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In this reality, there is no Falcon and the Winter Soldier.
•
Bucky left work later than usual. His boss, Bogdan, had him haul 115 boxes of sparkling water to the stockroom, then called him “Mister Strong Arms” in front of the other supermarket staff—making him want to hole up in the break room forever.
Then came the downpour—a Bucharest summer special. One minute, you weep like a damp puppy; the next, you sweat like a tourist eating chilis for lunch in August. So, he did what any decent Român-adjacent would: waited it out under a generic building awning with twenty other waterlogged Românians.
“Uh… vă rog… fru… moss… can you—wait—mă puteți… ajut… ajuta… uh… help me? Please? With… this? Unde? Strada Piața Gara Filaret. Per favore,” a sopping wet man calls out to the group under the awning, holding up his cracked iPhone like a holy relic.
Bucky eyes him, amused, as the others shake their heads apologetically at the desperate man. He lowers his phone with a sigh and mutters, “Mamma mia.”
The rain eventually gives up. The unhelpful awning people begin to scatter, leaving only the man and Bucky.
He looks at Bucky, hopeful. “Please. Unde? Strada Piața Gara Filaret?”
Bucky, disarmed by the pitiful man, approaches him. “Strada Piața Gara Filaret, e? Trebuie să mergi în direcția aia. La a treia intersecție, faci la stânga. Mergi drept până vezi McDonald’s, apoi faci la dreapta. Continuă tot înainte până dai de parcul cu statuia calului, și apoi mai faci o dată dreapta. Acolo e o parte din Strada Piața Gara Filaret. Dar e un drum lung. Ai numele clădirii sau adresa exactă?”
The man gulps, smiling nervously. “McDonald’s? Ăăă… asta bun. Foarte bun. Super bun. Da. McDonald’s.”
Bucky sighs, exasperated, but gives the man a soft smile. He points to himself, then to the man, and makes a walking gesture with his index and middle fingers.
The man raises his eyebrows and exhales in relief. “Tu… vii… cu… we go? Da? Come… yes? With me? You?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, done. The guy’s probably a walking disaster, who could easily get murdered along the way. He probably needs all the help he can get. And he looks… fine. Well, more than fine.
“Da.”
•
Sam can hear his heart pounding in his chest. He’s also weak in the knees, like a newborn calf fresh out of the uterus.
It’s not because he’s late for the meeting with Sorin at AMVVD.
It’s because the man with the pretty eyes is walking alongside him—who may or may not be taking him to McDonald’s. Would he prefer Big Mac over McChicken? No matter. He’d buy him whatever he wants.
He straightens his posture and tries to appear cool despite his nervous energy. The man’s quiet—too quiet. He hasn’t said a word since “da” and this makes Sam anxious.
“Mă numesc Sam,” he says, offering his hand. The man’s eyes brighten, but he hesitates. Eventually, he shakes Sam’s hand with his gloved one.
“Sunt Bucky.”
“Bucky? Your name is cute, too,” Sam blurts, then coughs, embarrassed. Bucky looks at him nervously, like he’s about to bail. “I mean—not that you’re… you know. I just meant… the name. The name’s cute. Not like you’re—I mean—you are. But…”
Bucky clears his throat and changes the subject, pointing ahead. “McDonald’s. Apoi facem dreapta, tu, bărbat frumos.”
They turn right, walking wordlessly until they reach the familiar park with the horse statue. The fruit stall is still there. Sam smiles, reminiscing about his first trip to Bucharest.
“The plums here were amazing. I came to this stall a couple of years ago. Of all the Romanian phrases, this one I’ll never forget: ‘Cât costă prunele?’”
Bucky gazes at Sam, as if he’s trying to recall something important. It should mean something—he knows that much. But the why escapes him.
“Iubesc prunele,” Bucky says.
•
Sam reads the signage on the building—Asociația Militarilor Veterani și Veteranilor cu Dizabilități. They’ve finally arrived. He can already see Sorin blowing his top—he’s an hour late, after all. Bucky remains silent, his hands in his pockets.
“I can’t thank you enough. You’ve been most helpful. And great company—even if you’re as quiet as a ninja. But I’m your opposite, so it kinda works.” Sam beams at Bucky appreciatively. “Mulțu—mulțu—dammit. Thanks, man. Really.”
Bucky chuckles. “You’re welcome. Sorry for not inviting you to McDonald’s. I figured you had somewhere to be—with all the screaming and crying in the rain.” Bucky pauses, his smile faltering a bit. “It was nice meeting you, Sam.”
Sam gawks at Bucky, mouth open. “You can speak English this whole time? And you’re American!”
Bucky’s apologetic. “You were trying really hard. I didn’t want to ruin it.” He turns to leave. “Take care, Sam.”
Sam nods. He watches Bucky walk away.
Sam’s breath hitches. Something inside him stirs, aching, like missing a body part he never even had.
The man wearing a cap.
He’d seen him before. Exchanged a glance.
Shared the same space.
They both walked away, never knowing what they could have been.
Another chance.
This is where it happens.
This is where you find each other again.
Not just almost
But really. At last.
Don’t let him slip away again.
“Buck—wait.”