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Away from the crowds of Bourbon Street and the old French Quarter, the coastline was busy with chatter.
Sam Wilson was home for Mardi Gras. And this year, he wasn't alone.
The Wilsons were revered for their parties, and Mardi Gras was no exception. Growing up, Sarah and Sam watched their parents memorize the names of cousins and aunties of every neighbor in the bay. Genuine and kind, their neighbors were their family. Everyone was ready to celebrate Carnival. News traveled fast, and now all eyes were back on the Wilson household…much to the chagrin of their wet cat of a visitor.
Bucky Barnes slunk out of the house early that morning. Convinced he could distract himself, he made his way to the boat. He watched the sun burn the chill off the ocean and could smell the surf…and the lingering Old Bay seasoning drifting down from one of the cottages. He scrunched his nose.
He understood the importance of community and had lived it himself, but that was a lifetime ago. His community was in an old brownstone building with his parents and his sister, and then there was Steve . His community was built on the backs of the 107th infantry regiment.
This…this wasn't it. He wasn't about to pretend to feel a part of the community. He wasn't about to intrude on Sam's homecoming. So he worked on the boat, listening to the city wake up around him.
And hours later, that's where Sam found him.
Lost in his own memories, Bucky should have heard him long before he saw him. But Buck was cycling through memories of baseball games and museums, of the scraps of his old life. Sam watched and waited. Wise beyond his years, he leaned against the door, watching the captain's chair where Bucky was tinkering with the old electronics.
"Maybe we should shack you up in a lighthouse. Teach you some old sea shanties." He finally said.
Bucky didn't jump. He didn't look up from his work. But he did smirk, poorly humming a jig in jest. Sam's toothy grin is what made him finally look up.
"I take it back. No shanties."
Sam turned his head at the sound of laughter down the docks. Then, with a raised brow, brown eyes met blue.
"There's someone I want you to meet."
Sarah was going to be the death of you.
When you offered to help with the baking, this wasn't what you had in mind. Your little shop was a glorified café, and you thought it would be some small-time catering. You thought it was for a small Mardi Gras get-together. You should have known better. But you weren't prepared to lug around three-gallon carafes of chicory coffee down to the docks.
"Did you bake the cakes?" Sarah called out with a grin, as out of breath as you felt. You couldn't help the bubbling laugh, readjusting your grip on the jug.
"You'd never let me live it down if I didn't."
But your grip wasn't much better. The round container was awkward to hold, and the handles were uncomfortable. Fumbling down the wooden steps, you dared to push forward with Sarah before feeling cool metal against your wrist instead of the heat of the insulated carafe.
"Here, let me."
You pulled back slightly as the weight of the jug was lifted from your arms. With a huff of breath, you pulled back, but you refused to let go entirely. Maybe it should have been a two-person job from the start.
"Thanks," you started blindly, arms thankful for the reprieve. "But I'm happy to help. We're almost there."
Out of the corner of your eye, there was a crinkle in the man's expression - was that amusement?
"I told you we'd come up to the truck." A familiar voice chastised, and you turned to see Sam Wilson helping Sarah with the other jug. "You didn't have to drag these all the way down here."
But Sarah clicked her tongue, and you'd bet she was rolling her eyes.
"If you think we've got time to wait on you," Sarah started, a hand on her hip, "you've got another thing coming."
But Sam just chuckled. He turned with a smile and called your name.
"It's great to see you! This is Bucky." He introduced, nodding his head at the man beside you.
It was then that you remembered you were still holding onto the carafe. As you noticed and looked up, there was a twinge of a smile on the man's lips. Bucky.
"Hi," he said.
Oh. Oh no. You had been too busy trying not to drop the coffee to notice him, really notice him.
But he captured your attention all the same. With dark hair, a strong jaw, and those eyes...You were staring. Good god, you were staring.
"Hi." You replied carefully.
Still on the stairs, his eyes swept back to the path.
"Shall we?" He added quietly.
And with that, you bumbled down the steps and across the pier.
A number of coolers were stocked with chilled beers, and big pots of crab boils were bubbling away under an old wooden cabana. Sarah directed you to a dessert table, and you were pleasantly surprised to see the number of people starting to gather. You hated to admit it, but you missed it. You missed this. It had been years since you'd been to one of these parties.
"Come on," you urged with a laugh, taking Sarah's arm in yours. "We've got work to do."
You don't think anyone would blame you for sparing a glance at Sam's friend on your way back to the car.
Mardi Gras was in full swing.
Conversation and alcohol flowed freely. As the night drew on, the cabana was crowded with people. Crab boils were poured out on paper tablecloths, and everyone was shoulder to shoulder on the picnic benches.
There was laughter, buttery fingerprints on clothes, and music. A jazz quartet was starting in the corner, and as darkness hovered over the water, the kids were playing with sparklers.
The Wilsons were mingling, couples were dancing, and you were handing out beaded necklaces. Walking around with a gentle smile, your arm was covered in colorful necklaces. Yellows, greens, and purple beads glinted in the light. Plucking them off one at a time, with the delicacy of a knighting ceremony, you offered one to everyone at the table. You were slipping them over their heads, laughing and joking along.
And Bucky watched it all at a careful distance. He offered to start a fire in a barrel drum, and pulled up benches for people to warm up as the night grew cold.
You didn't recognize him earlier, hadn't regarded him with hesitation. Why did he fear that? The hunch on his shoulder told him everyone knew his darkness and unfortunate past. He feared all eyes would hand on him. But maybe he was wrong.
He watched you move around the party, and warmth from the fire covered his cheeks. That must have been it, right?
He shouldn't have been surprised as you sauntered over. Bucky wasn't secluded, but he wasn't necessarily in the throes of the partygoers. As you reached him and pulled a strand of green beads from your arm, you held them out gallantly.
"May I?"
Your voice was warm, if not a little reserved. He understood it. You didn't want to get in his space if he didn't want you there. He couldn't blame the fire for the sudden warm feeling in his chest. At a stand, Bucky didn't hesitate. He bowed down, low enough for you to reach up and put the beads over his head before patting them securely across his chest.
"Thanks," he found himself saying.
With a full smile, you paused before pulling back. And then, after another moment, you were pulled away by the kids running up to you for beads.
Bucky took a full breath and let his eyes wander. He needed air. And then, as he found Sam in the crowd, he was already staring back. Smirking back.
Bucky knew that look.
Sam witnessed the interaction, which was just what he needed , and with a gruff sound, Buck walked off in the opposite direction of where you had gone.
There was a line for the dessert table. People gathered for sweets and coffee before telling stories about the fire pits.
Bucky didn't drink coffee - he had enough to keep him up at night. But he got in line mechanically and took the cup you offered with a small smile. Before he could step away, you called out to him.
"Bucky," You started, testing the syllables on your tongue. He paused with a careful gaze. "Wait."
You held up a finger and turned—just a minute. When you turned around, you held out a plate to him with an iced piece of bundt cake.
"It's King Cake. The cinnamon in the cake goes well with the chicory coffee," you explained, looking at his cup.
The look on his face must have given him away. He didn't know about the tradition. You smiled as you held it out.
"And it's a superstition, a game. Everyone gets a slice, and there's a plastic baby hidden inside. It's said that the person who gets the baby will have good luck for the year. That they'll be king for a day."
Convinced by your explanation, Buck moved his coffee to his left hand, his right hand reaching for the plate. Fingers against fingers, you were beaming as he took it from your hands.
"That, or they'll have to buy a round of drinks for the party," you whispered out of earshot of the others in line.
He chuckled quietly at that. There was a wordless goodbye in his expression as he stepped down the line.
It wasn't intentional. It was Sarah, truly . She must have been the one to save a seat between her and Bucky as you finished serving plates and brought your own over to the fire.
She pulled her arms around you, tipsy and smiling as you sat down. It had been a long time since you had seen her so carefree. And Sam, on the other side of Bucky, looked just as at ease. He was preoccupied listening to an older couple talk about their latest fishing trip. Across the fire an old woman was beaming about her encounter with the fabled Rougarou .
Comfortable, you squeezed more people in to listen. Shoulder to shoulder, you looked up to Bucky. He was still wearing his beads, listening to the fishermen.
"We've waited long enough," Sarah started, pulling you away from your reverie. "Shall we?" She addressed the group, holding up her slice of cake.
"Let the good times roll!"
"
Laissez les bons temps rouler!
"
The crowd cheered, digging into the cake. False hope dimmed through the group, and even you, realizing you didn't have the baby, set down your cake in favor of the warm cup of coffee. It was more fun to watch, anyways .
Ever cautious, Bucky hadn't touched his cake. Not until Sam nudged him. He took a healthy forkful and, raising it to his lips, took a bite. You were right; the cinnamon cake paired well with the coffee. He remembered you talking with Sarah - you baked the cakes just for this party. Distracted by the taste, he didn't notice the baby until he returned for another forkful. He pulled at it quietly, but eyes moved quickly across the fire. Everyone must have seen it.
"Bucky!"
"You lucky dog."
The men heckled and joked, and Sam put a hand around his shoulder. And you, humbled and happy, watched him accept the praise. He wasn't used to it. It was endearing, and for some reason, it made your heart flutter.
The night crawled on with ease, and with liquor flowing, the stories were growing. Fables were told of old Louisiana, of pirates and adventures. As Sarah's boys started to fall asleep, Sam offered to help her take them home. More logs were added to the fire, and new stories were told. Stories of war and battles made way for stories of love and companionship.
Some people called it a night. More people took their place. And you were so fixated on the stories that you hardly realized you had been leaning into Bucky. Or perhaps he was leaning into you.
As the stories and the music tapered, you stayed.
"It's nice," you whispered at last. "That Sarah invited me. I didn't think I'd belong."
Bucky turned slightly, tilting his head.
"You did great - fit right in," he applauded. "I felt the same way when Sam invited me down. I hate when he's right." He grumbled with mirth.
You huffed out a laugh.
"I won't tell him."
You shared a comfortable silence, enjoying the fire and the hazy sounds of the pier. Shoulder to shoulder and almost hand to hand, neither of you had the heart to leave.
It wasn't baseball games and crowds and New York. It wasn't his home, and yet he felt surprisingly at home. And as soon as he felt brave enough to break the spell, he'd ask to walk you home. He'd ask for your cake recipe. He'd ask you to dinner.
Bucky didn't know about superstition, but in the late hours of night before dawn, sitting next to you on the old pier, he was king.