.
So he does Becca's grocery shopping while she's at work, spring cleans her apartment, reorganizes her bathroom cabinets, and bakes sugar cookies when he's not job hunting.
And when he is, he sends out email after email: barman, topless barman, topless waiter, suit-wearing waiter, chef's assistant, human sushi platter, dancer, private dancer, stripper.
Which just makes him think of Sam joking about it with him that one night, laughing at him, the way his eyes crinkled up, and how his lips were shiny wet with Tequila. There must have been something; there must have been a spark for him too.
But he can't dwell on it. He'd make himself crazy if he did. He can't dwell on Sam's smile and his high cheekbones and the long curl of his lashes. He definitely can't daydream about kissing that sweet, sweet mouth again, slower next time and less panicked, and maybe just maybe it'll lead someplace else.
No. For sure. He can't think about any of that. Not Sam's hands on him, squeezing Bucky's bicep the way he liked to do, fingers tugging him closer, that little sigh he let out mid-kiss like it was the best thing he'd ever felt.
Can't think of asking Sam out and taking him to a nice place, maybe holding his hand, telling him that he's the most gorgeous guy Bucky's ever seen. Can't think of curling up against Sam's back and wrapping his arms around him and falling asleep like that.
He can't. He shouldn't. He won't put himself through it.
But he does.
And that's how Becca finds him, daydreaming and letting out a long sullen sigh because he can't make it come true. And maybe he's been listening to Bonnie Tyler on repeat.
"Jesus." she sighs too, throws his coat at him, "Come on, I'll take you to lunch."
He puts his coat on and slips a beanie over his head because he hadn't bothered with his hair at all. "Fine. But I'll be miserable there too."
"Yeah, well, at least then I can eat and drink without hearing Total Eclipse of the Heart for the hundredth time." She says as they leave her apartment. "Let's go."
It's a small, cozy little diner just a few blocks from her place, and it does the trick—kind of.
Bucky was hungrier than he thought, and eating lifts a little bit of the slump he's been in.
But their waiter's got a gap between his two front teeth, and he talks with that sweet teasing lilt just like Sam and Bucky tries not to choke when he smiles at him.
The waiter leaves his number on the bill when he brings it, and Bucky tears it off just to be polite like he does with those girls at the bar, puts it in his pocket then forgets about it once they leave.
He starts going to the gym again. He thinks burning himself out will take his mind off it, like perhaps then he'd be too tired to have any regrets or think of how Sam doesn't want him back.
But when his head hits the pillow the first night, the only thing on his mind is how he'd give anything to lay his tired body down beside Sam and fall asleep in his arms.
Becca thinks karaoke is just the thing that'll cheer him up. She gets him properly juiced up beforehand, calls it 'pre-game warmup,' and it hits him hot and bright, way faster than he's used to.
Embarrassing for a former bartender, he thinks as they head over.
And she'd been right. With a steady stream of just the right liquor, his brain is hazy and quiet, and he doesn't give a shit about much else. He even flirts with a guy at the bar, buys him a drink but loses him somewhere in the crowd later.
He's fine.
He's fine until Becca's done with her terrible rendition of Bohemian Rhapsody, and it's his turn.
It's a random song generator, adds to the fun, the DJ says. But it starts playing Making Love Out of Nothing At All, and he makes it two lines in before his chin starts doing some weird, uncontrollable wobble, and tears bubble up in his eyes until the crowd's just a smudged-up mess in front of him.
The backtrack plays on, and Becca rushes up, takes his mike, and apologizes to the bar. They're merciful, clapping and whistling anyway as if he'd given some thrilling performance, but really, he's sobbing uncontrollably into his sister's coat.
At home, the booze makes a reappearance, and Becca holds his hair so he can get it all out.
"Jesus, Buck. You got it bad, huh?" She says quietly, rubbing circles on his back. "Yeah. I see it now. You've got it bad," she whispers when he just groans in answer.
He sits up after dry heaving for ten minutes, wipes his mouth, and drinks some ice water that Becca hands him.
"Goddamn nineties music," he says, and they both start laughing. They laugh and laugh and wheeze, and then he's crying again because alcohol is a really nasty companion.
She wipes a tear from his cheek, "Yeah, loser. Sure it's the fuckin' nineties."
When Bucky wakes up the following day, his head pounds, and his body aches, and contrary to hangover lore, he remembers the night before very vividly.
He wants to shut his eyes again and forget that he mortifyingly started crying in front of all those people but instead drags himself up for coffee.
There's a pink sticky note on the fridge that he peels off and reads while sipping from his mug.
It's an address in the city, an old office block, there's a number too, and at the bottom written with hearts all around the name: WilsonRogers Investigative Firm.
And he blinks and blinks and gapes at it like an idiot. Resolutely, he thinks he's not going to follow this up. He's not jumping on this. He's not going to call; he's not going to think about it even, because what then? He calls, and Sam hangs upon him? He'd hardly survive that.
So he showers, gets dressed, and starts sorting Becca's book collection, vacuums the apartment, does his laundry, washes, dries, and folds it, and then still finds himself restless and standing in the middle of Becca's lounge.
"Fuck's sake," he breathes, drops his head, hands on his hips, and comes to realize that he's not getting Sam out of his head anytime soon. He might as well jump.
With his heart beating in his ears and his throat all cottony and thick, he grabs his jacket and sneakers and gets dressed at the speed of light, without stopping to think it over. Because if he does, he'll chicken out again.
Instead, he bolts down the sidewalk, flags down a cab, and asks the driver to haul it to 32 Parkway. The sticky note's clutched between his fingers, crumpled up, and he doesn't stop hyperventilating even a little on the way there.
There's a florist on the street front, so he grabs a bunch of roses, deep blood red, and climbs the stairs two at a time until he gets to the office number Becca wrote down.
Vaguely, there's a voice telling him what a fool he's being, but he cuts it off.
There's a skinny blonde dude sitting at the front desk, typing away on his laptop. He doesn't notice Bucky until he awkwardly clears his throat and hides the flowers behind his back.
"Hi," he says, swallows, "I'm uh… I'm looking for—" god, this was dumb; he's shaking, "I'm looking for Sam."
The blonde arches up an eyebrow, "Yeah? You got an appointment?"
Bucky shakes his head. This was absolutely the worst idea; what in the goddamn world had possessed him to come rushing over here without a plan, without even an inch of composure.
"I don't. I just thought… I don't know. I thought maybe—" he sucks in a breath, decides to stop embarrassing himself, "You know what, nevermind."
The blonde sighs like he's exasperated and tired, kind of like how Becca's been acting. He holds up his hand, pins Bucky down with a look, and picks up the phone.
Behind the closed wooden door to his left, a phone rings twice.
"Sam," the blonde says, eyes Bucky up and down then gets a horrible, horrible glint in his eye, "Beefcake delivery for you out front." and then hangs up.
Bucky frowns, stares at the blonde guy, and starts opening his mouth to ask what the fuck when the door opens, and Sam starts talking.
"Man, what the hell did you order—oh!"
He stops, big-eyed and mouth parted, and again says, "Oh…"
And sweet lord, he's gorgeous. He's beautiful. His cute, thick glasses, his check shirt tight around his biceps with a pen hooked in the breast pocket, and he's swallowing like he's nervous too.
"Hi," Bucky says, clears his throat again. "I just…" He's suddenly too conscious of himself, too aware and vulnerable. He drags his hand through his hair and sighs, decides to lay himself bare, "I don't know. I miss you. There. I said it."
Sam turns to the blonde, "Steve," he says, pointedly.
"What? Two weeks of moping, and you're kicking me out before the final show?"
"I swear to god, man," Sam says, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Fine. Alright. Alright." the guy, Steve, grabs his stuff and stomps to the door. Upon shutting it, he repeats himself, "Fine!" and Sam lets out a quiet chuckle, shakes his head.
And when Sam looks back at Bucky, he raises the flowers as a last offering.
"I got you these." But he can't stop now, "And I can't stop thinking about you. Not since the bar, I've been going crazy thinking this isn't… that for you it wasn't. Look I know it was a job, I know that and I know you've moved on, I know that too but—"
But then, quick as anything, Sam's coming toward him, grabbing Bucky's shirt.
And this time, Sam's kissing him.
He lets the roses drop to get his hands on Sam instead, curling into his shirt, mouth open and hot and urgent.
"I hoped—" Sam says breathlessly between kisses, "—you'd come around." he lets Bucky pick him up and carry him to the office, and goddammit it, the weight of him feels so good. So real. "And I—" he kisses Bucky again, pulls away, and cups his cheek, "—I missed you too."
Bucky smiles, lips brushing against Sam's mouth, laying him down on an old couch that looks like it might not hold their weight.
He leans back and looks at Sam, laughs because his glasses are all steamed up now.
"Yeah? You missed me? How much?"
Sam groans when he opens his eyes, yanks the glasses off, and tosses them aside. And then he's blinking up at Bucky with those disgustingly long lashes, and everything inside of Bucky explodes.
Sam knows what he feels because he smiles, "Come here, I'll show you."
Then his legs come up around Bucky's waist, and he kisses him again, harder and longer. This time there are no interruptions, no whistling madmen.
It's just the two of them making up for far too much wasted time.
And it's perfect.
Bucky finds a job eventually. It involves more glitter than he's ever seen in his life and requires fewer clothes than advertised, but it's a ball.
He works five nights a week, gets good tips for some asshole with a pink top, and gets to tell tipsy girls about his gorgeous boyfriend all the time.
He wears the glitter and pink singlet happily.
He and Sam got an apartment together a while back, a cozy little place with a small balcony and a fireplace. Sam always waits up for him, scolds him about all the glitter he scatters all over the place when he comes home, and then continues to strip him out of the singlet and makes out with him against the fridge.
He gets cleaned up and joins Sam on the couch; they watch crime documentaries well into the morning, and Sam says, "We're so much better at this," watching the cops figure out who robbed the bank, who killed the husband or how'd the fingerprints end up all the way over there.
"Damn straight, sweetheart," Bucky tells him because that's what they do now, call each other sappy, love-struck names.
Sam smiles and looks over at him, leans in for a kiss. Something soft and tender that never quite stays that way. They always end up in bed, and Sam does things that make Bucky forget how to speak, and it's better than anything Bucky's ever felt.
Then, the following day, and this is the best part: he wakes up next to Sam.