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Sam had found it by accident.
The usual radio stations that Sam listened to always became static whenever he made the drive from Delacroix to Pointe A La Hache Harbor. Ever since he was a child. Ever since he came back from the DC.
Maybe it was because the CD player in his father’s old truck was broken. Maybe Sam just needed something to listen to on the long, open expanse of road. But Sam had fiddled with the dial all around the FM radio stations until he found the start of it one morning.
A preamble.
It was the preamble of instruments. Some mix of Disco and R&B beat blasted from the car’s radio as the jingle of a radio station began.
“You are now listening to,” started a woman’s voice on the radio before it quickly switched to a man’s, “One-Oh-One-Point-Nine, The Wolf!”
Sam might have faltered when he heard the wolf howling as the beat dropped in that jingle. He found himself staying on that station as he heard that voice on the other side of the radio.
“Hello.”
It wasn’t hypnotic. Sam wouldn’t say that. Nor was it sultry. Not too high-pitched either. It wasn’t anything Sam would necessarily call a radio voice.
It was warm, though.
Like a man talking to a good friend. Like a small fire heating a cold night. It was strangely familiar despite Sam never hearing the man’s voice in his life. Oddly comforting.
So, Sam kept listening.
“Welcome, ghouls and goblins, to Bucky By Night. You’re Year Round Radio Show for Frights and Horrors,” said the man in the middle of July, “I am your ghastly host, Bucky, and I’d like to begin my second story tonight – or I suppose this morning – with a story I got via letter. I know. Haunting, right? Who sends a letter in this day and age? And in cursive, no less. And crimson ink. And what is this? Tea-stained paper? Nice touch. This letter seemed important, so here’s to you, anonymous letter writer. I’ll spin your tale…”
Maybe Sam should be more curious about that. About some man getting a creepy, blood-cursive written letter or something, but all Sam could fixate on was Bucky. This man had all the atmosphere he wanted, yet he went with the name Bucky?
Sam’s mind kept thinking about it, the tale from the mysterious letter going in one ear and out the other until Bucky said, “As it’s nearing the end of this show, it’s time for call-ins. What did you think of the story? Do you have something to tell me? Just want to talk? Call in!”
Before Sam could think, Sam was calling Bucky on speaker. He didn’t even know if he would get through. He’d never called into a radio station before. But someone on the other line picked up and said, “Hi! Thank you for calling into One-Oh-One-Point-Nine, The Wolf. Are you calling in for ‘Bucky By Night’? And if so, what’s your name?” and it felt like a haze as Sam answered the questions, lowered his radio volume as instructed, waited his turn as “Third in line”.
Everything seemed to be in stark focus as Sam heard him. On the other side of the line. This Bucky guy.
“Thank you for calling into Bucky By Night,” said the voice from the radio, as if excited just getting a caller, “What are you calling in for, Sam?”
Sam should be saying something. About the story Bucky told. Maybe just hang up. But Sam couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop himself as the words just toppled out of his mouth.
“Bucky By Night?” Sam said, “What are you by day, then?”
On a winding road, off a beautiful, murky gulf coast, the sun not quite creeping up onto the horizon and painting the world in an orange tinge, Sam had asked a man what might have been the corniest pickup line in the world.
Bucky cackled on the other side of the phone. Because of course this man’s a dork. He ran a horror show from midnight to six in the morning on the radio.
“You know, for the entire year I’ve been doing this, no one has ever asked me that, Sam,” said Bucky warmly.
Amused.
And Sam couldn’t help but smile at that.
“So? Are you telling me what you’re called or what?” asked Sam, giggling.
“What if I told you it was Bucky?” asked Bucky, his voice drawling, “Bucky by day. Bucky by night.”
Sam laughed.
“What’s the point of calling your show ‘Bucky By Night’ if you’re Bucky all the time?” asked Sam as he pulled up to the port and parked.
“I’m doing a thing with it,” said Bucky through chuckles, “I am. I can hear your skepticism.”
“Oh, so you can hear my skepticism without me saying anything?” asked Sam as he heard Bucky snickering.
“Yeah. I can. Okay. It’s a play on an old comic,” said Bucky and Sam could hear the smile on the man, “Are you calling me to make fun of me? On my own show? No questions about the hitchhiker with the scrawled tattoo? The woman with all the knowledge in the world?”
“I’m not calling for any of that,” said Sam as he heard another flurry of laughs from the other side of the line, “Just your name.”
*****
“It doesn’t work,” said Sam, snickering.
“Okay. No. Stop. The story works,” laughed Bucky through the phone.
Sam found himself listening to the show again. Most of the channels were static so far out, and even when they were clear, there weren’t any good songs on the stations. So, Sam listened to this man, this Bucky By Night. Again. And again. And again.
Maybe part of it was the voice. Bucky’s voices for his stories were ludicrous. They didn’t make sense for the characters. They made everything more goofy than scary. And he made his own sound effects. Terrible, incomparable sound effects that made Sam lose his mind a bit.
How did this man think that was what a door creaking sounded like?
Sam couldn’t help but giggle every time Bucky made wind blowing sounds or literal thunder claps. He couldn’t stop smiling at the worst voice acting Sam had ever heard in his life. It wasn’t even that all the voices sounded the same, they all just sounded bad in their own unique ways.
It was riveting.
Listening to the man who for all intents and purposes probably shouldn’t have a radio show captivate him with how he ran it. As if all the bad choices this Bucky guy was making were culminating in a show that Sam couldn’t stop listening to.
It could be partially because of the stories too. It still felt strange that he only did horror stories.
What kind of man went on the radio in the middle of the night to tell ghost stories all year round?
They were good, though. Dark, dangerous tales that talked in metaphors about anxiety, depression, and loss.
Maybe what drove Sam up a wall about them, though, was that they always had one incredulous detail that broke the story for Sam. There was something so off about one small thing that Sam just had to call in.
Maybe Bucky was doing it on purpose now.
It felt as if he was.
And Sam found himself haunted yet again by one detail in one of the stories.
“Oh? Do you really think you can lure children over? With Smarties? With the candy form of chalk?” asked Sam between giggles, “You can’t seriously think that.”
“You don’t know what type of smarties I’m talking about,” said Bucky, like a contrarian, “What if I was talking about British Smarties? What if all the words that you thought didn’t have extra ‘u’s in them had extra ‘u’s? What if all the driving was on the other side of the street?”
“You said it happened in the French Quarter,” Sam pointed out, unable to stop himself, “But sure, Buck. England.”
“So, I’m going to put you down as no for chalk candy,” said Bucky, his voice surprisingly smooth.
“Have you put anyone down for chalk candy before?” asked Sam.
“Okay, next time I’ll just say Skittles,” said Bucky, and Sam could swear the man was making notes.
“Skittles works,” said Sam, “Skittles is good.”
“Skittles, it is. I’ll make sure the next time I tell my story about a ghost persuading children to walk into the ocean, I’ll use skittles to make it more believable,” asked Bucky, sounding more amused than anything.
“Good,” said Sam, the both of them giggling.
And it felt weird to laugh along with a radio host. But not bad.
“Well, that’s my only note,” said Sam as he pulled up to the docks.
“Oh, you’re only one?” said Bucky, amused, “Please call in if you think of another.”
*****
“You’re doing this on purpose, right?” said Sam, giggling.
“I’m doing what?” said Bucky back, all innocent.
As if he wasn’t doing this on purpose.
Like a whole month of talking back and forth wasn’t because Bucky kept adding the most aggravating, annoying small details in his stories. Like the fact that Bucky was doing this on purpose wasn’t becoming more obvious by the phone call.
“You know what you’re doing,” said Sam as Bucky laughed, “I know you know what you’re doing. The girl going upstairs when she was right next to the front door? When it was light outside and the sun kills vampires? Come on. You’re doing this on purpose.”
Why did Sam keep calling in? Why couldn’t Sam stop?
Sam could just turn the station off. He could listen to some other station. He could listen to music on his phone. He could listen to a podcast. No one listened to radios anymore. Why was he listening to this show?
“Maybe I’m just bad at catching details like that,” said Bucky playfully, “Maybe I’m a masochist who craves you telling me what’s wrong.”
Sam laughed.
“Are you allowed to admit that on public radio?” asked Sam, and no, Sam wasn’t flirting with the man on the radio.
“That I’m a masochist?” asked Bucky as Sam snickered, “I’m actually not sure. I bet I’ll get an earful from Stevie after this. It’s probably too personal a detail to disclose.”
“All right. Be that way,” said Sam, “I know what you’re doing.”
“Would you keep calling if I didn’t slip up?” asked Bucky, and there was a hint of something, a hint of honesty trickling out into his voice, “If I said it all correctly, would you call?”
Sam wanted to say that he wouldn’t. That Venus would be in retrograde no longer and that his life would go back to normal. Sam found himself replying softly, “This isn’t grade school. You don’t need to rile me up to get my attention.”
Sam could swear he could feel a smile from the other side of the line.
“Okay, Sam,” said Bucky back, “I’ll try to be more thoughtful about my stories.”
*****
“So, what’s the problem, Sam?” asked Bucky warmly as Sam was finally connected to him.
Sam didn’t need to listen to Bucky. Sam could go a day without it. He thought he could. It wasn’t as if he’d been calling in every day… had he?
Sam was pretty sure he hadn’t.
Sam couldn’t have called him every day for the past two months, could he have?
Yet, Sam found himself calling in when he was sick. Sick and taking a day off from work. When had he decided to do this? To snuggle in his bed while listening to “Bucky By Night” after calling Sarah and taking some DayQuil? To relax to Bucky’s voice? Why was he choosing this even when he wasn’t on the road?
“Nothing,” said Sam, wondering if Bucky could hear his cold in Sam’s now nasally voice, “Nothing was wrong with the stories.”
There was a beat, a breath there Sam was sure wasn’t supposed to happen, yet did anyway. Because both of them seemed to do things they probably weren’t supposed to around each other.
“You sound a little under the weather,” said Bucky, and Sam knew the man could hear it, “Are you okay?”
“It’s a cold. Just a cold,” grumbled Sam, “It’s really nothing.”
“Take care of yourself, Sam. My mom has a pretty good chicken noodle soup recipe. I can give it to you,” said Bucky softly, “It’s just the can with chunks of chicken from one of those rotisseries from the store, but still. Always made me feel better. Maybe it was that secret ingredient she used.”
“What was the ingredient?” asked Sam.
“Love,” Bucky said with a yawn, “So, why are you calling?”
“Was that a yawn?” asked Sam playfully, dodging the question, “Are you falling asleep on me, Mr. Early Morning Radio Host?”
“Just because I have an early time slot doesn’t make me a natural morning person,” said Bucky through another yawn, “Honestly, I’m more of a night owl.”
“Why choose an early morning slot then?” asked Sam, a little confused.
Bucky laughed.
“Because this was the only slot I could get for my show,” explained Bucky, “That can’t be why you’re calling in, though. What was wrong with the story this time?”
And Sam really wished there was something wrong with any of the stories he listened to. He wished he had some sort of excuse for this. But he really didn’t.
“Nothing was wrong with it,” said Sam quietly, “I really liked both of the stories. I just wanted to say that.”
Sam wondered if it was weird. If he was being too much. He wondered if he was wasting Bucky’s time by just calling in.
“Always here for a compliment,” said Bucky warmly, “Call in any time with them. And get better soon.”
Sam smiled.
“Will do,” said Sam as he ended his call.
*****
“Sam?”
Sam glanced at the radio, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He could feel Sarah just trying to piece together whatever puzzle was before her. Not that there was a puzzle to piece.
Sam wasn’t a mystery.
He was just an older brother. Who worked for his younger sister. Who was driving her to work because her car was in the shop and she needed a carpool buddy. No mystery here.
“Are we just going to listen to nothing or – ?” Sarah started, and Sam’s hand went to the old radio’s dial.
He turned it on, not realizing that he was on the channel, the channel, Bucky’s voice on the other side.
“The sailor found himself hearing it,” Sam heard drawl from his radio, “A sound from off the boat. Every morning, it called to him. A haunting symphony that clung to the waves. That made him search the waters.”
Bucky made horrible sounds that Sam assumed were supposed to be crashing waves.
“The sailor knew it was a danger,” Bucky continued, “Knew it was how he could die, yet he listened for it, nonetheless. Searched it out. Wanted to know where it came from. He wanted to know that voice. And after a week of it, he noticed someone. Deep in the depths. Eyes gazing up at his own, lips singing the song.”
Bucky made screeching noises that had to represent the singing.
“The sailor, didn’t dip himself down into the water. But he did begin singing back,” said Bucky as he made a few more of those screeching noises as if he was trying to sound like two people screeching at once, “The being laughed. Laughed melodic, like chimes in the wind. The being kept singing back, but there was a smile now.”
Sam found his attention rapt. Found him forgetting all but the voice on the radio, the road before him.
“The tables seemed to flip, then. For it wasn’t the siren who was haunting the sailor, but the sailor haunting the siren,” continued Bucky, “Calling to the siren from his boat. And as the days went by, the siren found himself moving closer and closer to the surface, to the splashing waves. Until his hand reached out to the sailor. And he was caught. ‘There you are,’ the sailor whispered, his voice raspy from the serenades, ‘I thought you’d never come’. ‘How could I not?’ asked the siren, tightening his grip on the sailor, ‘I want you part of my chorus’. And as they plunged into the depths of the ocean, the sailor’s friends believed him lost to the sea. Yet, the next day, his friends heard a two-part harmony; the siren and his lover singing together in the depths of the sea.”
Sam heard Bucky do his damnedest to sound as if he was two people screeching together as the outro music for the story segment played.
Sarah snorted, reminding Sam of her presence.
“What were some of those voices?” asked Sarah, surprised.
“That’s the end of our storytime. Do we have any callers? Thoughts? Critiques? Just want to say hi?” asked Bucky on the radio, “Call in.”
And that was when Sam would call. He wasn’t usually the first caller Bucky answered, but Sam always got to talk to him. Sam felt his fingers twitch toward his phone before his sister said, “Do you call him?”
Sam kept his hands on the wheel. He could see Sarah’s smirk in the rearview mirror.
“I see you talking to someone every morning. Chatting them up. Smiling as you do it,” said Sarah as they neared Pointe A La Hache, “Is this who you’ve been talking to?”
People were noticing his chats with Bucky? Not that Sam was trying to hide them or anything. But he hadn’t really thought people were paying attention to him.
“Maybe,” Sam said noncommittally as he turned off the radio, turning into the parking lot, “I call a lot of different people.”
“Oh my god, you do call into him,” said Sarah giddily, and Sam wasn’t going to deal with that right now.
“Maybe,” reiterated Sam as he turned off his car and got out.
*****
“How did you even get this job?” asked Sam, snickering.
Sam was calling Bucky. Again. From his bed. On the phone. On his day off. Again. The radio station feed turned low on his computer. Because this was getting ridiculous. This was becoming too much. Yet, Sam couldn’t stop himself from doing it.
Calling into a man who he didn’t even know well. Talking to him. Because it was easy. And there were so few things in the world that felt easy.
“What? You don’t think I’m good at this or something?” asked Bucky, giggling on the other side of the line.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” said Sam, “It’s not the kind of job you just stumble into, though. How does one host a radio show about ghost stories?”
This wasn’t appropriate, right? Sam shouldn’t be asking Bucky about himself. He should be talking about the stories. The stories had been fantastic today. Like most days. But more and more, Sam found himself drifting away from the topic. Wandering towards questions about Bucky. Bucky asking questions about Sam too. This wasn’t what Sam should be doing. Sam wasn’t even sure why the station was letting him talk to Bucky for longer and longer stretches of time. Maybe they didn’t care. Maybe they weren’t even paying attention to Bucky’s show.
Sam probably should be thinking about who was listening, right?
But he did want to know how Bucky started this.
“A man has a dream. Calls a radio station about open spots. Takes terrible timeslot,” said Bucky, “I think that’s how it happens.”
“You had a dream?” asked Sam, smiling.
“I did. I wanted to tell the world my little stories and help others do the same,” said Bucky, and Sam wondered if he was smiling too, “And I’ve somehow been doing it for three years and counting. I have no clue how I’m still doing it, but I am.”
“Because you’re fun,” said Sam, “And I don’t think your bosses are paying attention to your show.”
Bucky laughed.
“I’m pretty sure they’re not,” said Bucky, “Not sure if I’d get to talk to you as much as I do if they actually paid attention. What about you? Would you be able to keep calling me if people paid attention to it?”
Sam hummed.
“Maybe. You might need to get a little less embarrassing,” answered Sam as Bucky laughed, “If I’m calling into a radio host, I need him to at least be cool.”
“Oh, I have to be cool now,” said Bucky, “I’m not cool already?”
“You run a ghost show at the crack of dawn,” Sam pointed out.
“Hey. No. My show starts at midnight. Midnight’s cool. It’s not my fault it ends around the time people wake up,” said Bucky, “And ghost stories are cool.”
Sam laughed.
“I make them cool,” Bucky corrected.
“Sure, you do,” said Sam as Figaro hopped onto his bed and curled up next to him.
“Rude,” said Bucky, “I’m fantastic. Why do I even let you call in?”
And then Sam said it without even a thought.
“Because you like me.”
It was so easy to say. It felt right, despite his face heating up. It shouldn’t feel so easy to say that. Sam hoped Bucky wouldn’t freak out that Sam said that.
“I do,” said Bucky quietly, his voice trailing.
Sam buried himself under his covers as the silence hung there. Made Sam unravel at how it was making him so squirmy and happy. Sam needed to stop that feeling before he misread the situation. Bucky probably didn’t mean it like that. No. Probably a friendly like. How could it be more than that?
Sam heard Bucky clear his throat.
“My, um. Producer Stevie is telling me I need to answer one more call, Sam,” said Bucky – rambled Bucky, “Again. Always asking me to get off the phone with you.”
Sam tried not to think too hard about the hint of nervousness in Bucky’s voice.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” said Sam.
And he meant it.
God, Sam meant it.
Why was he making promises to a radio show host? Stop making this parasocial relationship more than it was. Just a host and a caller. Sam needed to be normal about this.
“I’ll be counting the seconds,” Bucky embarrassingly said back before Sam hung up.
*****
“I had a dream about you,” said Sam as he drove down the street.
Bucky laughed.
“A dream?” echoed Bucky.
“Is it weird that I had a dream about you?” asked Sam, feeling a little nervous now.
He hadn’t really thought about that. He was used to telling Bucky whatever was in his head now. He kept just saying things to Bucky. Sam barely thought about the show element to it now. It was just him and Bucky. Talking to each other. And in a way, Sam was pretty sure Bucky forgot about it as well.
“No. Please. Tell me about your dream,” said Bucky, and Sam could hear the smile, “I want to know.”
“I don’t know. I don’t want to tell you now,” said Sam, smiling himself, “I feel like you’re going to make fun of me now.”
“What? No,” giggled Bucky, “No, tell me. You have to tell me now, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?” said Sam, “Babe, I don’t even know what you look like.”
“What?” said Bucky, absolutely incredulous, “Sam. You can find me on the website. You can literally find my photo on the website. You can look me up easy.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t think of that,” said Sam as he felt his face heat up, “Then, you don’t know what I look like either.”
“Trust me, I don’t think you would ever disappoint,” Bucky said, before Sam heard him faltering, “Um. If – I don’t – please don’t take that the wrong way.”
Sam snickered.
“Tell me again – are you allowed to flirt with people on air?” asked Sam as he tried not to think about Bucky saying that he’d like him however he was.
Because it probably wasn’t true, right? How could someone like you without even knowing how you looked?
“Probably not, but I think my producer Stevie’s given up on that when it comes to me and you,” said Bucky jokingly, “So, would you like to tell me about that dream?”
Sam thought about it. The strangeness of it. How he lay in that field as he heard Bucky tell the story about how they met. Which was weird because They had never actually met before. But it had made Sam feel warm all the same.
And suddenly, this felt too intimate. It felt like something that should be just for them. Not for Stevie or Eli or anyone else to hear other than Bucky and himself.
“Maybe I’ll tell it to you someday,” mumbled Sam into the phone, feeling…
“Shy,” said Bucky, surprised, “Are you being shy, Sam?”
Sam felt his face heat up again.
“I’m allowed to be shy sometimes,” grumbled Sam.
“No, it’s okay. It’s cute,” said Bucky, chuckling.
“Don’t blame me if Stevie calls you in for too much flirting,” Sam said, trying not to think about Bucky calling him cute as he turned into the parking lot.
*****
“Are you okay?”
Sam petted Figaro, stared at his ceiling before Bucky said, “Sam?” again for the third time.
Which must be terrible for his show.
“Right. Sorry,” said Sam, trying to blink away his fogginess, “What was the question?”
“Are you okay, Sam?” asked Bucky softly.
Sam sighed.
“I’m okay. I get like this sometimes around the anniversary of Riley’s death,” said Sam, before he realized what he just said, wincing as he added, “I’m sorry. That was probably too much. I didn’t mean to overshare.”
“No, I get it,” said Bucky genuinely, “I get like that too whenever the anniversary of the deaths of my little sister and brother comes around. They – they died in the accident that took my arm. It’s hard not to be impacted whenever death rolls around to remind you of what you lost.”
Sam noticed that. In Bucky’s picture on the website. That he was missing most of his left arm.
Was it horrible for Sam to feel relieved that Bucky understood in some way how he was feeling right now?
“Riley was my boyfriend. Back when I lived in D.C.,” Sam explained as he pulled the covers closer to him, “Well. Sort of. We never really made it official. But we were together for five years. And he died due to complications from this fire that happened at his work. It still hits me hard. How fast it happened. How quick the funeral was. Even years later, it just hits me hard.”
“I get it. The anniversary hits me hard every year too,” said Bucky, some of his emotion slipping into his voice.
Sam didn’t know that he needed to talk to someone about this. He didn’t know he’d feel better saying something about his feelings. He wondered what Riley would have thought of Bucky.
He probably would have loved Bucky. Riley did have a chaotic edge to him. He would love the fact that Sam was developing this weird friendship with a horror story radio show host.
“I think he would have liked you,” Sam said without thinking, “He liked weird little podfics. Lore and Welcome to Night Vale. He would have liked your show. I think he would have liked you. He liked people who annoyed me.”
Bucky let out a wet laugh.
“I think Elsie and Will would have liked you too,” said Bucky, and Sam could swear he heard Bucky sniffling, “They liked people who kept me on my toes. They liked people who could make them laugh.”
Both of them seemed to live in that. Thinking about what their dead loved ones would like about each other.
*****
“So?” asked Joaquín as he opened his lunchbox.
Why was everyone staring at Sam?
“So, what?” asked Sam as he grabbed a sandwich half from his bag.
People had been looking at him all morning. They’d been staring at him all week, really. Sam was used to some appreciative glances here and there, but this was straight up gawking and it was getting really weird.
“How long have you been calling into that radio show?” asked Carlos before Tommy elbowed him in the stomach, “What? Joaquín started it. And we’ve all been wondering.”
Sam choked on his sandwich.
This couldn’t be happening. How did they know?
Sam glanced over at Sarah. Sarah had no shame as she grinned.
“I’ve been wondering about that too,” said Sarah innocently.
Sam spiraled a bit, trying to figure out what he was going to say, how he was going to say it. How did he explain to his closest friends and family that he’d been talking to a man he didn’t know on the radio for months? That he might be sort of, kind of feeling something about the host of the show?
Not to say that Sam liked the guy. How could Sam say that when he only knew him from the radio? For all Sam knew, it was a character Bucky played. That would be ridiculous, right? To fall for someone on the radio. That wouldn’t make much sense.
“So, I call in sometimes,” said Sam, not quite sure what they all wanted from him, but hoping a half-truth would be enough, “And we have chats sometimes.”
“Sometimes? More like every time I listen in – ” Joaquín started before Tommy elbowed him too, “What? You’ve been listening too. Don’t elbow me.”
Tommy winced as Sam scanned the boat and saw a mix of guilty and curious faces.
Okay.
So, everyone knew he was calling into Bucky’s radio show every day.
Great.
Not mortifying at all.
“Please don’t stop calling because of this,” said Misty quickly, “You two seem to really like your talks. It’s really sweet.”
“Yeah, I don’t want to ruin that, either,” said Monica worriedly, “We’ll all stop listening in, okay? Pretend we never found out.”
Sam didn’t know if he could forget they were listening. He couldn’t trust them to stop listening. How could they stop, knowing Sam would open up to some random guy on the radio? He knew his friends and family. He knew they would be there on the radio too, now. A silent audience to Sam stumbling through flirting and chatting with a man who liked to tell ghost stories at three in the morning.
Sam didn’t want to think about it. He kept eating his sandwich.
*****
“But enough about monsters. Let’s turn our attention to you – my audience. The line is open for calls,” said Bucky over the radio, and without a thought, Sam turned down his radio and called in.
Because he always called in.
“Sam?” said the station intern, a kid named Eli, “Want to talk to Bucky?”
Because Eli was always the one getting Sam’s call.
“You know I do, Eli,” said Sam with a smile, “How much time before your internship’s up?”
“Actually, my internship is over. Bucky convinced the station to hire me part-time,” said Eli, and Sam could hear the pride in Eli’s voice.
Sam smiled.
“That’s great, Eli,” said Sam, happy for him.
“It is, right?” said Eli, “Is it okay if I put you on last? There are a few people who called before and another behind you and I just want to give you as much time with Bucky as I can.”
“That’s fine with me,” said Sam, “Put them all ahead. I’ll go last today.”
“Awesome. You’ll hear him when you’re connected,” said Eli as he put “Don’t Stop Loving Me Now” by L.T.D. on while Sam waited.
And usually, Sam wasn’t nervous about this. The wait was normal. He was never the first one to call in, after all. Most times he was last because he and Bucky lost themselves in discussion. But as he waited, he kept thinking about it.
About everyone at work.
Just.
Listening in.
On how many random strangers listened in on him.
And Bucky.
Having surprisingly intimate discussions together.
On air.
And before Sam could think about it, Sam ended the call. Shaking a bit as he pulled into the parking lot.
He couldn’t.
He couldn’t have everyone in the world hear him like that. He couldn’t be that vulnerable on air. Not anymore. He couldn’t show that to the world.
No.
Sam felt an emptiness, though, as he left his car. A little piece of him missing as he tried not to think about Bucky and his show.
*****
Sam was… listening to music.
On his way to the Pointe A La Hache.
Sam wasn’t avoiding Bucky and his radio show. Not at all. Sam was allowed to want to listen to music in the morning. Sam totally wasn’t stopping himself from changing the radio station at every red light. Nope.
This didn’t have anything to do with everybody he loved constantly asking him about Bucky.
Everyday.
All the time.
Sam wasn’t insecure about this. Why would Sam be insecure about calling into a radio show to ask about the stories from that day? Or the host himself?
Sam didn’t have to call in every day. He didn’t have to. Sam was perfectly fine not listening in. Perfectly fine.
Sam continued to listen to “Love Don’t Come Easy” by The Jersey Connection as he drove the coastline to the port.
*****
“Do you have flounder today?” asked Rhodey as he looked at the selection of fish Wilson Family Seafood, “Or a good speckled trout?”
Sam grinned. Because he knew that Rhodey wasn’t here for the fish.
Rhodey had been coming around all year. Buying up fish. Talking to Sarah. Sam was wondering when they were finally going to go on a date, but alas. It looked as if it would just be another farmers’ market weekend where Rhodey and Sarah fumbled through small talk with one another.
Sam decided not to let that happen, though. Because everyone deserved love, damn it, especially Rhodey and Sarah.
“We sure do,” said Sam as he began collecting the fish, “My sister’s at the coffee booth over there. You should go say hi to her as I get your order ready.”
“Are you sure? I could wait here for her,” said Rhodey, sounding flustered, but Sam nodded.
“Go. Have coffee with Sarah,” Sam insisted.
Sam smiled as he watched Rhode make a beeline to Sarah. Poke Sarah’s shoulder. How Sarah beamed as Rhodey joined her in line.
“Sam?”
Sam immediately turned to that voice.
Because Sam knew that voice.
How could he not?
“Bucky?” said Sam.
Bucky looked hypnotized. Captivated by Sam. His mouth gaping as he took Sam in. Sam, in his Wilson Family Seafood shirt that needed to be in a washing machine yesterday. Sam, who smelled horribly like fish at the moment. Sam, who forgot to trim his beard the past week. Sam, who was pretty sure he had fish guts on him somewhere.
“Uh,” said Bucky, as if he had just realized how long he’d been staring at Sam, “Yes. Me. Bucky me. Bucky I. I am Bucky. Me. You’re Sam. Oh god, this is all coming out wrong. You work at the farmers' market near my house?”
"Booth," said Sam, a little dazed, "My family's business - we have a booth here sometimes."
"Oh. That makes sense," fumbled Bucky, "Not that seeing you here wouldn't make sense any other way. God. Please ignore everything I'm saying right now."
Bucky looked as if he rolled out of bed devastated. Red puffy eyes. Booty shorts that had to have been slept in. Mismatched socks in a bad way. Bedhead like a rooster. Uneven fuzz on his face. He was carrying what looked to be several melting Black Widow ice cream pints in his canvas bag.
“How do you look so hot when you’re a mess?” blurted Sam instead of saying it in his head.
“I was thinking the same thing,” said Bucky as they both burst into laughter.
Positively cackling. Sam couldn’t help it. Sam hadn’t realized how tense he had felt for weeks. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath for so long.
He missed this.
He missed Bucky.
Guilt crept in as he thought about it.
“I’m sorry that I stopped calling in,” Sam started, but Bucky shook his head.
“It’s okay. I get it. It’s weird to call into a radio show, especially since. Um,” Bucky said as he tapped his fingers on the booth, his face heating up as he went on, “Especially since I was really starting to like you. If you. Um. If you like me too, that is. I hope I’m not making you uncomfortable.”
Sam melted.
“No,” said Sam, “No, I like you too.”
The words came out of nowhere. Yet they were the truth. A truth Sam hadn’t realized until he said his feelings aloud.
“I do,” said Sam, a little surprised by his own words, “I like you.”
“I’d like to ask you out?” said Bucky much more nervously than Sam expected, “I don’t know why that came out as a question. Or so weird. Would you like that?”
Sam giggled.
“Would I like you to ask me out?” asked Sam, leaning close to Bucky.
“Would you?” asked Bucky helplessly.
“Please do,” said Sam, trying not to melt again at how adorable Bucky was being.
“Will you go out with me, Sam?” asked Bucky, sweating absolute bullets.
Sam placed his hand on Bucky’s.
“I will,” said Sam, and he could feel the excitement under his skin, feel it on Bucky.
Because Sam wanted this. They both did. For a while. Sam was pretty sure both of them wanted this for longer than either of them knew. And Sam was ready to get to know the man behind the voice.