Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam Wilson had never been a fan of telling students that he dismissed them, not the bell. However, when the obnoxious two chimes that signaled it was two o'clock went off and every second grader shot out of their chairs instantly, he seriously reconsidered his stance on the phrase. 

"No running, you guys! And make sure to finish up those last remaining introductory words that we couldn't get through today!" Sam was sure all his words were going right over all the children's heads, but he said them anyway. "And have a great weekend! Congrats on getting through your first week of second grade!" 

A long but restrained sigh left his lips at the crowd of kids that had congregated next to the door, struggling to worm themselves and their giant backpacks through the opening. There wasn't much he could do for them; the kids would just have to figure it out themselves. Keeping that in mind, Sam turned to face the rest of his empty classroom.

Well. Partially empty classroom. 

In the very back, next to the art supply drawer, a dark haired kid was slowly sliding his folders into his backpack. Something about his solemn nature was off putting, especially given that he had to be eight years old at most. Sam racked his head for the name of the child. 

Richard. I go by RJ, the kid had said earlier, albeit quietly. Sam definitely didn't blame him; the name Richard made him seem as serious as he was acting right now. 

"Sorry for taking so much time." A small voice piped up, and Sam cursed himself silently as he realized he had been staring at RJ the whole time. The kid was trying to make himself as small as possible, his backpack shielding his face partially. "I am almost done."

"No worries, RJ," Sam spoke brightly, hoping his happiness would rub off on the child, before adding jokingly, “You probably don't want to take too long, your parents might get worried.”

“Don't worry,” RJ answered automatically, robotically even, “He always comes late.” 

With that, the kid hoisted the backpack off the table, slinging it onto his back. Shuffling towards the door, he made sure to turn back quickly to say, “Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” before leaving through the open door. 

Huh. The kid had definitely been polite, but Sam still wasn't sure how to feel about the conversation. Ultimately, he decided to put it behind him.

It was the first week, after all. His teacher-student interactions would get smoother in no time. 

- - - - -

He wasn't completely wrong, but Sam hadn't exactly been correct about his assumption either. It was easier the next few weeks to talk to his students, and it wasn't long before he memorized every student name and even the names of their pets, too. Most of the students were perfectly comfortable asking questions and holding conversations. There was always going to be the small group of students who didn't feel comfortable, and that was completely okay as well. 

RJ, though. The kid could not have been more of an anomaly if he tried. 

“Sarah, I promise,” Sam had divulged to his sister through the phone, “This kid talks like he's giving a eulogy. I'm afraid for him, but I have no reason to believe he's in any danger.” 

“Sam, he's an eight year old,” Sarah had assured him, “You remember how AJ was. Chances are, he's probably just trying to act more mature, or he's just quiet. Or both!”

Her words had soothed him slightly, but there was still a nagging part of him which believed only in worst case scenarios. That voice in his head came alive at the end of another school day as he watched RJ slowly pack up his supplies. 

Sam felt his mouth open on its own accord and shut it instantly. What was he even planning to say? Hey kid, do you know what depression is and how it can severely fuck up how you live when you're younger? That seemed out of pocket.

Whatever he could have said didn't matter, though, as RJ had finished packing up and was heading towards the door. A quick goodbye, and the kid was out of the classroom. 

Slumping back into his chair, Sam directed his gaze back to the small pile of tests in front of him. Half of the stack was already graded, a perk of the children being subjected to silent reading time for half an hour. The rest of the tests remained untouched, but Sam was confident he could get through grading a bunch of addition and subtraction problems before heading to the office. 

It took him less time than he thought it would, which worked out well, seeing as the test at the bottom of the pile stumped him. If it was at the bottom of the pile, then it was the test finished first. Not only was the test finished first, but it was completely devoid of any red pen marks from Sam.

The student had gotten full marks on the test. And Sam didn't have to double check to know who the test was from. He had remembered seeing RJ walk up to the front of the classroom to put down his test, far before any of the other students had. 

There was no possible way he had cheated, as Sam prided himself on being extra observant. Scanning the test once more, he let out a huff; there was no mistake to the grade. 

It looked like RJ was just intelligent. That wasn't a bad thing, nowhere close, and it wasn't cause for concern. 

Even so, Sam felt worry creep up his spine as he stacked the papers and tidied up his desk. The worry lingered in the back of his head as he locked up the classroom and walked over to the front office, his small case of papers swinging from his right hand. That same worry hit him full force when he entered through the office doors only to see RJ sitting at one of the chairs near the front. 

“Hi Mr. Wilson,” RJ piped up while Sam's brain was still buffering. The school itself was small, creating a very tight knit community, so it was very rare that students had to wait in the office for their parents. 

“Hey, RJ,” Sam started slowly, as if talking to a startled deer, “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting to get picked up,” RJ answered simply, as if this was a common occurrence. One glance at Darcy, who was manning the front desk, and Sam confirmed that it was, in fact, a common occurrence. 

“I see,” Sam said, “And, uh, do you know when-”

“I am always picked up before three o’clock, Mr. Wilson.”

Another shiver ran up Sam's spine, and this time, it was easy to point out reasons why he felt unbalanced. RJ never specified who he was getting picked up by. It was a major red flag, as most kids couldn't avoid mentioning their parents if they tried. Also, the fact that he was always getting picked up before three o’clock was… specific. Any time after three o’clock and parents had to manually sign their kids out of the office as proof that the kids actually left. 

RJ's eyes flicked up to the clock that hung right above the doorway, and Sam was reminded of how the kid had also aced the time-telling test a week prior. He watched as RJ slowly got up, slinging his backpack over his shoulder. 

“I should be getting picked up now-” Sam noted once again that RJ hadn't mentioned who was picking him up- “so thank you, Mr. Wilson. Bye, Ms. Lewis,” RJ added quickly, waving to Darcy, who matched his wave. 

And then RJ was out the door.

“He's your student?” Darcy asked, but Sam shook his head, subconsciously following RJ out of the office. He wasn't expecting the child to already be looking at him, and definitely wasn't expecting to be subjected to a random piece of information. 

“My dad drives that dark blue sedan,” RJ said, eyes wide, pointing to the street next to the school which was now mainly empty, save for the very car that the kid was pointing out. A small wave of relief hit Sam at the mention of RJ's father.

“I see,” Sam replied, not trusting himself to say anything different. RJ seemed to be content with that answer, though, as he said goodbye to Sam for the third time that day.

As RJ got further and further away from him, Sam couldn't find it in him to shake the last bit of anxiety that had settled under his skin.

- - - - -

Whenever Sam got to the front office before three, RJ would be there, dutifully waiting. Sometimes he was doing homework, but that was a rare event. Over the past few weeks, Sam had picked up on RJ's actions in class, one of them being that he would sneak out some homework whenever he could. Sam never called him out on it, not that he had enough time to; it never took RJ more than a few minutes to finish a worksheet. 

The pile of projects in front of him was daunting, to say the least. Given that it was the Thursday before Thanksgiving break, no one should have been surprised by the sheer amount of turkey handprint paintings on his desk, least of all Sam. 

He was proud of himself for getting a quarter of them graded until he checked the time. It's not as if he was opposed to staying after three o’clock, but he did want to check in at the office. 

So he put the turkeys to the side for ten minutes. It wasn't a crime. 

The real surprise came when Sam moved to open the doors of the office, only for them to swing outwards, revealing a stressed-looking RJ. His eyebrows were scrunched inwards, his hands more fidgety than usual. Concern washed over Sam instantly; RJ was usually gone by this time. 

“Hi, Mr. Wilson,” RJ murmured, fisting his hands into the fabric at the bottom of his small sweatshirt, “I'm just leaving.” 

Sam's eyes darted to the empty street, noting the lack of a certain blue sedan's presence. “Is your dad here yet?”

RJ was already walking away. “Yes, he is,” RJ replied over his shoulder loudly, though there was an unmistakable quiver in his voice. “He's just over there on the other side of the street, I think. He texted me.” The kid, still distancing himself from Sam, held up a phone next to his head. 

Sam could make out the silhouette of a car on the other side of the street, but it was hard to see any details, as it was overshadowed by the rows of trees that framed the outside of the school. 

RJ said something else, probably “Bye, Mr. Wilson,” but Sam's head was buzzing with anxiety. There were no words to describe exactly what was wrong, but that didn't stop Sam from feeling like shit. 

But once again, he couldn't do anything because of how he was feeling. Proof was needed to take definitive action. And even then, what action did he want to take? 

He held his breath subconsciously as RJ crossed the street. Note to self, make sure to cover how to look both ways tomorrow, before the break starts, Sam thought, crossing his arms a little too tightly.

Sam lost sight of RJ behind the mess of trees, but he was fairly sure he heard a distant car door opening. And then there was a flash of gray as the car drove away, and RJ was gone.

Wait. A flash of gray? 

Heart racing, Sam placed a hand over his chest, trying to ease himself out of the sheer panic that was about to erupt all over him. Deep breaths. In. Out. Maybe RJ's dad had gotten a new car. In. Out. 

“My dad drives that dark blue sedan.” That was what RJ had told him on that day at the office. Why had he felt the need to point that out if it wasn't important?

The class had just gone over a stranger danger course the week before. RJ wouldn't have gotten into a random car; Sam had to trust that the kid was smart enough to avoid those situations. 

Tomorrow, RJ would probably tell Sam that his dad now drives a gray sedan. Or he would just sit quietly in the back of the class like always; Sam wasn't picky. 

RJ didn't owe him an explanation. As long as he showed up to school, Sam didn't care whether it was in a blue or gray car. 

- - - - -

RJ didn't show up to school on Friday.

- - - - -

“Cass, check the door! It should be the new binder you ordered!” Sarah's voice rang from the kitchen as a response to the sound of the doorbell. Not even a second later, fast footsteps echoed through the house as Cass ran over to the door. Sam shook his head fondly, a small laugh leaving his lips, but even that small act of happiness felt forced. Heart still heavy from nervousness and, oddly enough, guilt, he handed AJ another plate, which the kid carefully placed on the table, arranging the silverware around it for their Friday night dinner. 

“Uncle Sam!” Cass called, and Sam froze. Every worst case scenario ran through his head at top speed. "Someone’s at the door for you!”

Misplaced hope started to rise up from deep within. Quickly setting the platters down (to AJ's discontent), Sam strode over to the door, which Cass was walking away from. 

The man at the door was not RJ. Not that Sam had any reason to believe that an eight year old would be able to find his sister's house. The more he dwelled on it, the more stupid he felt about that flicker of hope. 

“How can I help you?” Sam stated formally, straightening out his shirt. He felt underdressed, which was stupid; how was he supposed to know that an attractive but strict man would show up dressed in all black to his sister's house? 

“You're Samuel Wilson?” The mystery man's voice was deep, a slight rasp attached to it. It hit him like a pile of bricks, some fight or flight sense in him turning on, but he managed to keep himself as level as possible, nodding in response. 

“Yeah. And who are you?” How did you know to look for me at my sister's house? Alarms were going off in Sam's brain at very loud volumes, or maybe that was just the oven timer in the kitchen. 

“And you work as a teacher for Washington Hills?” The man stepped closer to the door with the question, the lights of Sarah's home reflecting off of the stranger's bright blue eyes. 

Bright, blue, very angry eyes. 

“Can I ask what this is about? Because I have a right to know before being asked questions in my home.” Sam didn't mention that it wasn't his house specifically, as that was a whole can of worms that he wasn't willing to bring up casually. 

“Are you aware of a child in your class named Richard, who also goes by RJ?” 

Sam wasn't sure how many times his emotions could be thrown into a blender with knives, but he knew he was definitely reaching his limit. 

“Yes.” It was a feat to keep his voice from shaking. “Yes, I'm aware.” 

“Then you should also be aware that he didn't come to school today, correct?”

The light outside the porch flickered on; Sam hadn't even noticed that the motion sensor lamp had been off the entire time. “I am aware.” The words left Sam's mouth in a rush. 

“He didn't come home from school on Thursday,” the stranger said abruptly, and a dizzying sensation spread rapidly through his head. Lightheaded, he reached for the other door handle, partially leaning against it for support. 

“What?” Sam wasn't sure how loud he spoke, but it sounded to him like a bunch of brass cymbals going off in his brain. 

“His father is very worried about him, so he hired me,” the man continued, obviously oblivious to Sam’s internal struggle. “And I have reason to believe that you were the last person to see Richard.” 

RJ's first name sounded odd and clunky coming from the stranger's mouth, as if it was unnatural for him to say it. 

“I saw him leave school,” Sam slowly got out, his initial panic now overtaken by a trained, liquid-calm meditative state. 

"With who." It wasn't a question. Sam shook his head. 

"I didn't see a face. I barely saw the car. And also," Sam added, a certain sharpness entering his voice, "I think I have a right to know what's going on with him. RJ, I mean." He hadn't meant the sentence to come out so vague. The stranger's eyes narrowed, dark eyebrows sloping downwards.  

"RJ had a… complicated childhood. A dangerous one. His father is under the impression that there might be some people out to get him." The ambiguity of the statement was what caused Sam to step back, bracing his other hand on the edge of the open door. 

"How do I know you're not one of those people?" His voice was cold, now, nothing like the tone he used to talk to his students, even the bad ones. The stranger's eyebrow went up, apprehensive. "How do I know," Sam restated, gritting out each word, "That you- the creepy man showing up to my sister's house to find me - have RJ's best interests in mind?"

The mystery man just stared at Sam for a few unnerving seconds. Then, the side of his mouth twitched up into a half smile, if only for a brief moment. 

"You're right," the stranger murmured, backing away from the door in small, fluid steps. "I'm sorry to interrupt your night."

"You've got to be kidding," Sam said without thinking, the sentence tumbling out from behind his tongue. "You can't just show up and expect to get away without a proper explanation."

"Like I said," the man replied, turning away from Sam, "His father is very worried. I don't want to waste more time."

Sam couldn't fault him for that, and even though he had just proclaimed his distrust for the random stranger who had shown up at his doorway, he found himself reassured that RJ would be back safely. 

Subconsciously, he glanced back inside the house to where Cass and AJ were peaking around the corner, obviously eavesdropping. That small, two second distraction was apparently all it took for one to disappear into the night, though, because when Sam turned back towards the porch, the stranger was gone. 

- - - - -

He didn't stay out of Sam's life for long, though, because when Sam came to school the next day, the beginning of the weekend, to start helping the other teachers with the Winter Festival planning, the stranger was there. 

He was the first person Sam saw when he entered the office, which was odd, seeing as the office had been locked before Sam opened it. The man was seated in the empty office, sitting where RJ usually sat. A pang of sadness slapped Sam, full force. 

The stranger also had filled out a small visitor's sticker, which Sam's eyes fell down to instantly. Hello, my name is MONROE, was what it said. Monroe. It had to be a last name. The man rose from the seat. 

"I need access to your older set of security cameras." 

"Whoa," Sam said immediately, "Thanks for the greeting."

"It's good to see you again," Monroe said simply, and a weird rush of warmth crept up the back of Sam's neck. "Now, I need access to your second set of security cameras." The way Monroe emphasized "second" made Sam feel like the man already had access to their first set, without permission. 

"You know I can't just let you do that," Sam started, and while he tried to look undisturbed by the dark look in Monroe's eyes, he was pretty sure he was failing. "There's a process to these types of things." 

Monroe was already unfolding a paper from his pocket, smoothing it out in one swipe. "A warrant. Here." The paper was thrust into Sam's hand as the man stepped around Sam and started walking towards the security office. 

"Hey man," Sam sputtered, running after Monroe, paper in hand, "You can't just do that."

"I wasn't hired to sit on my ass, Mr. Wilson. I will be bringing R-Richard back to his family." Monroe's usual smooth manner of speaking was broken by that small stutter, as if he had been about to say "RJ" instead. It was an odd correction to make, but Sam had other things on his mind.  

"I understand that, but- seriously?" Sam's voice rose, incredulous, as Monroe bent over the old monitor, rapidly typing. The monitor slowly woke up, its screen flickering ominously. Slowly, Sam was able to recognize low quality versions of the places around campus: the playground, the back parking lot, even the supply shed. Monroe typed something else in, and the videos rewinded. 

The man double clicked one of the boxes, the one at the top left corner, and it expanded to a grainy but not terribly blurry video of the street in front of the school. What played out in front of him was a familiar scene, just from a different angle. 

He saw RJ walking across the road. "Jesus, kid," was what Sam thought Monroe muttered under his breath, but he couldn't be sure. He also saw the gray car in greater detail, as well as the silhouette of a man in the front seat. 

"There," Monroe hissed, and Sam wasn't sure whether he was gesturing to the pixelated face of RJ or the more pixelated face of the kidnapper. "The license plate," the man added abruptly, sensing Sam's discomfort. Indeed, the license plate was showing, and while it was blurry, it was definitely legible. 

And then a hand reached through the grainy window, and RJ's body fell. In a quick motion, the front door kicked open and the kidnapper, lightning quick, grabbed him before he hit the asphalt. 

Monroe's back went ramrod straight, and without waiting to watch how RJ's body was pulled into the car, he slammed the power button before darting towards the office's exit. 

"Monroe," Sam called out, yanking his gaze away from the monitor, horror coursing through his veins, "You need to alert the authorities or-"

"Who are you talking to?" Sam almost ran into the wall upon hearing Monica Rambeau's voice. The door to the office was closed fully, no evidence of someone just leaving. 

"I was- it's hard to explain, actually," Sam confessed, his heart still racing at a million times per hour. Concern was etched in Monica's features, but she didn't push, only looping her arm through Sam's and pulling him out the side door.

"Come on," she said gently, "We're setting up in the gym. I even got Carol to come." 

Sam was afraid that not even Carol's tales would be enough to get him out of his mind. 

- - - - -

It was Monday night, and Cass and AJ were making it very hard for Sam to keep babysitting them. 

"Turn off the TV! Y'all have had enough screen time," Sam said sternly, but AJ just rolled his eyes. 

"What if we put on something educational?"

"Like you guys have ever watched anything educational," Sam shot back, reaching down to pick up another stray Lego from the ground. 

"We can put on the news," Cass snarked, not waiting for Sam's reply before reaching across AJ for the remote. The channel changed, and Sam almost had to sit down from the amount of whiplash he got. 

"This morning, what seems to be a child trafficking organization was shut down. Locals say that it was hiding in plain sight. " Without thinking, Sam instinctively reached forward to squeeze AJ's shoulder, just to remind himself that the kids were there. 

"The primary suspect for the leader of the organization, Brock Rumlow, is in custody." The mugshot they flashed on screen was shocking. Not because the guy looked innocent, far from it; he had a strong, stony face, and a look in his eyes that made him seem like someone known for stabbing backs. What was surprising, however, was the sheer state that the guy was in. His lip was completely busted, black and blue in the places where there wasn't blood. His nose was broken for sure, one eye swollen shut. 

Brock Rumlow didn't seem like the type to go down easy in a fight, but whoever did that to him definitely had the upper hand. 

"Enough of that," Sam finally said, reaching down to turn off the TV. Both of the kids were silent, no complaints heard.

Then the doorbell rang, and all three of them jumped.

Sam made his way to the door slowly and steadily, giving himself time to calm his nerves before swinging the door open. There, on the porch, was a large bouquet of yellow and red flowers, sitting in a plain glass vase. A flowery piece of stationary was taped to it, flapping gently in the breeze. Hoisting it up into his arms, Sam cast one more look towards the darkening neighborhood outside before closing his door. 

"Who's that from?" Came Cass' curious voice. Sam just shrugged, slowly removing the taped note from the vase. No other questions came from his nephews, so Sam turned his attention to the contents of the note. 

Relief flooded his senses when he recognized the smudged, barely legible handwriting of the note. 

Dear Mr. Wilson,

I am back home. Thank you for helping me. 

From RJ Barns Barnes

And then, underneath that, there was another line, written in perfect cursive. 

Thank you for helping me reunite Richard with his father - M 

Sam held the note in his hands for a moment longer, before folding it and clutching it close to his chest, breathing a slow, shaky sigh of relief. 

- - - - -

The Monday after break, Sam waited until the students were working on their “What I Did Over Break” assignments before approaching RJ.

“Hi, Mr. Wilson,” RJ whispered, rotating his paper slightly so that Sam could read it better. “How does my assignment look so far?”

“It looks great, RJ,” Sam said automatically, without reading over the paper. “I was just checking to see if you were doing okay.”

“Of course I'm doing okay.” RJ wrinkled his nose, as if confused that Sam would ask that question.

“If you ever need to talk to anyone about what happened over break-”

“I thought that's why we are doing the assignment,” RJ interrupted, pointing to his first description words. “See? I went on a vacation with my dad at the beginning of break. We had to leave early, though, so I couldn't come to school on Friday.” 

Sam froze. "RJ-” He started, before cutting himself off at the innocent, wide-eyed look the boy gave him. “Alright. You're doing well on your assignment.” Mindlessly, Sam wandered back up the rows of seats, occasionally glancing at the work the students were doing, but he never fully registered the writing. When he sat back down at his desk, his body felt numb. 

When Sam had first decided to become a teacher, the primary reason was that he liked to help people. Another reason was that he wanted to help people when they were young, so that maybe they would be able to deal with problems better when they became older. Now, he felt helpless. How could he help someone when he couldn't even address the root of the problem? 

Multiple scenarios played through his mind. It was a traumatic experience, so maybe RJ just didn't remember it. Maybe someone had convinced him it was a dream. Maybe he was out for the whole time. Maybe it was best that he just didn't know what happened to him.

But when Sam looked up and caught RJ staring holes into his skull, he knew in his heart that RJ hadn't forgotten anything. 

- - - - - 

The only thing that really changed in the next couple of weeks was the fact that the dark blue sedan with tinted windows would drive through the drop off zone, in view of the office, and every day, RJ would prance over to the car and slide into the backseat, even though it was impossible to see the driver.

The car still arrived late though, without fail. 

- - - - -

“How many of you are planning to attend the Winter Festival?” All of the hands in Sam's classroom went up. 

“How many of you have a guardian who is planning on attending?” Only one student put his hand down, and Sam didn't have to check to know who it was. 

Students rarely went to the Winter Festival without their parents. It was roughly a week long, with one grade level attending each day. The students were tasked with making baked goods and small sculptures and other things that were easily duplicated. They could set up their own little booth and hand it out to their peers. All of this was done with the help of a parent, usually. 

The bell rang, and Sam was once again greeted with the sound of dozens of kids getting up and once to trample their ways outside.

“Make sure to get those permission slips signed!” Sam shouted over the chorus of voices. “They are due on Friday! Remember, the festival is in two weeks!” His words were empty, not as much conviction in them; he was already focusing on the kid still in the classroom.

“RJ,” Sam said softly, “Can I talk to you real quick?” The kid nodded quickly, throwing his backpack on before finding his way to the front of the class. Sam clasped his hands in front of him, placing them on the desk. 

“Have you talked to your father about the Winter Festival?” He asked gently. RJ hesitated, glanced away, and then shook his head. “Why not?”

“He doesn't come to these kinds of things,” RJ answered immediately, and Sam let out a sigh. 

“You wouldn't be the first person to not have a parent with you at the event, but it does mean we will have to pair you with another kid. Is there any person you want to work with?” Unsurprisingly, RJ shook his head again. 

Sam leaned back in his seat, clenching his hands together a little tighter. “RJ,” he started, “I know you probably don't want to bother your dad, but maybe you should at least bring up the Winter Festival with him?” 

The boy opened his mouth, and then closed it, his dark eyes tracing the wood grains of Sam's desk in an effort to not look Sam in the eyes. “Maybe,” he mumbled, not sounding very sure. Still, Sam thought he could hear something like hope masked in RJ's voice. 

“Bye, Mr. Wilson.” 

- - - - -

The quad was very crowded and loud, and Sam was really starting to wonder what the actual festival would be like.

It was the Friday before the Winter Festival, and Sam, along with the rest of the second grade teachers, had taken his kids out to the quad to pick where they would set up their stations. The real problem arose when Darcy got a call at the front desk letting them know that there would be a team arriving to inspect the set up and figure out whether it was a fire hazard. 

It was odd. Usually, the festival ran under the radar, but it seemed this was their lucky year.

“Don’t run!” Carol Danvers yelled to the throng of students, who all barely slowed down their pace as a response. Huffing out a sigh, she then leaned down to whisper, “So who do you want to partner with?” To RJ, who was by her side. 

That was a real source of confusion for Sam, and maybe even a source of offense. RJ had only had a few interactions with Carol, and yet he was obsessed with her. Maybe if Sam had more cool stories to tell, RJ would feel more comfortable around him, but it wasn't an issue. Sam was glad RJ was opening up. 

RJ just shrugged, and Carol patted his shoulder, continuing to scan the rows of students. 

“Sam!” Darcy hissed, and Sam whipped around, almost knocking her over in the process. “Sorry,” she apologized, brushing some invisible dirt off of Sam's shoulder. “But the inspection crew is here. Apparently the district said that you would show the crew to where they're supposed to be.” 

Sam let out an audible groan. Of course he was the person who had to be subjected to standing in the general vicinity while random people take measurements and write numbers onto their clipboards. 

“Are they waiting in the office?” Sam asked wearily, and Darcy nodded.

“There's only two of them. They said it wouldn't take too long, so that's a relief,” she added brightly, but Sam didn't have the energy to respond to that, already making his way to the office. 

Sam hadn't interacted with too many inspectors in his lifetime, but he didn't think the men in front of him really looked like inspectors. They were both broad-shouldered and tough. One of them seemed familiar, but he also had a face that could have been mistaken for a few different people. His skin was clear, a little too smooth, but Sam didn't think it was too out of place. 

“So,” Sam said rather awkwardly when neither of the inspectors made a move to start talking, “What do you have to inspect?”

The taller inspector glanced at the familiar-looking one, who gestured to his clipboard. “It seems that we have to check your generator first.”

“Are you sure?” Sam probed, confusion stirring in his brain. “I thought this was strictly about the Winter Festival.” 

“It is,” the taller one cut in, “But we have to make sure the generator won't cause any problems.”

Maybe on a better day, Sam would have been more cautious. He would have stood his ground. However, Sam was having a tiring day, and didn't feel the need to put up a fight about something that could be easily solved. 

“It's over this way,” Sam muttered, gesturing for them to follow him. Weirdly enough, the two men fell in on either side of him, walking alongside him instead of behind. Sam didn't care too much, though; it gave him the opportunity to study the two men through his peripheral vision. It was a little harder to make out the details of the taller man, so Sam just focused on the familiar one.

Concealer. That seemed to be the reason that the man's skin was so smooth. It wasn't applied too well, more concentrated and not blended in the area underneath the man's eyes. He was able to see the splotchy manner of the makeup when he opened the door to the generator, ushering the men inside. 

“As you can see, the generator is there. You can inspect it now.” Sam was aware that he was being slightly rude, but again, he was tired, and he was more interested in what was going on with the shorter man and his badly done makeup. 

Wait. Were those stitches under his eye? 

There was the unmistakable click of a gun. 

Well, at least Sam knew why the guy looked so familiar now. 

“Here's what's gonna happen,” Brock Rumlow gritted out, pointing the gun between Sam's eyes. “You’re going to go out there and get that kid, Richard Barnes, and then you're going to bring him back to us.”

The answer came so simply to Sam's mind that it left his mouth without a second thought. “No.” 

He regretted his answer slightly when Brock pulled the gun away from his head and slammed it into the side of his jaw. He tasted bile and blood in his mouth as pain erupted across his cheek. 

“You should rethink your answer for the sake of those other kids,” Brock spat, motioning with his gun to the door, “Because we're not above going out there and getting that kid through force.”

Sam saw red, but more importantly, he saw the fact that Brock moved his hands a hell of a lot, so before the gun could return to its place near his forehead, Sam lunged and tackled Brock to the ground. 

This wasn't a good plan for a few reasons, one of them being the fact that there was still the other tall man in the room with them, and he definitely wasn't on Sam's side. The other thing was that Sam was not a trained fighter, although he did take self-defense classes a few years back. 

Still, he had spirit, and later, when he would look back on him rolling around with trained killers on the floor of a back room, he would thank himself for that. 

A lot of feelings were going through Sam at that moment, the most obvious one being pain. While it might not have seemed like a good idea, Sam was trying to use Brock as a shield against the other one, which sadly meant that Brock had the upper ground, literally. The only real win that Sam established was the fact that Brock's gun was knocked from his hands just a minute into the fight.

It wasn't going as badly as it could have been, but that didn't mean that Sam didn't take quite a few punches to the face. The other man had moved behind Sam, starting to drag him from underneath Brock. Because of that, Brock loosened his stance over Sam's legs, leaving him a little wiggle room. In a last ditch effort to gain an advantage, Sam folded his legs into his chest, knees close to Rumlow's chin, before kicking upwards with all his might. 

Sam heard the air leave Brock's lungs in a big gust, and he shoved him off, trying desperately to roll away as quickly as possible. It wasn't quick enough, however, as the tall man grabbed at Sam. Reaching forward, Sam scrambled to yank at the man's legs, hoping to topple him over, but he was hoisted up before he could do any real damage. 

At least Brock Rumlow was still clawing for air on the floor, although it did look like Sam was going to be in a similar position very soon. The tall man's arm went around Sam's neck, starting to squeeze, and Sam had no options left other than to mindlessly scratch at the man's skin. Resistance was futile; black spots were already surrounding Sam's vision, and the gasps leaving his mouth were becoming weaker.

“Stop!” Sam's heart dropped even further when his oxygen-lacking brain recognized the voice. At the doorway stood RJ, Brock's gun in hand, pointed directly at the man holding Sam, who loosened his grip. Sam took a heaving breath.

“RJ,” Sam gasped, “Get out of here. Now. ” The kid showed no signs of following Sam's orders, his feet planted on the ground. A chill set over Sam's skin; for an eight year old, RJ looked pretty confident about holding a gun. 

“No,” RJ said, hands not shaking as he adjusted his grip slightly. Brock, from his position on the floor, lifted himself up slightly. One hand went up, a sign of surrender, and it seemed as if the other hand was going to follow.

Instead, Brock slipped his other hand inside his pocket. 

“RJ, look-” Sam's words didn't come out before the man behind him slammed his face down onto the floor, hard. The fight left his body immediately, his head pounding, blood pouring out of numerous places on his face. RJ, in the middle of turning to face Brock, glanced over at Sam on the floor. 

Brock took that small hesitation as a chance to finally shoot RJ with the tranquilizer he had kept hidden the whole time. Sam didn't even have the energy to scream as the boy hit the ground, couldn't shout when Brock pushed himself up enough to stand over RJ.

He did, however, let out a small squeak when a bullet went through Brock's head, and another tinier groan left him when the man above him jerked and fell on top of him, shot in similar fashion. 

Sam tried to summon the strength to wiggle out from under the dead weight on top of him, but all he succeeded in doing was bringing himself more pain. His eyes were blurry, threatening to leak over onto his bruised cheeks, but he could make out the silhouette of a man crouching next to RJ, accompanied by a bright-haired woman. Gently, the man hoisted RJ into his arms, passing him to the woman, who took him carefully and walked away. 

Sam wanted to close his eyes. So he did. 

"Hey, hey," a familiar voice said, and there was a soft, cold touch on his shoulder, like metal. A hiss left his mouth as another hand, a warmer one, cradled his wounded face. "You gotta stay awake, okay?"

Sam squinted up at Monroe, who was surveying the extent of Sam's injuries with a critical eye. He wanted to reply with something snappy, like "Can't a guy get a quick nap for being a hero?"

Instead, he gargled out something that sounded like "I'm sleeping."

"This is going to hurt," Monroe warned, and maybe Sam had missed the first part of that statement because he didn't know what Monroe was specifically talking about. It made a lot more sense when the man slowly pulled Sam to his feet. 

With the way that Monroe was cooing soothing praises, Sam was fairly sure he had screeched as loud as a toddler getting vaccinated. 

"I can walk," Sam tried to say as he regained a bit more of his autonomy, shoving at Monroe's shoulder. He took all of two steps before the other man had to catch him. 

"Not worried about your legs, I'm worried about your head. I think you have a concussion." The last part was muttered under Monroe's breath; Sam wasn't even sure he was supposed to hear it. 

"Sit here," Monroe said abruptly, and Sam sank down onto one of the office chairs; once again, it was the one that RJ usually sat in. Through the windows, he could make out a redheaded woman loading an unconscious RJ into a car. 

"That's his Auntie Nat. Not a random woman trying to kidnap him," Monroe pointed out, following Sam's line of sight. He tried to nod and winced. Something cold surrounded his chin. 

Monroe had a metal hand. A very technologically advanced metal hand. 

Sam was easily distracted by the feeling of the man's flesh hand coming up to his face, followed by the sting of an alcohol wipe over his broken skin. 

"You're so stupid."

That was not what Sam expected to hear.

"Excuse me?" He didn't consider him and Monroe to be close enough for that. Hell, they weren't even on a first name basis. 

"You're not a trained fighter. That was stupid of you to fight them."

"So I was supposed to just give up?"

Monroe's eyes glinted, a dark intensity in them that Sam couldn't get a read on. It was the kind of look that made Sam feel small, made him want to curl up in a ball and hide. It was an uncomfortable feeling, obviously, which was why Monroe's next words surprised him.

"Thank you." 

Sam's eyes flicked up, uncertain. Monroe's gaze didn't leave him for a second. "For protecting him," Monroe added, though it wasn't necessary at all. Suddenly, Sam was all too aware of the cold hand on his cheek, the flesh hand on his knee. He wasn't sure what he could say without ruining the moment.

"Will you tell me your first name, then?" Was what Sam decided to blurt out. Luckily, it earned him a smirk from Monroe, who still had his hand on his knee.

"My first name?" He snarked, earning him a sigh from Sam.

"Well, your last name is Monroe, right? Or is that a lie?" 

The wide smile that flashed across the man's face was enough of an answer for Sam. "Maybe." There was a brief moment of silence between the two of them before he spoke again, "Bucky."

"Hm?"

"You can call me Bucky."

Sam snorted obnoxiously. "Hate to break it to you, but that sounds even more fake than Monroe." 

Bucky tilted his head back and laughed, a clear ringing sound that echoed throughout the office. "It's a nickname, what my friends call me."

"Can't believe you've got many of those."

"Maybe. Maybe not."

Sam wasn't sure when Bucky's half-answers had gotten so endearing, and honestly, he didn't want to think too hard about it.

"What's going to happen to RJ?" Sam whispered, and Bucky's face dropped ever so slightly. "Is he going to be okay?"

A sigh escaped Bucky's mouth. "He's a tough kid. He'll pull through. Tranq wasn't anything abnormal, so it'll get out of his system. He'll heal, we will- we'll reunite him with his dad, and-"

"I hate his dad." 

Once again, Bucky laughed, but it was a shorter, sharper sound, not as joyful. "I don't blame you."

"I get that he's probably busy and shit, but you don't take on the responsibility of caring for a child if you're not able to put in the work to make your child feel loved." 

Bucky went still, an almost imperceptible change to how he was before. "You're right," he said finally, "There's no excuse." The way he said it, it seemed as if Bucky thought the conversation was done, but Sam was nowhere near finished. 

"I mean, RJ doesn't feel like he can tell his father about normal parent/kid stuff." 

Bucky tilted his head slightly, obviously intrigued. "What do you mean by that?"

Sam felt sort of stupid telling Bucky about it, but he carried on nonetheless. "See, there's this Winter Festival thing coming up, and parents usually participate with their children. RJ just assumed that his dad wouldn't want to come."

"Oh."

Sam would have been nodding more vehemently if his head didn't hurt so damn bad. "Yeah, 'oh.'"

"I can try to mention it to his father, if you'd like."

If it was possible for his brain to short circuit more, then it definitely did. "Well," Sam started as his mind fumbled for words, "I mean, if it's not an inconvenience."

"It's not," Bucky interrupted, before abruptly turning his head towards the side door entrance. When he turned back to Sam, he looked sheepish. 

"I'll leave Nat with you to explain the bodies in the generator room. I have to go take RJ back," he hurriedly explained, already getting up. Sam found himself reaching for Bucky as he got up, even though it sent spikes of pain back up to his head.

"What-"

"I'm sorry. I'll explain later if I can, but my priority is RJ. Get yourself to a hospital at some point," and with that, Bucky darted through the front office doors right as Monica rounded the corner. 

"Sam Wilson, you better explain what the fuck is going on."

- - - - -

The Winter Festival was still on the next week, because it turned out that it was very easy to cover up illegal operations, especially with a scary redhead at your side. The hardest part of the whole thing was convincing Monica and Darcy that he was okay, and even then they had insisted on accompanying him to the hospital. 

It had been his mistake to let them both stay in the hospital room. Let that be the first and only time that Monica Rambeau and Darcy Lewis meet Sarah Wilson. 

He could walk without passing out immediately, and his face was almost healed. It was nothing he couldn't fix with some well applied foundation. 

Adjusting his tie in the mirror, he frowned. Everything is going to go smoothly, he recited to himself, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. Nothing is wrong. 

He tried for a wide smile, wincing momentarily from the stretch of his bruised cheek. The pulse in the back of his head started to thud a bit more. 

It is going to be okay. 

Sarah had to drive him to school; there was a small bit of humor to be found in the fact that he, like the rest of his students, was dropped off in the drop off zone. He recognized a good number of the kids and some of the parents, but not all of them were from his class. 

Upon entering the quad, he let his gaze wander to all the different colorful booths set up. Some warmth entered his body, and for the first time that week, he felt truly joyful. 

Until his gaze settled on a kid at a booth without a parent. Three guesses who. 

“Hey, RJ,” Sam greeted, slowly inching towards the booth. RJ waved, engrossed in his task of organizing small figurines into neat rows. 

He wasn't sure what to say. Sam hadn't seen RJ in school for the first half of the week, and now it was Wednesday night, and he was here at the festival. Not trusting himself to question RJ on his health, Sam crouched down.

“Kid,” Sam started, tone regretful, “You know you have to have a guardian here, or be paired with someone.”

“Don't worry, Mr. Wilson,” RJ said with conviction, “My dad's on his way. He just burnt the last batch of cookies and had to redo them.” 

Now Sam definitely wasn't sure what to say. He didn't want to cast doubt on the kid's father, but as far as fathers went, RJ didn't seem to have the best one. Instead of messing up his words again, he turned his attention to the rows of figures that RJ had been sorting. They were small and made of clay, with a lumpy head and equally lumpy limbs. Each was painted carefully, a black tuft of hair and dark clothing. They were cute, and almost all identical, even if their composition was rough. 

“Who are these little guys?” Sam asked gently, before immediately being taken aback by the level of excitement exuded by RJ.

“Jack Monroe!”

“Monroe.” Sam only latched onto the last name, his mind refusing to offer him any help. “Monroe, like your… like your bodyguard Monroe?”

RJ was staring at him with such irritation that Sam felt stupid in front of an eight year old. “No,” the kid huffed, “He's a character my dad made up. He always tells me bedtime stories about him, whenever he has time. I've almost made some friends telling those stories, so I thought I would make him out of some clay.”

It was possible, then, that the Monroe that Sam knew was a coincidence. Or it wasn't a coincidence at all, and Bucky had just latched onto the name and used it. Or- 

“That's really cool, RJ,” Sam stuttered out, “You're very talented. Now, about your-”

He wasn't interrupted by RJ's words as much as he was shocked into silence by RJ's large grin. “Dad!” The kid screeched, before running past Sam-

Straight into Bucky's arms. 

“You made it.” RJ's words were muffled by Bucky's shoulder as he was lifted off the ground, but Sam heard them anyway. Bucky pressed a kiss to RJ's head before setting him back down. 

“‘Course I did,” Bucky said, ruffling the kid's hair with his free hand. His other hand was occupied with a platter of cookies, and if Sam was thinking coherently and also hadn't seen RJ's dad take down two men with a gun, he would have wondered how the cookies were still intact. 

Blue eyes met Sam's gaze, and Bucky's mouth twitched into a smile. Setting down the plate of cookies, and still holding RJ's hand with his left, Bucky reached out to Sam.

“I don't believe we've met,” he said, eyes playful, “I'm Bucky Barnes.” Instinctively, Sam grasped Bucky's hand, squeezing it. 

“It's great to finally meet RJ's father,” Sam said, “Since I've heard so much about him.”

“I'm sure you've said your fair share as well.” Bucky's eyes flicked to the group of kids who were eyeing the cookies and figurines before bending down. 

“Bud,” he said gently, nudging his son, “Why don't you ask all those kids whether they want some cookies, hm? And then you can tell them about Jack Monroe.” It didn't take much more coaxing for RJ to go over to the other kids.

Bucky straightened up, but Sam didn’t give him a chance to do much else.

“Are you kidding me?” Sam whispered vehemently, “What the hell, Bucky? You're his dad?”

“Why wouldn't I be his dad?” Bucky asked innocently. Sam wasn't sure whether to slap Bucky or start crying, and it seemed like his predicament was obvious. Bucky's face softened. 

“Your face looks like it healed up nicely,” he murmured, reaching up with a gloved hand to Sam's face. Sam sucked in a breath, and Bucky's hand retracted immediately. 

“I went to the hospital,” Sam said stiffly. 

“That's good.”

And then there was silence, or at least, as much silence as they could have with a hundred children screaming around them. 

“So,” Sam started, almost regretting it when Bucky's gaze snapped back up to his face. “Remember the shit I talked about RJ's dad?”

Bucky cracked a smile. “It was well-deserved, don't worry.”

“I know it was.” Taking a deep breath, Sam barrelled on, “But I also didn't know that RJ's dad was showing up to people's houses to interrogate them and breaking into school campuses for security footage.” He couldn't bring himself to mention how Bucky had shot two men right in front of him. 

“Does that work in RJ's dad's favor?” Bucky asked, voice low and- flirty? Was Bucky really flirting? 

Maybe Sam should have mentioned the thing about shooting two men, but he wasn't sure if that would be humbling to Bucky. 

"Not many parents would do that," was what Sam decided to reply with.

"I'm not too sure about that." At Sam's confused expression, eyebrows raised, Bucky continued, "With the background that I have, any person in my position would have done the same. The only difference is that maybe they would have been a better parent upfront." 

"Bucky-"

"I can never tell RJ the stuff I'm doing to protect him. Not if I want him to feel safe. The only thing I can do to show him I love him is the one thing I haven't been doing." Bucky gestured to his surroundings. "So here I am. Trying to do it." 

"Well-"

"Dad!"

If it wasn't RJ interrupting them, Sam might have just started screaming right then and there. The boy immediately threw his hands around his dad's waist. It wasn't out of any negative emotion, Sam noted; RJ just wanted to be close to his dad. 

Bucky might have been a little harsh about his assessment of how he was as a father. 

"I see you've been hard at work distributing those cookies," Bucky praised. It was an understatement; the cookie platter was wiped clean. 

RJ nodded furiously. "And telling all the Jack Monroe stories." 

Bucky let out an exaggerated gasp. " All the Jack Monroe stories?"

RJ nodded again as Bucky smoothed the kid's hair down with his hand. "They really liked the newest one you told me. The one where he saves the pretty teacher."

Bucky's eyes flicked nervously to Sam, who was trying his hardest to pretend he didn't just hear that. "Yeah, I knew that one would be a hit," he murmured, squeezing the boy's shoulder. It was a really good thing that Sam didn't blush. 

"You should tell me that story some time, RJ," Sam put in, reveling in the halfhearted glare that Bucky shot him. 

"Not gonna happen," Bucky muttered pointedly as RJ slipped out of his grasp, running back over to the group of kids.

"Well, I'm sure you'll have just enough time to explain it during parent teacher conferences after break." 

Sam saw the moment his words registered to Bucky, the man's face falling flat, a crease between his eyebrows forming. "What?"

"Parent teacher conferences," Sam spelled out, "It's where you come in to discuss your kid's progress. Do you check your emails?"

Bucky looked sheepish, his bottom lip starting to jut out into a pout. "I'll sign up," he grumbled, "When I get back."

"I'll hold you to that," Sam replied, sticking his hands in his pockets. Bucky traced the movement with his eyes, and when his gaze finally reached Sam's face again, he opened his mouth. 

He never started what he was going to say, as Bucky's mouth snapped shut and his head whipped to the side. 

"RJ, do not eat- peanuts, RJ, those have-" And just like that, Bucky plowed past Sam, returning to his full-time job as a father, leaving Sam to return to his job as a teacher. 

- - - - -

"Sam, I gotta say, I am tired of people dropping stuff at the door for you," was all Sarah said before thrusting a bouquet of flowers into Sam's hands. He wanted to interject and mention that the only other time took place when she wasn't even home, but he was tired. Getting woken up at five in the morning by Cass and AJ screaming about opening Christmas presents would do that to a man. 

It wasn't like he needed to check who it was from, but he did wonder if there was anything written on the sticky note that was hastily pressed near the top of the vase. He peeled the bright yellow paper off the glass, setting the vase down on the table; the sheer number of flowers made it difficult to hold for more than a few seconds. Bringing the note up to his face, he did a double take. 

It was a number. A phone number, to be precise. 

"Dammit, Bucky," Sam hissed out under his breath. It's not that he wasn't interested; to some extent, he was attracted to Bucky. That didn't mean that a teacher-parent relationship wasn't still taboo. Without another thought, he tore the paper in half. It was necessary, and he knew he had made the right decision.

He didn't throw away the two ripped pieces, though, setting it high up on one of the bookshelves. Sue him, it was a moment of weakness. 

- - - - -

3:30 PM. That was the appointment time Bucky had chosen for his parent-teacher conference. At 3:29 PM, Sam adjusted his tie while sitting at his desk before internally scolding himself. Bucky was late to everything. There was no way he was going to be on time for a conference. 

At 3:30 PM, Bucky walked into the room, causing Sam to almost choke on his water.

"You're on time," he blurted out, setting his water bottle down far away from him, as if it would pose a problem later. Bucky flashed a tired smile.

"Yeah, I guess I am.” There was a weariness to his voice that sounded like an immediate cause for concern, but Sam didn't address it. Instead, he gestured to the chair on the other side of the desk, which Bucky abruptly sat in. 

For what seemed like hours, the only sound in the room was the air conditioner. 

“RJ is doing great in school, but you probably knew that. He's a smart kid,” Sam finally said, sliding the boy's transcripts towards his father. "So academically? He's doing very, very well."

"Just academically?" Bucky inquired automatically, his posture rigid, shoulders tense. A sigh left Sam's lips; he suddenly wasn't sure how difficult this was going to be.

"He has been through some things." Sam measured each word out carefully, too aware of how intently RJ's dad was listening. "So I am worried about his social skills." 

Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. "It's my fault. The kid moves schools so much because of me, so he doesn't really put a lot of effort into friendships."

"RJ didn't do first grade here?" Sam's hands were already reaching for the nonexistent transfer record. Bucky huffed a coarse laugh that sent a warm shiver up Sam's spine. 

"I don't worry about paperwork, Sam."

If he had lingered any longer on the rough edge in RJ's father's voice, Sam might have combusted in the chair. Like a professional, he barreled forward. 

"Are you planning on moving him again?" Sam felt his heart drop at Bucky's solemn expression, and found himself scrambling for words before the other man could start speaking. "We have summer classes!" Was what Sam ended up blurting out. 

Now it was Bucky's turn to be confused. "What kind of summer classes?" Bucky asked, his words slow. It was clear he didn't understand how it was applicable to the situation at hand. 

"Social summer classes," Sam explained quickly, as if Bucky was a few seconds from leaving without a second thought. "It's a place where kids can grow their social skills without feeling ashamed from being behind. Also, it's good for making friends," Sam added. 

Bucky, to his credit, looked like he was actually considering it. His gaze slipped from Sam's face to the wood desk. The other man's tongue slipped out from his mouth, sliding across the corner of his lips for a split second before returning back behind his teeth. The small action did not escape Sam's attention. 

Leaning forward, Sam opened his mouth and then closed it, the logical side of his brain shooting him down. Bucky's eyes flicked up immediately, though, so Sam decided to ask his original question. "Is RJ in danger anymore?"

"Not any more than he would be somewhere else," Bucky answered bluntly. Sam nodded. He wasn't sure when, but at some point his fingers had enclosed around his trusty grading pen, as if he was about to make corrections on Bucky's parenting (which he would never actually do). He didn't drop the pen, opting instead to reach down for the bottom left drawer of his desk, gently opening it. From it, he slid out a form, placing it down in front of Bucky. With the same amount of care, he laid his pen down on top. It was obvious from the rapid movement of Bucky's eyes that he was reading over every word as quickly as possible. 

"Here's the form," Sam stated, as if Bucky hadn't already figured that out. "I think you should see whether RJ is interested. He doesn't have to do it if he doesn't want to, of course." 

"Will you be there?" Bucky asked, and Sam hesitated; he was always there for the social summer classes, but for a moment, he wondered what would happen if he said no.

"Yes."

"Then I'm sure RJ would love to come," Bucky chuckled, "You're his favorite teacher ever ."

It shouldn't have made Sam's heart swell the way it did, but he couldn't help it. “Is that right?”

Bucky's coy grin was going to be the end of him. “Yeah. Which makes you my favorite teacher by association, ‘cause it makes RJ happy.”

Sam's eyebrows went up. “RJ wants you to have the same favorite teacher as him?”

“RJ wants me to have the same favorite everything as him. It's- it's cute, actually,” Bucky admitted, his gaze softening in a way that only happened when he was talking about his son. His eyebrows eased upwards, a few of his frown lines disappeared, and he looked more than half a decade younger. 

"Between the two of us, though-” Sam didn't know how to feel about the way the other man's voice pitched lower- “You would have been my favorite teacher regardless.”

Dangerous territory. This was dangerous territory, and would only be made worse by- 

"Parents are allowed to come to some of the social classes."

What the hell was that?

"Not all of the classes, of course," Sam backtracked, obviously panicked and not at all comforted by the lazy grin that was growing on the face of the man opposite him. "It's just to ease the kids' minds, make them more comfortable interacting. 

"I'll keep that in mind." The smugness in Bucky's voice was insufferable. 

Sam longed for the air conditioner to come alive again, if only so that it would drown out the sound of his own thoughts. "Right, well, you should definitely think about it."

"'S this the end of the meeting?"

"Yes." His response was too quick, and a partial lie, as there were plenty of things Sam could have talked to Bucky about. However, those were not the things on his mind. 

Bracing his hands on the desk, Bucky stood up, towering over Sam for a brief moment before Sam mirrored his action. One of the other man's eyebrows popped up.

"Gonna walk me to the door?" Bucky said, stepping back from the desk before adding, "Scared I'm going to disappear on you again?"

A nervous laugh left Sam. "You can never be too sure." He found himself shuffling after Bucky, feet dragging against the carpeted floor. He only passed the other man to push the door open. The sun was ragingly bright outside, causing Sam to automatically jerk back. The reaction only served to bother his still-healing wounds. 

“Hey,” Bucky murmured, his voice dripping with concern. “Still hurting?”

Sam was suddenly hit with the realization that if he let Bucky continue to coddle him, he would never stop. “I'm fine,” Sam assured, making a shooing gesture with his hand before trying for a joke. “It didn't damage my pretty face, so it's fine.”

“‘M not sure anything could take away from that pretty face.”

Well. Sam's joke definitely did not have the desired effect. 

“Bucky,” Sam started, his words careful, “I appreciate your… attention. And believe me, in another situation, I would have returned it. But-” The intensity of Bucky's stare could peel paint, Sam realized- “I'm your son's teacher. As long as I'm his teacher, I can't. I'm sorry.”

Bucky's gaze lingered on Sam for a few silent moments, and even though he was correct in everything he said, Sam's worry heightened. 

“Do you teach third grade?”

It was not a question Sam had prepared for. “No.” He didn't trust himself to say much else.

“Well, if you're interested,” Bucky murmured, moving slightly closer to Sam. “I can wait. Until you're no longer my son's teacher. If you're interested,” he repeated.

In not so many words, Sam had just said he was interested, so if anything, he dug himself into this hole. He had a feeling that, with how close the other man was to him, Sam would only dig himself a deeper hole by saying anything. 

Bucky took Sam's silence as an answer to something, though Sam wasn't completely sure what that answer was. “Well, Mr. Wilson,” Bucky said, starting towards the front gate, “I guess I'll see you in summer camp.”

At least this time, Sam got to watch him go.

- - - - -

“He's doing well,” Sam whispered to Bucky, who was making no efforts to hide how nervous he was. “RJ’s interacting with everyone at his table, see?”

As soon as summer classes had started, Sam found it hard to resist gravitating towards Bucky, but at least he tried. Bucky didn't put any effort into staying away, and every time parents were allowed at classes, RJ's father would immediately situate himself next to Sam.

It didn't make Sam uncomfortable, and he appreciated the fact that Bucky would often ask if it was okay for him to stand with him. It was… nice to be assured of the man's continual interest in him. 

Even though Bucky's communication skills were fine, it seemed like his concern for his son’s skills were overwhelmingly not fine. 

“Right, but- does it look like that kid at the end of the table isn't talking to him?" 

“Bucky, that kid, Morgan, at the end of the table ,” Sam emphasized, “Has been talking to RJ, just not as often because Morgan is at the end of the table .”

“Do you think RJ's canvas is a bit bare?” Bucky's question was hushed, probably meant to be under his breath. The kids were doing a small project where they drew on their canvas and then passed the canvas around so that other kids could paint on it. The project was going well, and so far, Sam hadn't needed to clean up too many messes. 

“RJ's canvas looks just as bare as all the other canvases. Bucky-” Sam turned to face the father, whose eyes were still trained on his son- “I know you're worried about him in this class. But you weren't like this during the Winter Festival, so what changed?”

Bucky's mouth parted slightly, and finally his gaze shifted to meet Sam's eyes. “The first few classes where I was allowed in… those were terrible.”

Sam couldn't fault him there. RJ had been fine the first hour, and then had gone quiet. It hadn't escaped his father's notice, obviously, but Sam ultimately had to deal with it to minimize parental interference. 

“It wasn't that bad,” Sam tried, and that also was true. RJ wasn't the only kid to have had anxiety issues in the summer class; the class was for kids like him.

Bucky was already shaking his head. “I don't know. It just makes me doubt everything. I feel like I could have done better-”

“Frankly, Bucky, it doesn't matter.”

The shock that set in on Bucky's face was almost enough to make Sam doubt his initial statement, but he carried on anyway. 

“You can't do anything about your actions before, especially since it wasn't out of malice or ill will. You can apologize for moving and for being away so much, but I have a feeling you already do that.”

Bucky's mouth closed and opened, a confirmation of Sam's words.

“Now, you are putting more time into your son's life. You are trying . He will see that. It doesn't mean that you have to stop apologizing for times where you wronged him, but you also can't get stuck in a cycle of self pity disguised as concern for him.”

It was clear that the shock never left the other man's face, only settling further into his skin with each of Sam's words. There was a silence between them, punctuated by the voices of some of the parents around them and the occasional squeal from a child. 

“You're right,” Bucky replied, low and hushed as if he was a child who had just been told off. “Gotta keep looking forward.” 

Sam nodded, only partially returning his attention to the kids. 

“Make sure to switch canvases if you haven't already!” Sam shouted, and for the next few seconds, the scrape of paintings being shuffled around on plastic tables was the only sound in the room. 

“Speaking of looking forward,” Bucky whispered, leaning towards Sam with a devilish look in his eyes, “I'm really looking forward to when RJ graduates from this class.”

“Shut up.”

- - - - -

Bucky hadn't been completely wrong to refer to RJ leaving the summer class as “graduating,” because the small ceremony did feel like a scaled down graduation. The last day was held in the gym, on top of the small stage, where all the children gathered, certificates clutched in their small hands as their parents snapped pictures. 

Even Bucky was taking pictures with his phone. It definitely wasn't his only phone, as Sam could see the outline of another phone in his back pocket. 

The only reason Sam was looking at his back pocket was because he was wondering if Bucky had a different phone for “work.” No other reason.

Bucky turned back for a second and winked at him, and Sam suddenly wasn't sure if the other man would believe his excuse. 

Scratch that. He was very sure that Bucky would not believe his excuse for a second. 

“Congratulations, everyone,” Monica exclaimed, her smile a bright flash, “On completing the Social Skills class!” Cheering filled the small gym, mostly from the parents, and Sam noted that RJ wasted no time hopping off the stage and running over to Bucky. The man wrapped his son in a hug, whispering something into his hair, and Sam's heart suddenly felt too big for his chest. 

Sam had interacted with some bad parents during his time teaching, and some bad parents outside of that too. Bucky was not one of them.

“Mr. Wilson!” Sam looked down and narrowly avoided being knocked over by an overexcited RJ. 

“Hey, buddy,” Sam replied warmly. Bucky was making his way over as well, albeit at a slower pace than his son. “Congrats on getting through the class!”

“Thanks, Mr. Wilson,” RJ said, bouncing slightly on his heels. Finally caught up to his son, Bucky ruffled the kid's hair. 

“Did you text Auntie Nat the picture of my certificate?” RJ asked, tugging Bucky's jacket. 

“Yes, I texted her your certificate. Auntie Nat is one of his favorite people right now,” Bucky said to Sam, eyes sparkling with joy. 

“Oh yeah?” Sam said, crouching a bit to look at RJ, “And why is that?”

“She tells me stuff,” RJ faux-whispered, a mischievous look on his face. Bucky scoffed. 

“Like what?” Bucky said, and RJ gave him an innocent smile.

“She told me that today, you're going to ask Mr. Wilson out-”

“Okay!” Bucky said loudly, garnering the attention of a few parents, kids, and teachers nearby. The damage had already been done, however, and Sam was unable to stop the laughter from bubbling out of him. 

Bucky had the decency to look bad. 

“Well, you can tell Auntie Nat that she's a wise woman,” Sam chuckled. When he looked up at Bucky, there was a slight dust of pink to his cheeks, complementing the softness of his gaze quite nicely. 

“RJ!” A squeaky voice belonging to Morgan called, and the kid scampered off. A hint of surprise dashed across Bucky's face, as if he couldn't believe he was seeing the day where his kid voluntarily left him to talk to other people. 

Like many times before, a silence fell between them, but it didn't feel as uncomfortable as it had been before.

“Well- uh, I think-” was as far as Bucky got before Sam interrupted him. 

“Yes.”

“Uh,” Bucky got out, but it was clear that the other man didn't plan on elaborating on his one spoken syllable. 

“I'll go out with you,” Sam said simply, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Bucky's eyes went wide with something that wasn't unlike childish wonder.

“Really?"

Sam laughed gently. “I've been known to do charity.” 

That snapped Bucky out of his daze. "Damn,” he replied, “Lucky me, I guess.”

“We don't have to plan it now, though,” Sam said, monitoring any shifts in Bucky's facial expressions very closely, “I'm sure you will want to take RJ home pretty soon, and I also need to make my rounds as a teacher.” The last part was slightly accusatory, but not in a serious way. Bucky's mouth twitched. 

“Right. Well-”

“I have your number. Kind of,” Sam added sullenly, choosing to not elaborate on that. “I'll reach out to you about it.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “‘ Kind of? ’” He teased, earning him a half-hearted glare from Sam.

“I'll tell you about it over dinner some day,” Sam said. He was pretty sure he heard someone calling his name- maybe Carol- but didn't deign to respond. Bucky didn't seem to notice it right away either, but Sam clocked the moment where the other man mentally shook himself. 

Sam wasn't quite sure when he learned the nuances of Bucky's eye contact, but he was somewhat grateful for it now.

“Duty calls,” Bucky said, gesturing to Carol, who was indeed waving for Sam to come over. He nodded, stepping back from Bucky. Still, their eyes were trained on each other. 

“I will text you,” Sam said firmly, more to himself than Bucky, but it placated the other man nonetheless. 

“I look forward to getting your text.”

Sam couldn't resist another jab. “Make sure to keep all your phones around you though,” he advised jokingly, “You never know which one I will hit up.”

Bucky, to his credit, didn’t mention that of course he knew which phone Sam would hit up because he gave him the number . Instead, he smirked. “You noticed my second phone?”

Too late, Sam realized his mistake, and his strides away from Bucky became bigger. “Bye!” He yelled, as if the other man couldn't hear him. 

Bucky's laugh echoed after him. “Bye,” Bucky said at a much more normal volume, boasting a wide smile that stayed plastered on his face as his son ran back up to him and tugged at him. Sam gave a small, last little parting wave to RJ before turning to face Carol, who launched into a story involving her, Sam, and Monica's class pet turtle. Sam could have quoted the story word by word now, so he didn't bother listening.

He had never been more excited to restick two pieces of paper currently sitting on a bookshelf together in his life.