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♫ Blue moon, you saw me standing alone. Without a dream in my heart, without a love of my own...♫
Bucky Barnes had always loved dancing.
And in those many, many lost decades, he realised it was one of the things he had missed most about his old life.
Which was why, when a dashing young woman of seventy-nine had asked him to dance, he couldn’t possibly say no. Not that Miss Patti, Sarah’s neighbour and close family friend of the Wilsons, was the type of person many said no to.
“Well, Sergeant Barnes, the rumours are true,” the woman in question smiled up at him during their third dance as the dulcet tones of Billie Holiday filled the docks, the sun starting to set around them, the cookout winding down a little.
“Rumours?” Bucky asked lightly, having a feeling where she was going with this as he allowed himself to be slightly led along to the music, his feet finding the steps easily, fluidly.
It really was like riding a bike.
Mostly muscle memory.
Hydra hadn’t taken this from him, at least.
“That you are quite the dancer,” she replied, nodding to their feet, before arching an eyebrow, “says so in that flashy museum upstate.”
Bucky squinted down at her.
“It does?”
She nodded, squeezing his right hand gently. He hadn’t really known what to do with his left at first, not wanting her to be uncomfortable, but thankfully, she solved that worry right quick, rolling her eyes and pulling it to rest respectfully on her waist.
“Umm hmm,” she chuckled, “I read all about how Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes charmed all the dames with his fancy footwork back in the day.”
Bucky let out a small laugh at that.
"Charmed might be a strong word," he replied, though not necessarily refuting it, "but that was a long time ago."
She gave him a small smack to his shoulder, scoffing, "Less of that word ‘long’, thank you. I'll have you know I was born 'round about then."
Bucky nodded, stifling a grin.
"Sorry Miss Patti," he met her eye, "you're still young and spritely. And haven't lost your own charm, if you don't mind my sayin' so."
That got a bark of laughter out of her, she smacking him harder this time.
"And there he is. The silver-tongued devil," she grinned, "my Harold will have your head if he hears you sweet talkin' me, boy. But, I do know someone else you can turn those baby blues to."
She jerked her head to something over his shoulder.
Bucky took that opportunity to twirl her, her laughter trickling against the sounds of the low music and the various conversations going on around them. When he pulled her back in, he was facing the opposite direction, his heart skipping a beat as he met the warm, dark eyes of none other than Sam Wilson.
He was stealing glances at them, cup of something (probably the spiked punch) in his hand, silently sipping and nodding at whatever his companion was saying to him, his gaze flittering back and forth every few seconds, as if he couldn’t quite make himself look away fully.
Bucky felt his face heat up under his quick but heavy stare.
“That poor boy was so lost after Paul and Darlene passed,” Patti said softly, snapping his attention back to her.
“He’s come so far.”
Bucky had done his research on Sam, of course. Back when he and Steve were scouring the Earth, tracking Bucky down across multiple continents, he was busy doing his homework on what Steve had been up to since leaving the ice and who he was doing it with.
The name Sam Wilson came up almost instantly. Multiple times.
He knew that he was the man that Bucky had first met while still under Hydra’s control. In fact, he had remembered their first interaction quite vividly. Ripping the steering wheel straight out of a man’s hands in the midst of a high-speed chase, tended to leave an impression that way.
So he knew the facts. Samuel Thomas Wilson. Born September 23rd, 1978. Eldest son of Paul and Darlene Wilson (deceased) of Delacroix, Louisiana. Decorated Air Force Veteran. Successful and trusted VA Counsellor. Became an ally of Steven Grant Rogers circa 2014. Commence complete shit show from there.
What Bucky didn’t know however, even now, all these years later, was who Sam was to the people he grew up with, spent his time with, those he loved. Those he lost.
Patti squeezed his hand again, pulling him from his reverie, face stricken.
“Then, when his Riley passed...”
Bucky's heart panged in his chest.
He had heard about Riley. Sam had mentioned him in passing once or twice. Riley, a pararescueman from the 58th, Sam’s wingman, his best friend. Bucky could parse what had happened, could read it all over Sam's face, hear it in his voice as he uttered the name.
But he had never dared ask.
Miss Patti waited a beat before shaking her head, seemingly unable to finish her sentence. Slowly, she met his eye again, “You’re good for him, Sergeant. I haven’t seen him look at someone the way he looks at you in a long, long time.”
Bucky stumbled a little, narrowly avoiding trodding on her toes.
“You okay, sugar?”
He straightened up, nodding, words drying up in his throat.
He felt Sam's eyes on him again.
Apparently, so did Miss Patti.
"Life may seem long to folks like us, who've been 'round the block a few times, " she murmured, squeezing his hand once more, "but it's not. It's tragically short, in the grand scheme of things. And if you don't mind my sayin' so, Sergeant Barnes, I think you've probably seen enough tragedy for several lifetimes."
He held her gaze, even as his eyes felt as if they were being magnetically drawn away, over towards the man he now considered his partner, teammate, best friend.
♫ Blue moon, you heard me saying a prayer for, someone I really could care for…♫
Thing was, Bucky did love Marvin Gaye.
And had since before Sam (and Zemo?) had lectured him on the plane.
But it was just so fun fucking with Sam when he got like this.
"I'mma show you, man. Sit down and shut up," the man of the hour called over his shoulder, storming into Sarah's living room like he was on a mission and shuffling around at an old record player.
All because Bucky made one small, miniscule, tiny (insincere) remark about how nothing could possibly beat Bing Crosby.
"'Bing Crosby,'" Sam snorted to himself, ignoring Bucky as he walked over to the couch and sank down into it, "straight up some white bull…" he trailed off as music floated into the air.
♫Ain’t no mountain high, ain’t no valley low, ain’t no river wide enough, baby…♫
Bucky watched, heart rattling against his rib cage as Sam stood up, head tilted back, eyes closing for a beat, two, three…
He looked serene. Ethereal. And so damn handsome in his tight grey T-shirt, having lost his camo jacket at some point during the night.
The other thing was, Bucky had a staring problem.
Especially where Sam Wilson was concerned.
He knew that.
But, God, watching him laugh and joke and move around everyone at the cookout with a fluid ease had been just too hard to look away from.
And that was before he started to get a little more generous with his casual touches. A squeeze to the back of Bucky’s neck, an arm around his shoulder, a poke in the side, a hand resting against his forearm, heavy and warm and...welcome.
Bucky liked it.
Touch.
He didn’t always. And definitely not from just anyone.
But Sam Wilson hadn’t been ‘just anyone’ for a long time. Longer than he was willing to admit.
“Well?” The man in question asked, startling Bucky from his reverie with a pointed look as he made his way over to the couch, plonking down beside him.
♫Just call my name, I’ll be there in a hurry, you don’t have to worry…♫
“It’s good. Nice.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.”
“Nice?”
“That’s what I said, Sam.”
Sam blinked at him, clearly offended by Bucky’s assessment. And just like clockwork, he geared himself up for a rant of Wilsonian proportion.
“A cold beer on a hot day is nice. The smell of sea air in the morning is nice. But Marvin and Tammi were—”
Bucky could feel the smile spread across his face and didn’t even try to hide it.
“You’re messing with me,” Sam rolled his eyes in a way that had Bucky feeling warm all over as he drained his beer that he had brought in from outside.
“I’m messing with you,” he echoed, unable to stop the laugh from escaping him and wondering to himself just how long it had been getting easier and easier to smile and laugh around Sam without a second thought.
“I added Marvin Gaye’s entire discography to my playlist a while back,” he admitted, picking at the label on his Heineken, eyes trained on his hands so he wouldn’t be tempted to stare at the line of Sam’s shoulders, “I hate to agree with Zemo, but…”
“Yeah, yeah,” Sam waved, wiping his palms on his jeans before standing up and grabbing two more beers, holding one out to him, “the worst person we know made a great point. It’s disturbing.”
They toasted to that.
Bucky's heart skipped a beat when Sam sat back down beside him, slightly closer than before, their shoulders pressing together. He allowed himself a deep sigh, basking in it, tilting his head back and barely keeping himself from closing his eyes, instead finding his gaze wandering over to a picture of Sam and his nephews.
It had been taken on a sunny day — Sam, Cass and AJ proudly holding up their fishing rods, all smiles at Sarah who was no doubt behind the camera. Bucky’s eyes caught on the adorable gap in Sam’s front teeth, fighting his own grin at how youthful it made him seem.
“They’re good kids, Cass and AJ,” he said over Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, thinking fondly about how the boys had warmed up to him surprisingly quickly, “Sarah did a great job with them.”
A pool of heat settled in his gut at Sam's laugh.
“Well, you’re officially their new favourite person. Mr Bucky this, Mr Bucky that. Pretty sure you're gonna graduate to Uncle Buck any day now, John Candy. And yeah, I know you don't get the reference, but trust me, I'm hilarious."
A large smile broke out on Bucky’s face at the reference he actually did get, (thank you very much late-night-TV) tickled by Sam's snark in a way that had once irritated yet intrigued him.
“You’re somethin’, alright.”
Too fucking fond, Barnes.
He managed to suppress his wince at the downright dumbassery of that statement, even if it was the truth. Yes, Sam Wilson was something else. No, Bucky had not meant to tell him as much. But yes, he meant every word.
Standing there, watching as Sam called out all those politicians and officials on live TV, in his brand new, very attractive Captain America suit (that Bucky had helped design but would not tell him if his life depended on it,) had been a hell of a sight to behold. He could still see it now, etched into his brain like words in a notebook whenever he closed his eyes.
Only this was something he didn’t wanna cross off.
Sam had been...enthralling. Basked in the blue glow of emergency vehicle lights and the flash of cameras. Standing tall. Commanding but not domineering, firm but not unfair. Compassionate. Human. Sam Wilson had been the Captain that America needed in that moment, and every moment since, and every moment still yet to pass.
And Bucky couldn’t look away. Not that he had wanted to.
“Sharon got her pardon today,” Sam’s quiet voice broke through Bucky's reverie, spitting him back into the present and away from the far too alluring image of Sam in his suit.
“I heard,” he rasped, fighting the urge to clear his throat as he clinked their beer bottles together again, “another promise kept.”
Sam shrugged, his shoulder brushing heavily against Bucky’s.
“It’s the least she deserves. Hopefully she can rebuild her life.”
Bucky could hear everything unsaid laced in those words. The guilt Sam felt for what had happened to his friend, his frustration at the world that had allowed it in the first place, and his weary anger at the injustice of it all.
Something came to mind, then. Something Sam himself had said what felt like a million years ago. Something about when all this was over. Everything said and done.
“It’s been pretty quiet this last while,” he began hesitantly, not exactly sure how to broach it, “I think it’s the right time for me to take that vacation.”
The third thing was, Bucky had left New York for good.
He knew that.
He knew it when he was speaking with Yori about his son. He knew it when he left the notebook for the doc. He knew it when he had packed up his entire life into two boxes and shoved them into storage, only taking a duffle and an old picture of him, Steve and Becca (that he kept in a brow-beaten copy of The Hobbit) on a plane bound for Louisiana.
Bucky wasn’t going back.
There was nothing there for him anymore.
Not in Brooklyn.
Not in the state of New York.
But other places, maybe. There was always Washington DC. Sam’s apartment was in Washington DC.
And further still, so far from his solitary, mundane every day, there was Delacroix. There were bemused sisters and hyper nephews and cookouts where he could dance with little old ladies and relive a time before his life went to hell.
There was Sam.
“A separate, long vacation?”
We both can go on separate, long vacations and never have to see each other again... Sam had said, glaring at him, their legs entwined with one another almost spitefully.
I like that. Bucky had replied, glaring just as hard, jaw just as tense.
Except now, now he didn’t like the idea of that at all.
How times change.
“Well, uh,” he mumbled quietly, eyes carefully averted to his knees, “maybe not…too separate. Gotta have Cap’s six and all that.”
Sam let those words hang in the air and while he couldn’t see him, Bucky could feel his eyes on him.
“You know, I may be biased, but Louisiana is gorgeous this time of year.”
Something loosened in Bucky’s chest at that. Relief flooding his veins.
“Louisiana is gorgeous all year round,” he replied, just to be difficult.
“That mean you’re sticking around for a while?”
“Depends. Don't wanna overstay my welcome.”
“Please, like you’re not everyone’s favourite grandpa this side of the bayou.”
He could hear the invitation laced among the snark and double-talk that he had come to expect from Sam Wilson. And most of which he brought on himself.
“I didn’t mean it, you know. The vacation from each other thing,” Sam sighed, his voice tentative enough that it had Bucky finally looking up to meet his eyes, “or, maybe I did at the time. But I don’t now. You’re...you’re always welcome here, Buck. I hope you know that.”
He did know that.
He just couldn’t believe it, sometimes.
How the Wilsons had warmly and thoroughly welcomed him into the fold as if he was always part of their lives. Their family. How the community of Delacroix hardly batted an eyelid at the centennial ex-assassin with the vibranium arm that play-fought with kids, fixed up boats and brought store-bought cakes to cookouts.
He still wasn’t sure if he deserved it either.
But he was getting there.
“Sarah said I have permanent residence on this couch,” he chuckled, remembering how she had practically threatened him to keep staying with them as ‘What kinda host and friend would I be if I allowed a decorated war vet and personal guest go stay at some crappy motel? My mother would turn in her grave, Lord rest her.’
He patted the cushions for effect, “But it’s nice to know you don’t mind me sticking around either.”
Sam rolled his eyes.
“You keep flirting with my sister and I might change my mind, Barnes.”
Bucky laughed a little louder, shaking his head.
“It’s called being a gentleman, Samuel. Look it up.”
“Gentleman, my ass,” Sam scoffed, his hand falling to Bucky’s arm.
His vibranium one.
There was that touch again.
It made his heart lurch every time it happened. His stomach swooping with nerves and...something else. Sam wasn’t weary of the arm. Didn’t shy away from it. Treated it like it was just a part of Bucky, like his right one, patting and gripping and resting against it with an ease that Bucky himself hadn’t always had.
And then there was the shoving, which Sam did, right then.
“I know flirting when I see it.”
Bucky tilted his head, eyes narrowed.
“Do you?”
He hadn’t meant to just blurt it out like that, the suggestiveness of those two words reaching his ears far too late but...honestly. Did Sam know what flirting was? ‘Cause if so, Bucky may be in a bit of trouble.
♫ I’ve been really tryin’, baby. Tryin’ to hold back this feeling for so long… ♫
Bucky blinked as Sam bolted up from the couch, eyes widened, “Uh—this is—Sarah only has the greatest hits album,” he shouted over the lyrics, racing over to the record player.
♫ Let’s get it on. Ah baby, let’s get it— ♫
The music abruptly cut out, a record scratch ringing throughout the room.
“Hey, I like that song,” Bucky couldn’t help but exclaim, just to be the contrary little shit that Sam had come to expect of him.
Sam arched an eyebrow in response.
“What?” he asked, throwing his hands up nonchalantly. “You’re the one who wanted me to appreciate Marvin Gaye.”
Sam gaped at him.
“So you wanna sit here and listen to ‘Let’s Get It On’?” he asked doubtfully before returning the needle, the music trickling back to life.
Bucky fought the urge to shift in his seat.
“You know what that means, right?”
Slowly, he adopted as innocent a look as he could muster, eyes wide and everything.
“No, Samuel. I’ve no idea. Why don’t you enlighten me?”
His heart hammered in his chest at the suggestive tone that he just couldn’t seem to turn off, apparently. He watched, throat dry as that compelled Sam to storm across the room, something glinting in his eye that had a bolt of arousal shooting through Bucky’s gut.
“Oh you’d like that, huh?”
Yes.
He would like that, very, very much.
Maybe too much.
The air was thick with...something. Something he knew had been brewing between them for a while now. But as he looked up to Sam, who was standing in between his legs, staring down at him with laser-focus.
That way madness lies.
...he lost his nerve.
Sure, Bucky was crazy. Admittedly so. But he wasn’t sure he was so crazy as to jeopardise all this. Everything he had just begun to build here, with Delacroix and the Wilsons, and Sam.
“Well, you never do pass up the opportunity to lecture me,” he muttered, swallowing around his dry throat, not directly answering, changing tact.
Sam took a beat to process that before sitting back down, a little further away than before.
Bucky tried and failed not to read into it.
“Man, shut up,” Sam grumbled over the dulcet tones of Marvin seducing his lover and the laughter and chatting still coming in from outside through the open window.
Bucky started to reevaluate his insistence on hearing the song out, especially when he heard, there’s nothing wrong with me loving you, baby no no, and giving yourself to me can never be wrong, if the love is true… and was met with some very nice, but also inappropriate images of what it would look like if he and Sam ever got it—
“Heard Miss Patti ask about a Mrs Captain America,” he forced out in an effort to curb his wandering thoughts, tapping his beer against Sam’s knee, “think she has a daughter and at least three nieces lining up outside as we speak.”
Miss Patti was a menace, Bucky was learning.
The hard way.
First, she not-so-subtly told him to make a move on Sam, then, not twenty minutes later, she deadass looked Bucky right in the eye as she loudly proclaimed the eligibility of her daughter and several nieces, should Sam find himself ‘on the market.’
It was a lot.
Sam clapped him on the back, his fingers kneading his shoulder a little.
“Please. I think she was far too focussed on becoming the future Mrs Bucky to worry about my love life. Just how long did you dance with her anyway?”
Bucky rolled his eyes, his cheeks heating up at the feel of Sam’s hand on him.
“She put on Billie Holiday, Sam. And Louis Armstrong. I’m only human.”
“Right, right,” Sam pulled his hand away, his fingers brushing against the vibranium, “forties music.”
“Forties music,” Bucky agreed, shuffling a little closer, passing his beer back and forth between his hands to keep them occupied, lest they do something stupid like snatch Sam’s fingers back and squeeze them tight in his.
“You’re not a bad dancer. For a white guy.”
That had Bucky’s head shooting up, a surprised laugh rumbling in his chest.
“I’m a better dancer than you, that’s for damn sure,” he grinned, taking a swig of his beer and turning his body to Sam, unable to stop himself.
“Excuse me?” Sam predictably scoffed back, mirroring him.
Their knees were pressing together now, even closer than they had been back in the interrogation room where Bucky had felt like he wanted to crawl out of his skin while also aching to pull Sam even closer into him, head-shrinker watching be damned.
“You’ve been in the air too long, Cap,” Bucky teased, feeling smug, bold in a way he tended to feel whenever he got the upper hand on Sam, “think you’ve forgotten how to move on the ground. Rhythm’s off.”
“Bullshit!” Sam exclaimed, fully shoving him now.
Bucky practically cackled at the look of indignation on his handsome face, throwing his head back.
“I mean, I could give you lessons,” he continued, between chuckles, “you know, get you to loosen up a bit.”
Sam’s mouth dropped open.
Bucky’s eyes caught on his lips.
“Loosen…” Sam gaped, “you’re telling me to loosen up. You. Mr Tall, Snark and Hands—”
Bucky’s heart skipped a beat as Sam cut himself off, chugging his beer and slamming it really hard down on the coffee table.
Molten heat flowed through his veins.
“I’m sorry, Samuel,” he began in a tone that he knew was anything but sorry, “were you just about to call me handsome?”
He watched Sam’s face intently for any sign of embarrassment.
And found it.
“Slip of the—”
Sam cut himself off yet again to Bucky’s endless amusement, he feeling giddier than he could ever remember being. That was the effect Sam had on him. Be it good, or bad, a lot of the time, whenever they were together, Bucky found his sense of humour regressing to that of his middle-school-self.
(At least if Sarah were to be believed.)
“Wait, you still can’t get drunk, can you?”
Bucky’s eyebrows shot up at the observation, apropos of nothing, but took pity on the new Cap, shrugging.
“Eh, a little more than I could before, but still not really. I just like the taste.”
“Nobody drinks beer for the taste, Buck.”
His heart leapt into his throat at the familiar nickname. That was twice now he had said it. Once upon a time, it had upset him. Hearing it from an unfamiliar mouth, it so tied to Steve, their friendship and everything that they had gone through together, that from anyone else, it felt...wrong.
But not anymore.
Because Sam was his friend.
Hell, Sam was the closest thing he had to family.
And ‘Buck’ was a right for family.
“Hmm,” Bucky mumbled into his beer in an attempt to hide the effect that that name had on him, draining it before depositing it down next to Sam’s, a lot gentler, “guess I’m the exception.”
Bucky Barnes was the exception in a lot of different ways, he realised. In death, in redemption, in second, third, and fourth chances.
In friendship.
Companionship.
“...guess so.”
Those words hung between them, their eyes meeting once more. Bucky shifted on the couch, his leg sliding a little so that a part of their thighs were now touching.
♫ Ooh, babe. Ain’t nothing like the real thing, baby… ♫
“Maria Hill called earlier,” Sam said over the new song starting, “she has a proposition. Could be good, could be bad. Not sure yet,” he shrugged. “She mentioned you too. Wants a sit-down with us next week.”
He met Bucky’s eye.
“So...what do ya say? You good with following the new Captain America into the deep unknown?”
Bucky’s breath hitched at those words, his mind transporting back in time to a smokey bar in 1944, Steve by his side, asking him nearly the exact same thing. Without really thinking about it, he reached out and bumped his knuckles against Sam’s knee, staring him right in the eye.
“Hell no,” he channeled his past-self, the words coming just as easy as they did back then. “But the stubborn smartass from Delacroix with the heart of gold? I’m following him.”
He watched as Sam let out a shaky breath, knowing that he was intuitive enough to figure out what Bucky was trying to say between the lines.
He kept his hand against his knee, and was glad he did as Sam took that moment to reach out and bump their knuckles together. It sent a thrill up his spine, the touch simple, yet somehow electric.
“Does that mean we’re partners?” Sam teased.
Bucky felt a small smile spread across his face.
“Yep.”
“A team?”
“Uh huh.”
“Professionals?”
“When we wanna be.”
“And a couple of guys?”
“More than that.”
Shit.
That, he had not meant to say.
His heart lodged in his throat as he watched Sam blink slowly at him.
“More?”
His face heated up almost unbearably as he inwardly cringed.
“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you?”
Of course he was. This was Samuel Thomas Wilson and he lived to make Bucky squirm.
“Communication is key, Buckaroo,” Sam, true-to-form, gave him a shit-eating grin, “Dr. Raynor definitely taught you that.”
Buckaroo?
Bucky scrunched up his nose.
“Buckaroo? No. No way. ‘Buck’ I allow ‘cause you’re my friend—”
“Oh, I’m your friend, am I?”
Shit. Maybe I can get drunk?
“I’m flattered, Buckabee,” Sam grinned toothily.
“Nope,” Bucky growled, giving him a shove, having to draw the line somewhere, “that’s a hard no.”
“Buckadoodle,” Sam shoved back.
“Absolutely not.”
They were in a full-on shoving match, now. Maybe Sarah was right about the whole perpetual-middle-schoolers thing...
“Buckaneer—”
“Samu—”
“Don’t ‘Samuel,’ me—”
Sam misplaced his hit, losing his balance, propelling himself forward into Bucky’s space, their faces barely an inch apart as Bucky froze, captivated.
♫ So glad we got the real thing, baby. So glad we got the real thing… ♫
Bucky’s stomach jolted, his heart hammering against his ribcage at Sam’s proximity. He smelled amazing, something subtle and woodsy that had Bucky holding his breath in self-preservation as his eyes locked on Sam’s mouth before slowly lifting to meet his eyes.
Fuck.
A beat passed, the air thick between them.
Two beats, Bucky’s blood thrummed in his veins.
Thr—
They both collided in a bruising kiss, Bucky gasping into Sam’s mouth as he was dragged in by his shirt, pulled ever closer towards the enticing smell of Sam’s cologne. He fought a groan as he felt Sam’s hand squeeze his vibranium bicep, exhilarated and thankful for Shuri’s genius, that he could actually feel it. Feel how amazing and calloused and warm Sam’s long fingers were wrapped around him.
His brain fried altogether when Sam’s tongue began trailing along his lower lip, coaxing his mouth open. Bucky took that opportunity to deepen the kiss, finally allowing himself to grip Sam’s hip like he had desperately wanted to that day on the boat and every day since.
Without overthinking it, he wound his left around Sam’s shoulders, cradling the back of his neck as gently as he could before tilting him, pressing him down into the cushions and licking behind his teeth, biting down on that delectable bottom lip of his and sucking it into his mouth like he had been dreaming about for—
“Ahem.”
Bucky shot up off of Sam at the sound of a throat clearing, head snapping over to the kitchen to meet the very amused gaze of none other than Sarah Wilson, hands on her hips, eyeing them both.
His wave of arousal was quickly doused by embarrassment, his cheeks on fire.
“Sorry to interrupt boys,” and Bucky knew that tone well enough by now to know that it wasn’t in the least bit sorry, “but I could use some help cleaning up, if you aren’t too busy.”
Bucky grabbed onto those words like a life-raft, leaping up off the couch.
“Uh, yeah, I...yes, ma’am,” he rambled, staggering across the room like a drunk Bambi and avoiding eye contact with anyone, remembering at the last minute to rasp over his shoulder, “I’ll be outside.”
He practically sprinted out the door, not waiting around to see if he’d get a reply, though he doubted it. He made it as far as the Paul & Darlene before he began to slow down, heaving in breaths as the reality of the situation hit him like the freight train he had once fallen out of.
Sam had kissed him.
He had kissed Sam.
They had kissed each other.
That was not what partners, teammates, friends did.
Fuck.
(Not that either.)
...but at least Miss Patti would be happy.