Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There’s a soft knock at Sam’s door. He doesn’t turn over but grunts a “come in.”

The door opens, but it stays silent. Sam glances over his shoulder, then shifts on his bed to sit up a little.

Sarah watches him silently, her gaze unreadable.

“What?”

“It’s almost noon, Sam,” she states, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame.

Exhaustion pulls at Sam’s face. He doesn’t feel like trying to flash a smile.

“So?”

“So, it’s nearly noon on a Saturday. Why the hell are you still in bed?”

Sam sighs heavily, the weight on his chest keeping him pinned to his pillows.

“I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.” He stares at his shelves across from his bed. Eyes roaming over a few framed photographs, old books he’d loved and wanted to read again but hadn’t gotten the chance to.

“Well I need you to go down to the boat today and clean it up. I’m taking a tour out Monday morning. I gotta go to the boy’s camp today to pick them up. I won’t be back until late.”

Sam runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.

“Sam?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

Sarah straightens, dropping her hands to her sides. “Okay,” she repeats. “Good. Thank you.”

“Of course,” Sam responds flatly, attempting a little smile.

The unreadable expression in Sarah’s face becomes a little more readable. Sam looks away. She huffs a sad breath out her nose then leaves, not bothering to close his door. Sam rolls his eyes in irritation.

So, it was time to get up.

Here he goes.

It takes a monumental effort to roll out of his bed, wincing as stiff joints stack on top of each other when he stands up. His back is still definitely messed up and it twinges when he takes off his pajama shirt, then it screams in pain when he attempts to bend over to pick up a different shirt.

He steadies himself against his dresser, heaving a breath. The wood is gritty with dust under his fingers. It’s been a while since he’d been able to stay in Delacroix. Duty calls and all that.

He lifts his head. The picture frames on his shelves catch his eye.

His collection has grown a lot more recently. Sam didn’t really have many friends after Riley and starting therapy and counseling.

But now, instead of just a picture of him and Riley and then Sarah and the boys, he has him and Joaquin. The photo is silly, a Snapchat filter Joaquin had found, giving them both puppy ears and noses.

There’s one he’d finally put up of his parents, too. Them on the beach, holding hands and walking.

There’s also one of him and Bucky. Not a selfie, like some of the others.

It’s a picture Sarah had given him more recently. They were out on the boat, eating during the cookout Sam had received for accepting the shield.

They were both laughing, shoulders brushing.
Sam stares a little forlornly at the photo.

“I’m leaving, Sam!” Sarah calls through the house. Sam’s stomach drops as he’s startled from his daze.

“Wait,” he says, suddenly realizing he’s faced with a day by himself now. In the quiet house. Or out on the boat. “Sarah, wait.”

He finds the energy to bound down the hallway to the foyer where Sarah is waiting, bemused.

“Yes?” Her expression is expectant.

Sam swallows. He knows what she wants to hear. He’s not sure if he wants to say it.

“You’re gonna be gone till when?”

“At least nine p.m.”

He nods, pursing his lips. “Right.”

Sarah softens momentarily. “Sammy.”

Sam is horrified to find tears pricking his eyes. He glances away quickly, ducking his head.

Sarah crosses to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Look at me, man.”

Sam does, blinking away his moment of weakness.

“You gotta tell me what’s going on, alright? I’m worried about my kid brother. Cuz even though he’s all grown up, he still gets that same look on his face when he’s hurt but doesn’t want to bug anybody.” Sarah’s eyes search his thoroughly.

Sam’s lips part to try to explain. To try and explain the weight that isn’t just on his shoulders but weighs down his chest to the point where he sometimes can’t breathe and has to sit down and remind himself to count to four. How can he explain the exhaustion in his mind, pulling at the very marrow of his bones?
Or the terrible ache he feels from the inside out because even if he’s Captain America and he can save so many people, there’s still the ones he can’t. And their crying is omnipresent in his dreams every night. How could she understand? Sam knows she can’t but she could try.

He holds his tongue, straightens up against the ache in his spine.

“I’m fine, Sarah,” he says as convincingly as he can. Trying to put a little energy in his voice. “I’m just really burnt out.” That was a shallow way to put it.

Sarah’s jaw flexes and she shakes her head once. Then she looks at Sam again, less soul-searching in her gaze, and pats his shoulder hard.

“Okay. Whatever, Sam. We can talk when I get home, maybe. Please don’t forget to fill up the tank.”

Sam feels hollow inside as he waves Sarah out of the house, shutting the door as she gets in the car. He’s as fed up with him as she is.

Maybe a day alone would be good. He could move slowly and methodically and find some peace in cleaning the boat. Finally find some rest.

——

By the time Sam actually gets some food in him, brushes his teeth, does the bare minimum to look human, it becomes very clear he will not be finding rest.

It’s not that the boat is a mess. Sarah cleans up often. But when Sam climbs down to the lower level and finds a spill of oil, it’s a different kind of mess.

“Aw, shit,” he groans when confronted by the black spill. By the engine, too. It had taken so much to get it running again. All his hard work better not have been ruined.

Sam starts to kneel down to peer around for the source of the leak but his back can’t take it.

He slumps against the outer casing of the engine with what definitely was not a whimper of pain, trying to sit in a somewhat comfortable position.

He rests his forehead against one palm, squeezing his eyes shut. Everything just has to be against him today, doesn’t it?

He’d just wanted to actually do something that felt good and useful. To help out Sarah in a pathetic thank-you for dealing with him.
Sam’s chest tightens with that weight again.

——

Sam had completely overworked himself toward the end of last week. A hostage case Wednesday, two press conferences after, a visit to a children’s hospital (Sam couldn’t get the image of a weak, pale little boy beaming up at him, then the same face being displayed on an obituary two days later), then there was the whole burning building thing.

Trying to carry as many people as he could at once, descending from the twenty-story building and then shooting up to repeat. The strain on his wings then the added strain to his back.

Then a last-minute scramble to try and save a middle-aged man.

His wife’s and child’s sobbing at the side of his charred body.

Smoke fills Sam’s lungs and he gasps, managing to stumble to his feet. Was the boat on fire?

He launches up the stairs, falling against a stack of crates. The world flashes white then black as Sam’s back hits the wood.

His vision clears. The boat isn’t on fire. There’s no smoke.

Sam coughs experimentally, then, feeling embarrassed, forces himself to count his breaths.

His heart calms. But his stomach still churns and the dark cloud of exhaustion isn’t just hanging over him anymore, it’s swamping him.
He drags himself to his feet, into the cabin and plops down on the captain’s chair, forearms braced against the wheel, forehead resting on them.

He clenches one fist around the worn metal of the steering wheel. The smart side of his brain— the side that went to school and got a counseling license and fought in wars— was reminding him that yes, as a matter of fact, he’d fought in wars. He has PTSD. And that’s okay. Well, not okay, but there’s nothing wrong with him.

The smart side of his brain is flashing the red lights that say “woah, slow your roll.” A stop sign that actually reads “warning signs of depression” pops up.

The lizard side of Sam’s brain blows right past the sign, going fifteen over the speed limit.

Suddenly Sam remembers something Steve said to him. A long time ago. Sam grits his teeth hard as Steve’s face appears, his voice echoing in his mind.

While they’d been on the run from the government, Sam had found Steve curled up on his bed, looking like he’d been crushed by three tons of heartache and lost time.

Sitting gently on the bed, Sam had gotten him to open up.

After talking for a little, they fell silent. Then Steve tipped his head and smiled sadly at Sam, saying, “There’s no stopping, in this line of work. You just go and go and go until you can’t anymore. There is no ‘401k’ or retirement plan. It’s just this until you’re dead.”

At Sam’s broken expression, Steve hastily backtracked.

“At least for me. I know how it sounds, but that’s just how it is.”

Steve had been right. That is just how it is. For Sam, too.

And at that very moment, alone on his dead parent’s boat, friendless, Sam almost wishes that time had come sooner.

Then the smart side of his brain catches up and whacks the lizard over the head with the stop sign.

Sam’s throat tightens and he leans back in the seat, eyes unseeing on photos of himself as a child and Sarah and his nephews and his parents.

All people that loved him. Most of them that still needed him.

Sam needs to pull himself together.

He needs help.

That train of thought brings tears of frustration bubbling to the surface.

A strangled cry makes its way out of Sam’s chest as he presses his palms into his eyes, the tears falling free.

He knows the best step he can take right now is reaching out.

Sam’s mind immediately falls on him. On Bucky.

A surge of relief fills Sam as he thinks of Bucky here with him.

Then the smart side of Sam’s brain chimes in again, not so helpfully. Bucky’s busy. He’s a congressman now, for whatever shitty reason. He doesn’t have time for Sam’s little breakdown.

So he shouldn’t call Bucky. He really shouldn’t.

The phone rings three times before he picks up.

“Hey,” Bucky greets, sounding honestly happy.

Sam’s chest loosens. “Hey, man. What’re you up to?”

Papers rustle.

“Working?” Sam guesses.

Bucky snorts. “I’m supposed to be. But you wanna know who I keep getting distracted by? Hang on.”

Bemused, Sam holds the phone to his ear. A ringtone plays and then he answers a FaceTime.

Bucky already has the camera turned around and Sam is surprised to find himself looking at Joaquin, sitting in the seat opposite Bucky’s desk eating a bowl of cereal. To be clear, Sam isn’t surprised Joaquin’s eating cereal. More that he’s in Bucky’s office in congress with a plastic blue bowl that has milk dangerously close to spilling when the kid leans forward.

“Hi, Sam!” Joaquin waves aggressively, looking very pleased to be bothering Bucky.

Bucky turns the camera back around. Sam wants to quip that he’s so proud the man finally learned how technology works, but his voice catches when he’s confronted by Bucky’s blue eyes. They’re bright
Bucky grins a little at Sam, just a flash of white teeth.

“So, what are you doing?” He squints at the camera. “Are you on the boat? Please don’t tell me it’s broken again.”

Sam’s automatically reciprocating smile slips. Bucky’s mouth also pulls into a frown at the reaction.

“Well…”

“What is it this time?”

Sam shakes his head. “I’m not sure. There’s an oil spill down by the engine.”

Bucky’s eyes drift away from Sam, as if trying to imagine the scene.

“The brake line?” Joaquin pipes in.

Bucky glances at him over the phone. “Boats don’t work like that, kid.” He looks back at Sam. “Is it leaking from the engine or the lines near it?”

It’s Sam’s turn to glance away. “I didn’t really check.”

Bucky scoffs. “Come on, Samuel. You expect me to believe that? I’m surprised you aren’t trying to fix it at this very moment.”

Sam straightens in his seat, wincing as his back muscles pull. “I’m kind of…”

“Are you hurt?” Bucky’s gaze skewers Sam through the phone. Joaquin appears, standing behind Bucky and leaning in.

Sam sighs. He could do without the kid being there, honestly. “A little. It’s not bad. It’s just hard to get around.”

“What happened?” Joaquin asks, spooning Cinnamon Toast Crunch into his mouth. Sam tries to convey his disapproving frown at Joaquin’s idea of lunch to him.

“Just overworked myself a little. Strained my back.”

Sam can tell Bucky’s glare is just for him.
“Why haven’t you been taking care of yourself, Samuel?”

“I have been,” Sam protests. “I’m just… busy, y’know?”

“Self-care is literally essential regardless,” Joaquin says wisely.

“Still doing your skincare routine every night?” Sam asks dryly.

Joaquin’s face flushes a bit. “Well, that’s part of self-care!”

Bucky is worryingly silent. He’s studying Sam through the screen. Sam wants to turn off his camera. He still feels raw from the last few minutes. He isn’t sure how clear that is in his face.

He needs to hang up. Sam clears his throat.
“Well, I should go. Joaquin, stop bothering Bucky—“

“What? Hang on, Sam—“

“And I’m gonna go get to work on the boat, alright? I’ll see you guys later.”

Bucky’s and Joaquin’s protests are cut off as Sam hits the red button.

Literally only a millisecond of silence passes until his phone is ringing again. Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone’s lectures about him taking care of himself.

Of course he answers.

“Sam, what the hell?”

At least Sam doesn’t have to look at Bucky’s face this time. He sighs into the receiver.

“Sorry.”

He hears Bucky shoo Joaquin away.

“What’s really going on with you, right now?”

Sam bites his lip. Everything he’d wanted to tell Sarah earlier is right there, on the tip of his tongue.

And Bucky would understand.

Sam takes a deep breath and mentally hypes himself up.

“Are you busy, this weekend?”

“Not anymore.”

Sam’s chest tightens with affection this time.

“You sure?”

“Of course I am. I can be there in the morning.”

The relief that hits Sam feels like jumping into the bayou on a hot, muggy day. The cool water closing over his head, washing away the icky feelings and leaving him refreshed.

“Anything I can bring?”

Just your smile and that face you make when you’re really listening, Sam thinks.

“No. We’ve got everything we need here to fix the boat. I just… can’t really do it on my own.”
The silence that follows is a tremor to Sam’s bones.

“Fix the boat. Right,” Bucky says, muttering a little as if talking to himself. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be there in the morning. Don’t go trying to fix anything until I get there, alright?”

Sam smiles. “I’ll have to restrain myself. The next thirteen hours might just kill me.”

“Me too,” Bucky mutters, and Sam blinks bemusedly.

“Drive safe.”

“Never.”

Even if it’s a lame response that Sam has definitely heard before, it manages to draw a little chuckle out of him.

“Bye.”

“See you.”

Sam hangs up first.

The silence is a little more bearable, now.

——

When Sarah gets home, Sam is half-asleep on the couch watching TV.

AJ and Cass charge in, dirty and stinky from camp but grinning as they pile next to Sam, showing him pinecone pets and woven bracelets and keychains.

Sam feels his chest lighten a little bit again as he inspects a pinecone hedgehog with the air of Santa Claus presented with a toy made by an incompetent elf.

“This isn’t what a hedgehog looks like! Where are its ears?”

“Right there! They’re just painted on,” Cass points and AJ rolls his eyes. Sarah locks the door behind her, smiling at the scene. Then she looks around at the house.

“It’s not burned down… wait, Sam, did you clean?”

Mock-offended by her surprise, Sam crosses his arms childishly. “I did. And I did a great job, I think you’ll find.”

“Did you finish up the boat that fast?”

Sam drops his goofy attitude. He’d mopped up some of the oil spill, at least. Even though now his back is killing him and the two Tylenols haven’t helped.

“Well… not so much.” He blinks at Sarah apologetically as she glares at him.

“What does that mean?”

AJ and Cass have scrambled away now, presumably to unpack their things while whispering “Uncle Sam’s in trouble!”

Sam sighs. “There’s an issue. Something’s leaking oil down by the engine.”

Sarah groans, lifting her hands to her face in her frustration. “Not again. Everything was going so well.”

“It’ll be fine by Monday, Sarah. Bucky’s coming over to help, too.”

Sam tries to say this casually, but he knows his excitement slips out, especially when Sarah’s head pops up.

“You asked him to come?”

“Kind of.”

Sarah gives Sam a loooooong look. Then she simply smiles, then starts to head down the hall towards the boys.

“Good,” she says over her shoulder. “I can tell you’ve been missing him.”

“I have not!” Sam calls after her, shaking his head at her disbelieving “mm-hmm!”

Sam sits back against the couch again, adjusting the pillow behind him. He might have to sleep on the couch tonight, his bed is too soft for his back right now.

Bucky will be here tomorrow. Sam wants to text and ask what time but he wouldn’t want to pester Bucky.

Sam feels a little ridiculous when he realizes there’s a smile plastered to his face. He’s giddy knowing Bucky will be here. Except that’s not really something he wants to unpack right now.

Sam lets the next episode of The Office start, letting the show draw him back in. Sarah joins him after a while, tucking her feet up and opening her phone.

“Thanks for cleaning up the house.”

Sam shrugs. “I felt bad about the boat.”

Sarah gives him a sideways glance. “As long as it’s done by Monday, you won’t hear me complaining. I’m glad Bucky’s coming over.”

“Me too,” Sam admits. “Maybe I’ve missed him a little.”

Sarah scoffs. “A little? Man, you looked pretty depressed earlier.”

Sam winces. “Yeah,” he says noncommittally.

Nothing slips by Sarah. She fully turns to face him.

“Sam.”

Sam continues to stare straight ahead at the TV, no longer seeing it. “Yeah?”

“You would tell me if you’re depressed, right?”

The guilt causes Sam’s shoulders to slump. Sarah takes a quick breath, then puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck.

“Sammy, come on. It’s just us. Tell me what’s going on.”

Sam nods. He knows she won’t drop it if he stays silent, and his smart brain knows he needs support.

“Yeah. I’ve been feeling kinda down lately.”

“Mhm?”

She sounds just like their mom.

Sam’s throat burns. “Work has been a lot recently. It’s hard. I’m… I feel like my PTSD is getting worse.”

Sarah squeezes the back of his neck.

“Sometimes things are really heavy. And I’m no Steve Rogers. It’s hard to carry.” Sam has to clear his throat a couple times. “Sometimes it feels like I’m not strong enough.” His voice fails and it comes out as a whisper.

Sarah scoots close, laying her arm around Sam’s shoulders and resting their heads together. Sam puts his hand on her knee.

“You’re more than enough, Sam,” she says softly. “But I can see why it might not always feel like that.”

Sam can’t help leaning into her, a warmth spreading in his chest.

“Is there something that started this? You feeling this way?”

Sam hesitates. Sarah’s voice is so soft and gentle but Sam can’t bring himself to describe the screams and cries that haunt his nights.

“This whole hero-business just isn’t all cupcakes and rainbows,” Sam says. “Sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But I just want to forget about a lot of it.”

Sarah nods, her braids rubbing against Sam’s cheek.

“Okay. I won’t push. But I do think that if you want to forget whatever it is, you might have to let it out instead of shoving it away, back into your brain.”

Sam squeezes Sarah’s knee. “Listen to you! When did my big sister get to be so wise?”

“She always been this wise, you just got a new set of ears.”

——

Sam sleeps on the couch. Sarah tells him goodnight, gives him a side-hug from their position on the couch, and turns off the lights.

Sam turns off the TV, finding a pillow and blanket. The ones Bucky uses when he comes by, Sam’s brain chimes in. For a second Sam wonders if they’ll smell like Bucky’s shampoo, a warm cologne-y scent that Sarah had found for him.

No, they washed the pillow case and the blanket recently. Keeping them ready for Bucky’s next visit. Because ever since the first night he’d spent, it was never a question of if he came around. Just a when.

Sam falls asleep imagining he can see Bucky pulling up to the house, slowing on his bike, swinging one leg off. His boots crunch on the dirt. He leans against the bike, that partial-grin ghosting across his face.

As Sam is drifting, his imagination starts to run away from him a little. And all of a sudden he’s crashing into Bucky’s arms, conscious of Bucky’s hands laying flat on his back, then Bucky’s voice in his ear, his stubble scraping Sam’s neck.

And suddenly they’re kissing.

Sam blinks awake after a few seconds, startled. He stares up at the ceiling, sticky dredges of his sort-of-dream lingering on his lips.

Sam tries to shake it off. He really does. Laughs at his mind a little.

Both the lizard side and the smart side of his brain shake their heads at him and roll their eyes.

Chapter Text

Sam doesn’t wake up when Sarah and the boys leave for church. He doesn’t see Sarah’s glance at him, wondering if she should wake him. Then she checks his phone, smiles at a message, and leaves silently.

Sam doesn’t wake up until thirty minutes later when he hears a motorcycle pull up in front of his house.

For a minute, Sam doesn’t realize what woke him. For a minute, he lays there, that bleak dreariness of being awake again crushing him. Sam takes a deep breath, trying to keep from succumbing to the feeling straight away. He’d be okay. It was just another day.

Then the purr of an engine outside cuts off and Sam is suddenly wide, wide awake.

He tries to sit up— too fast— and has to bite his lip at the pain in his back. Had cleaning yesterday seriously overdone it?

Bucky knocks on the door. Sam forces himself off the couch, keeping his spine stiffly straight as he stands up.

“Coming!” he calls, hastily straightening up the couch. He looks around wildly, making sure the kitchen is still clean, the sink empty. Why? As if Bucky hasn’t seen it all. Sam runs a hand over his face, scrubbing at it.

As he hurries to the door, hand pausing on the doorknob, he realizes he’s still in pajamas— a worn out marina t-shirt and the basketball shorts with blue paint stains.

Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Bucky wouldn’t care.

So Sam opens the door, already smiling a little.

Bucky straightens up. He’d been looking around at the yard. He sees Sam’s smile and matches it. He’s got his leather jacket on from driving, but it’s unzipped and hangs open, revealing a plain blue shirt underneath.

“Good morning,” Bucky says dryly, looking Sam up and down. Sam warms a little at the look, shrugging.

“I never set my alarm, I guess.”

Should he hug Bucky? He wants to. But his half-dream from last night pops unhelpfully into his mind and he hesitates.

Bucky doesn’t. He steps forward and pulls Sam close easily.

Yeah. He’s still using that same shampoo.

Sam slots his arms around Bucky’s, letting his chin rest on Bucky’s shoulder.

They might stand there for too long. Sam isn’t sure. Bucky gives him a little squeeze then steps back.

“Where’s Sarah and the boys?”

Sam holds the door open and lets Bucky in. “Church, I assume.”

Bucky sets his backpack down by the door, and Sam’s heart hops happily at the sign Bucky is staying. Probably not for long, but at least the day. He probably has work Monday.

“So,” Bucky says, waiting for Sam to take the lead.

“Yeah. Let me get ready and we can head over to the boat.”

“Or, I was thinking, we could go get breakfast,” Bucky counters. When Sam stares at him, his ears turn a little pink. “Of course, we don’t have to,” he mutters.

Sam breaks into a grin. “No— I’m down. Let’s do it. We can go to Marmalade’s. I’ve been wanting to see Tío Romero recently anyways.”

Bucky’s shoulders drop in relief. Sam hadn’t noticed the tension. “Okay, cool.”

“Let me get ready,” Sam repeats.

He hurries down the hall, shucking his shirt off (holy shit his back hurt) and leaving it on the bed. Instead of picking the same shirt from yesterday off the floor he grabs one from a drawer. It’s red with an orange insignia from an old television show Sam doesn’t actually even know the name of.

He puts on blue khakis even though he’ll probably change before they go work on the boat. Maybe he just wants to look a little nice.

When he slips into his and Sarah’s shared bathroom, Bucky surprises him a little. He’s already in there, inspecting one of Sarah’s lotion.

He glances up and spots Sam through the mirror, his eyes again darting over Sam.

“Your fly’s down.”

Sam checks so fast it’s embarrassing— even more so when it’s not and Bucky snickers, turning around. His eyes glimmer and Sam wants to hit him.

And again, his brain unhelpfully brings up an image of them kissing.

Sam joins Bucky at the counter, punching his shoulder. “Very funny, ha-ha. What are you, seven?”

Bucky leans back against the counter, chuckling. “Don’t insult Cass’ humor. He’s funny. He told me a terrible pterodactyl joke last time I was here.”

Sam laughs. “That joke was actually funny.”

“No it wasn’t.”

Sam doesn’t respond, just squeezes out some toothpaste and starts brushing.

Bucky fiddles with his gloves, then takes them off. He takes his jacket off too, only hesitating for half a second, then walks into Sam’s room like he owns the place and tosses both onto the bed.

Sam watches him through the mirror until he bends over to spit. He really hates having his back injured.

He stands back up stiffly and Bucky’s right behind him, holding a picture frame.

Sam rinses his mouth, puts his toothbrush away.

“I like this photo,” Bucky says abruptly. Sam glances at it.

It’s the one of the two of them on the boat.
Sam feels like a child who was caught stashing candy in his underwear drawer. He coughs lightly.

“Yeah. It’s a good picture,” he tries to say casually. “Sarah took it.”

“I’ll get her to send me a copy,” Bucky says, nodding to himself. He doesn’t look up at Sam as he goes to put it back.

Sam closes his eyes briefly, then strides out of the bathroom.

“Let’s go!”

Marmalade’s is barely a seven minute walk from the house, and Sam is trying not to seem so stiff. He’d caught a brief glimpse of concern on Bucky’s face earlier when Sam tried to stretch out his back. Hopefully it would heal faster.

Marmalade’s was open and airy, large windows and light wood and purple drapes.

Bucky holds the door for Sam, so casually and naturally. Sam shakes his head a little, entering the restaurant.

It’s not very busy. Almost everyone is in church.

Still, those who were already seated, munching away at fresh-baked pastries greet Sam loudly, a couple getting up to shake his hand.

“Captain America!” they exclaim in awe. “Our very own Captain America!”

Sam gets it. He does. What him being Captain America means to them— for them. The recognition. All of it.

But it just feels like an added weight on his chest.

Somehow they all believed in him. Had such staggering faith.

Bucky drags Sam away, reading the menus aloud. Sam tunes in about halfway through, a little shaken up.

“I think I’ll get the breakfast burrito,” Bucky decides. As if it was ever a decision. Sam had known he would go for the option immediately.
“What about you?”

Sam looks up at the menu, conscious of Bucky watching him. “I’m not sure. I’m kinda not that hungry.”

Half true. He feels a little nauseous actually, and only part of that is anxiety.

Bucky hums disapprovingly. “Okay, how about you choose between…” Bucky scans the menu. “Between the triple grilled cheese and the wings.”

Sam doesn’t quip at the wings, doesn’t ask if Bucky’s stereotyping him (even though he does love the wings) as a joke. Neither options seem that appealing.

But when Sam gives Bucky a glance, he knows he can’t just get nothing.

“I’ll go with the wings.” They’d be easy to take home for later. AJ loves them almost more than Sam does.

Sam lets Bucky order, drawing back a little.

Bucky gets them each a coffee, then he picks a table near the back of the restaurant. It’s a nice spot, and Sam can see the tactical reasoning for it. Can see both exits, closer to one than the other. Against the back wall that’s not completely windows.

It hits him. They’re so fucked up. Both of them.

This business. It’s changed them forever. Normal people don’t look for the most likely threat in the room or retrace their path in their head or study the best way to get out of a cute little restaurant in Sam’s tiny hometown in case of emergency.

Bucky generously gives Sam the seat with a better view of the room, leaving his back to the counter.

Sam sits heavily, tries to get comfortable. He definitely re-injured something yesterday.

Bucky’s watching his every movement.

“What did you actually do to your back?”

Sam sighs. “I don’t really know. It just happened.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sam glares a little at Bucky. He’s saved from having to respond when Romero appears with their coffee.

“Hey, Sam,” the older man greets, patting him on the shoulder. Sam gives him what he knows is a strained smile.

“Hola, Tío. How’s it going?”

“All good, all good. Madi’s coming home this week from school to visit. You should come say hi.”

“I will,” Sam promises, ignoring the fact that he will probably be out working. “Good to see you, man.”

Bucky smiles politely, then peers at Sam out of the corner of his eye.

“Who’s… Madi?”

“Oh, she’s Romero’s kid. She’s cute, in college for engineering.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

“She’s like twenty, Buck. I babysat her with Sarah once.”

“Oh, right.” Bucky sits back in his chair, takes a sip of his coffee.

Sam just stares at the smoke rising from his cup. Madi was a good kid. She reminds Sam of growing up here, when things were simpler.
Bucky nudges Sam’s knee under the table. Sam meets his gaze, notices the little question in them. Ignores it.

Bucky sighs. “Well, Joaquin begged me to come along to see you.”

Sam nods. “I’m not surprised.”

“We were talking about you before you called. You’re all the kid talks about.”

“He’s weird like that.”

“Damnit, Sam.” Bucky slaps his vibranium hand down on the table so suddenly and loudly Sam jumps. A few people glance over.

“What the hell?” Sam demands, voice hushed.

“I’m trying to talk to you and trying to actually have a conversation and you keep shutting me down! What’s with that? What’s going on, Sam? You didn’t just call me about the boat, did you?”

Sam’s frozen. Unfortunately his dreams about Bucky hadn’t covered this much.

“I…”

“What? Come on, talk to me, Sam.”

Sam glances around. They’ve still got attention on them. He ducks his head, staring into his coffee cup.

“Maybe later.”

Bucky’s hand curls into a fist, then releases. He doesn’t say anything the rest of their breakfast.

Sam picks through his wings. They taste like cardboard.

When Bucky finishes— Sam could tell he’d loved the burrito but didn’t want to say anything, he was still mad— Sam leaves a tip on the table and takes his wings with them.

Sam realizes Bucky’s leading the way after they veer away from the street the house is on. They’re headed to the bayou.

They’ll be nice and alone on the boat. Sam doesn’t know what he’s going to say. He knows Bucky will understand. But something inside him, something young and hurt, wants to shy away and retreat to the shadows.

Bucky marches straight onto Paul & Darlene. He’s obviously familiar with the boat and Sam can’t help feeling warm at that. And watching Bucky be at home in his house. It gives him the same feeling.

Sam starts gingerly stretching his back, trying to loosen up before jumping in on the cleanup and repair.

Bucky had vanished down the stairs, but now his head peeks up. He glares at Sam.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Sam pauses, arms above his head. “What do you mean?”

“You’re not helping. You’re hurt. You’re going to sit on a crate and watch me and tell me why you look like you think everything is your fault.”

“Now why would I think that,” Sam says flatly, dropping his arms.

Bucky’s scowl vanishes. He looks sad. Sam looks away.

Bucky climbs out of the engine well, pulls up two crates and sits on one. Sam joins him, eyeing him cautiously.

“Come on, Sam. I didn’t come all this way to fix the damn boat.”

“What did you come for, then?” Sam knows he’s digging.

Bucky humors him. “For you.”

Sam nods a little, pursing his lips. So clearly he at least owes Bucky something. Maybe he could just talk about his latest mission— the one he got injured during. He takes a deep breath and starts.

“There was a building in San Francisco that got bomb and burned down while I was trying to catch someone. It was an apartment. Full of families. Ones dislocated by the Blip. It had formerly been run by the Flag Smashers, you know.”

Bucky doesn’t nod or hum or say “yeah” like Sarah does. He sits quietly, his eyes fixed on Sam like every word he says is a hit of fresh air.

Sam swallows. “Well, when the lobby was bombed, no one could get out. I was ferrying people down from the roof as the place went up in flames. I tried to carry as many as I could. It strained the wings and my back.”

A boat nearby starts up and putts out of the marina.

“There was one man,” Sam says softly, “who I couldn’t get to in time. He died. Shit, his poor family. They were there. His little kid and his wife.” Sam drops his head, grief washing over him. “It didn’t matter if everyone else got out alive. Because he didn’t and someone’s whole life was turned upside down and ruined because of it.”

“There’s more,” Bucky prompts gently.

“There’s more,” Sam agrees. The words he’d dreaded to say come easy now. “The people that don’t get saved. The ones I can’t get to in time. Last week there was a plane crash. Someone fell. That one hurts more than most. I can still hear her screaming for help, all the time. You’d think I’d forget civilians after a while.” Sam chuckles a little bitterly. “Not when they’re people that died because I wasn’t good enough.”

“Sam.”

“If I were them, I’d blame me in an instant.”

“Sam—“

“And I act like I can’t hear them comparing me to Steve but it all echoes in my head at night.” Sam wraps an arm around himself for comfort.

“I can barely sleep. I pray I don’t dream because when I do it’s just me letting everyone down over and over. Not being there in time. Not being strong enough. It hurts so much.” Sam hates the way his voice cracks on the last sentence, hanging his head and avoiding Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky slips off the crate and kneels in front of Sam, looking up at him. His expression is nothing if not kind and compassionate.

“Being Captain America was never going to be easy,” he says, and Sam sighs.

“No shit.”

“But,” Bucky continues, “you’re doing amazing at it. Don’t give me that look that says you don’t believe me, because I’m telling the truth. Steve was Captain America in his own way. It’s not fair for anyone to compare either of you to the other. You have so much he didn’t. And vice versa. But his time is past, now. You are the perfect man for the job now. For where the world is, you know?”

Sam gives a long, slow blink. Bucky’s words are trying to get through his brain, past all the self-doubt and hurt.

“I don’t think Steve was wrong.” Sam sighs and glances away. “I just don’t really feel like I’m doing it right. Or doing enough.”

“Stop using ‘enough’. First of all, it’s too vague. What is enough? What will finally be enough that you feel satisfied, Sam?”

Sam has no response. Bucky shifts to sitting cross-legged on the deck.

“When you defeat some monster like Thanos? When you save New York from a bomb and nearly die in the process? What standard are you trying to put on yourself?”

“I don’t know.”

“A standard like Steve? Because you know damn well no one would ever get close to him. You have to do things your way. Set a new standard and have it be the Sam standard because you are human.” Bucky taps Sam on the chest. “You are someone that other people can look at as maybe not quite an equal but as something achievable. Steve was never that to the people. They looked at him like a god and that’s not going to cut it anymore.”

Sam’s throat is tight and he can barely get the word out. “But…”

Bucky waits.

“I hear you, Buck, I really do. But it just won’t get into my brain. I don’t know if I can believe it,” Sam admits, prepared for frustration and annoyance.

“Then I guess I’ll just keep telling you until you believe it.”

Sam smiles a little down at Bucky, who relaxes at the response.

Sarah was right, because of course she was.
Sam has to let it go. The people he’s failed.

Bucky climbs to his feet, pulls Sam up into a tight hug. Sam just melts, letting Bucky’s strong arms hold him up a little.

“How long can you stay?”

“Until Tuesday.”

“Okay.”

They break apart and smile at each other.

“Thanks, Buck.”

Bucky’s smile grows. “Anytime.” He starts to turn to head back down to the engine, glances back at Sam. “I love you, buddy.”

Sam watches him go and it’s like the sunshine has broken through the dark cloud hanging over him. He takes a deep breath and thinks everything is going to be alright.

——

But of course, not everything everything could be alright.

The boat had leaked even more oil overnight and even when Bucky got down on the floor with a flashlight he couldn’t quite see the source of it.

“I think it’s behind the engine,” he grunts, standing up and dusting himself off. “Can’t quite tell.”

Sam sighs heavily from his seat in the corner. “Of course.”

Bucky gives him a little look. “We’ll fix it, don’t worry. I’m gonna pull out the engine.”

Sam buries his face in his hands. So many steps backwards. He hops off the stool and starts up the stairs.

“I’ll get the toolbox,” he sighs.

They spend all afternoon in there. Sam also gets his speaker with the tools, entertaining himself when he can’t help by playing new songs that Bucky should be educated on.

Bucky gradually gets dirtier and dirtier, and Sam realizes he’s smiling softly when he catches Bucky rub his forehead and leave a black streak.

He can tell Bucky loves this. Working with his hands. Figuring things out and putting it back together.

“Buck.”

“Hmm?” Bucky looks up from where he’s taking the engine out, ratchet in hand.

“Where did you learn to do all this stuff, man? Not HYDRA, surely,” Sam says, gesturing at the engine.

Bucky looks surprised by the question. “No, not HYDRA,” he agrees. “I was in the garage every chance I could get in high school. I loved working on cars.”

“So you were a Greaser.”

Bucky snorts. “Definitely not. Got my ass beat by one once after I kissed his best friend in the back of the shop.”

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he lets out a startled laugh. “Oh?”

Bucky shrugs, grinning sheepishly. “The guy had been helping me on a car. I decided I owed him a thank-you. He didn’t complain.”
His ears are a little pink, contrasting with his casual tone.

Sam’s stomach swoops at the confession. He can imagine it, based on the old pictures he’s seen of Bucky. The same half-grin he still sports today, young and charming.

“Do I owe you something for helping me out here?” Sam asks without thinking.

Bucky looks so stunned Sam immediately backtracks.

“I didn’t mean— well, maybe not, I’m just thankful—“

Bucky stands up and crosses over to Sam in two steps. He plants his hands on the shelves behind Sam, leaning in so close Sam can pick out the tiny smudges of oil around his eye.

“You didn’t mean it?”

Sam’s heart is racing almost louder than Bucky’s low tone.

“I might’ve lied,” Sam says. His eyes dart over Bucky’s face, lingering on his mouth. “I definitely lied.”

——

Bucky has left to get lunch. Leaving Sam a little stunned and winded, pressing the pad of his finger to his lips. He can still feel the warmth of Bucky’s on them.

Maybe it was time to unpack that dream he’d had.

He likes Bucky. And now that he’s stating it in his head (and now that they’ve kissed) Sam realizes it’s been obvious. How much he’s missed Bucky recently.

Maybe that’s added on to a little bit of his depression, too.

Bucky returns to find Sam tidying up the deck, doing what he can to prep for Sarah’s tour.

“Hey! Stop that.”

Sam freezes, about to pick up one of the gasoline cans. Bucky comes up behind him, shoulder-checking him and snatching the can away.

“I thought I told you to sit tight.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you thought I’d listen to that. I had too much energy after that little ‘thank-you’.”

Bucky blushes again. “Okay, we should talk about that.”

“Most definitely,” Sam agrees, his tone only a little sarcastic. “You just ran away before I could get to it.”

Bucky sets the bag of food and the gas can down, fiddling with his hands.

Sam waits.

“I hope I wasn’t out of line by kissing you,” Bucky starts rather formally. He’s avoiding Sam’s gaze. “I’m not going to apologize because it seemed like you liked it.”

Sam smirks. “I definitely liked it, Buck. So look at me.”

Bucky does, his eyes wide.

“I really like you. I have feelings for you.” Sam wants to be as clear as possible, not giving Bucky any room for misinterpretation. “I’ve missed you so much recently but I’ve been so busy I didn’t notice. I’m sorry I didn’t reach out sooner.”

“I could’ve reached out too.”

“Maybe we’re both still learning,” Sam says with a little smile.

Bucky looks like he’s fighting down a grin. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”

“So you like me back?”

“No, Samuel. Of course I don’t like you back. C’mon, yes I do. I thought we just said we were on the same page.”

“Sometimes we end up in different books is all.”

Bucky snorts, and when he looks at Sam again he can tell he wants to kiss him. Bucky leans forward, one hand coming up to cup Sam’s face. His kiss is gentler than before, and Sam feels tingles rush down his body.

They break apart and Bucky’s grinning like he’s a teenager again. Sam laughs, ruffles Bucky’s hair.

He’s really cute like this, looking so at home and happy. Nothing like his congress suits (although Sam doesn’t mind those).

They eat their lunch, jabbing at each other through their mouthfuls of sandwiches.

Sam starts to follow Bucky back down into the engine room when a figure headed their way on the docks catches his eye.

He straightens, squints a little.

“Is that little Madi Salvador?” he calls, raising a hand to greet her.

She picks up the pace and comes bouncing onto the boat, curly hair tickling Sam’s neck when she hugs him around the middle.

“Sam!”

“Hey, kid! Good to see you.” Sam gives her a squeeze and then she draws back and he gets a good look at her. He gasps, taking one hand and waving it over her head. “Did you get taller?”

Her solidly 5’5 self glares up at him. “That joke still isn’t funny.”

Sam cackles in response. Bucky reappears and the commotion, resting his arms on the deck, still on the stairs.

“Oh, Madi, this is Bucky. He’s—“ what was he now? “Someone from work. A friend.”

Madi reaches down to shake Bucky’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“Just a friend, Samuel?” Bucky looks up at Sam with sad blue eyes. Sam’s stomach flips. “I thought we were BFFs.”

Madi laughs. “Do you have the bracelets to prove it?”

“We do not,” Sam says gravely. “We should get on that, Buck.”

“I mean, we do have matching scars.”

That leads to Bucky pulling up his shirtsleeve to show off the small diamond-shaped scar on his shoulder (definitely not flexing as he does so, and Sam is definitely not watching) and then Bucky pulling Sam’s shirt up to show the matching scar on his abdomen.

“What are those from?” Madi asks, looking a little horrified.

Bucky straightens Sam’s shirt, fingers lingering on his stomach. Sam catches Madi watching the gesture and isn’t sure how to feel.

“Got in a fight with the King of Wakanda,” Bucky says with a grin. “But now we’re good friends.”

“Not quite BFFs,” Sam interjects.

“I don’t know. We might be. I think his mom adopted me.”

“You don’t have matching bracelets.”

“We kind of do.”

“Kimoyo beads don’t count. All of the Dora Milaje have them.”

“I guess I have a lot of best friends.”

Sam glares and Bucky, faux jealousy in his gaze.

Madi clears her throat. “Well, I need to get back and spend some time with Mama. It’s so good to see you, Sam. We were wondering if you could stop by tomorrow?”

Sam tears his gaze from Bucky. “For?”

Madi rolls her eyes. “Peach season, honey. Sarah’s been pestering Tío Romero nightly about when they’ll be ready. She said to send you over.”

“Of course,” Sam says, pretending he’d never forgotten that peaches even existed. “Of course! Yeah, I’ll be there tomorrow. Do I need to bring my ladder?”

Madi shook her head. “Just a few buckets or boxes will do.”

Sam waves goodbye to her, realizes Bucky is too. He grins and elbows the man.

“She’s cute, right?”

“She is,” Bucky agrees. “I like her. Is she going to help us pick peaches?”

Us. “Yeah. She makes it into a party every time.”

Bucky smiles and nods, then returns down to the engine.

Sam follows slowly, trying to think of how to bring up what’s on his mind.

What are we?

But Bucky’s already speaking, going on about a story from his shop class back in the day. Sam lets himself get caught up in the story, watching Bucky squat to lift the engine, his muscles straining when he lifts it and moves it out of the way.

——

They get back a little after dinner. The boys immediately swarm Bucky, Cass clambering up him like a jungle gym and AJ dangling from his fingers.

Sam wants to steal Bucky away immediately, drag him away and kiss him hard.

Sarah distracts him.

“Is it fixed?”

Sam turns to her. She’s got a dish towel in one hand, looking a little anxious.

“No, it burned down.”

Sarah begins to wind the towel and Sam yelps.

“NO! Wait— it’s fine! It’s fixed. She’s good as… old!”

Sarah’s smile is so earnest Sam feels proud even though he hadn’t fixed it himself.

“Thank you so much, Sammy,” she says, still lightly slapping him with the towel.

“Thank him,” Sam returns, rubbing his arm and nodding at Bucky. “I did jack shit.”

Bucky looks up, grinning from the boys’ antics.
“Not true. You definitely helped.”

“Not half as much as you did.”

“Well, you need to rest.”

Sarah’s gaze whips to Sam, razor sharp. “What does he mean?”

Sam winces, holding his hands up and wishing he had his shield. “It’s nothing, Sarah.”

Bucky gasps. “You didn’t even tell her? What the heck, Sam?”

“Sam!”

“Okay, okay! I’m sorry. I’m a little injured.”

Sarah is immediately patting him down. “Where? What happened?”

Sam shoves her hands away. “I just strained my back. I’ll be fine.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I wanted to help.”

“Dammit, Sam.”

Bucky steps forward, having extricated himself from the boys. “I already chewed him out, Sarah. He knows that next time this happens he’ll be in big trouble.” Bucky’s eyes glimmer with humor as Sam glowers at him.

Sarah sighs. “There better not be a next time, you hear me? You should go rest, Sam.”

“That’s a great idea,” Bucky says, taking Sam’s arm. “Thank you, Sarah.”

Sarah shakes her head at Bucky, but she’s smiling.

——

Sam lets Bucky drag him down the hall into his room, curious when Bucky shuts the door.

“Seriously, Buck? You just had to bring it up in front of Sarah.”

Bucky shrugs. “How could I have known you didn’t tell her?”

Sam sighs, suddenly feeling exhausted. “I was hoping it’d be better by now. I didn’t realize it was this bad.”

Bucky looks worried and Sam feels terrible.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.”

Bucky sighs too, studying Sam. “How about this? We both take showers and then I’m going to give you some spa treatment. Maybe it’ll help your back.”

Sam’s too tired to do anything but agree and they take turns in the shower, getting a little distracted when they run into each other half-naked.

Then Sam is sprawled out on his bed, staring at nothing, and Bucky gets out of the shower.

“There’s clothes in the dresser you can wear,” Sam says, feeling like he’s crashing from a high.

Bucky sits on the bed, his hair curling a little from being wet. He’s wearing Sam’s shirt and his pants and he looks so domestic and gentle. Sam wants to roll onto his side and curl around Bucky but his back hurts too much.

“Lay on your stomach,” Bucky says, tapping Sam’s leg.

Sam turns over stiffly, lowering himself onto his pillow.

Bucky’s hands are gentle at first, then push hard on Sam’s back.

Sam buries his face in the pillow, biting back the pain. It feels good. Bucky’s thumbs digging into his hurt muscles.

They stay silent. One of Bucky’s hands is warm, the other is cool but gradually warming. Sam likes the feeling of the metal plates against his skin.

Bucky leans over Sam. “Where does it hurt the most?”

“Everywhere.”

“We can start with that.”

Sam feels like he’s in a trance, lost in Bucky’s touch. His eyelids are steadily drooping. Then Bucky slows to a stop, resting his fingertips on Sam’s spine.

“Sleep here tonight?” Sam asks softly.

“Is that okay?”

“It is with me.”

Bucky laughs. “What about Sarah?”

“She’ll be fine with it. Probably.”

“I don’t wanna get on her bad side.”

“For shit’s sake,” Sam sighs, scooting over and patting the bed. It’s a little small for the both of them, but that’s fine.

Bucky lays down on his side, watching Sam. Sam watches him back.

“It’s going to storm tomorrow,” Sam says sleepily.

Bucky looks amused at the random comment. “Figuratively or literally?”

Sam shrugs. “Maybe both.”

“Cool. I like the rain and thunder.”

“Good.”

Bucky turns off the lamp and wiggles under the blankets. Sam holds his breath as Bucky moves closer, puts an arm over his back.

And he falls asleep to Bucky gently rubbing his fingers over Sam’s skin. His dream the night before seems laughable now.

——

Sam feels incredible by the time morning comes around. Bucky’s spot was empty and Sam can hear his family in the kitchen. Bucky, too.

He gets up and gets dressed, and besides the stiffness, his back feels so much better already.

He notices the pajamas Bucky borrowed were back in the drawer and when he leaves his room and finds everyone in the kitchen, Bucky has one of his work shirts on. But he has an apron over it.

Sam hides a smile by grabbing the last cup of coffee.

“Good morning,” he says, rubbing AJ’s head from where he sits by Cass, eating pancakes. “Is today somebody’s birthday? What’s with the fancy breakfast?”

“Uncle Bucky wanted to make pancakes,” Cass says through a mouthful.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full,” Sarah snaps, not turning around from where she’s helping Bucky with the batter.

Sam sticks his finger in and licks it. “Tastes great.”

“You know, there’s plenty of cooked pancakes. You don’t have to eat them raw like an animal, Samuel,” Bucky says offhandedly, then flips a pancake high into the air, easily catching it.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Yes, Mr. Chef.”

Sarah hands him a paper plate and he covers it with pancakes and syrup, sitting by the boys. AJ is trying to describe a cheat code to their favorite video game while Cass tries to unstick his fork from his hand.

“What time is your tour, Sarah?” Sam asks, leaning back to hear.

“I’m leaving in ten minutes, it starts at 10 o’clock. I hear you’re going to the Salvador’s for peaches?”

“Mhm.”

“You better get going soon. It’s gonna rain later.”

Sam gives Bucky a sideways glance and a smug grin. Bucky laughs silently, finishing off the pancake batter.

The boys have school off for Labor Day and they left quickly to take advantage of that. Sarah left for her tour and then it was just Sam and Bucky again.

Sam starts cleaning up while Bucky eats. It doesn’t take long for them to finish, gather up some buckets and boxes from the garage, and head down the road to the Salvador’s.

“How’s your back?”

“Much better already. I dunno what kind of magic hands you have there but they work quite well.”

Bucky flexed his hand, angling his palm so the sun bounced off into Sam’s eyes.

“Hey— quit that—“

Bucky snickered, not stopping. Sam covered his eyes with one hand then awkwardly grabbed Bucky’s with the other, on account of two buckets hanging between them.

“Stop that.”

Bucky twines their fingers together. “This was the plan all along, you see. I’m a mastermind.”

“A mastermind who stubbed his toe after I warned you there was a stair there.”

“All part of the plan,” Bucky mutters.

Madi’s already outside, heaving a ladder twice her height onto the grass under their three peach trees. Tío Romero appears with his own cardboard box, greeting Sam and Bucky with a wave. Sam drops Bucky’s hand to wave back.

“Good morning!” he calls.

Madi glances up and beams at them. “Hey! I have something for you two— I’ll be right back!”

Sam and Bucky exchange a bemused glance as Madi darts back inside the house.

They toss their buckets and boxes onto the grass and Sam scans the peach trees. Their branches are heavy.

“Think we can get it all done before the storm hits?” Sam asks Romero, reaching up and squeezing a few. Definitely ready.

“Hopefully. If it gets too windy, we’ll lose a lot.”

Sam nods, glancing at Bucky who’s also looking up, but scanning the sky.

“Where’s this storm everyone keeps talking about?” he demands, spinning in a circle. Sam laughs and grabs his shoulders, spinning him to face east. He points at the huge clouds.

“They’re white clouds. They don’t look stormy.”

“Look beneath them. You can see the rain— those long streaks.”

Bucky hums as he spots it. “It’s still pretty far away though, right?”

“Anything can happen,” Romero says, and Madi reappears.

“Look! I made these for you last night.” She holds out two beaded bracelets.

Sam laughs. “No way! Are these our BFF bracelets?”

He takes on from her, studying it. An assortment of blue beads and stars and then— yes. The three letters.

Bucky takes his from Madi, immediately slips it on his right wrist.

“Thanks. They look great,” Bucky says, holding his arm up to show Sam. His is red and has hearts on it.

Sam grins and puts his on too.

They get to work. Bucky refuses to let Sam use the ladder, so he feels very helpful while holding a bucket and taking peaches from Bucky.

Madi and Romero start on the lower branches, entertaining Sam with their antics. Madi starts talking in an accent and reciting a passage from Charles Dickens as Romero tries to sing over it.

They stop to eat lunch and then get right back at it and then the storm hits.

It’s just a few raindrops to start.

“It’s raining,” Bucky says helpfully from where he’s swallowed by leaves.

“Oh, really? Didn’t notice,” Sam says, wiping a fat raindrop off his forehead. “But we’re almost done. Let’s hurry this up.”

Madi hops out of a tree, looking up at the sky. Light flashes above them.

“One Mississippi…” Madi starts, then jumps in surprise at the huge boom of thunder.

Romero straightens up, box of peaches on his hip. “Okay, we’re done for today. I’m not having anyone get struck by lightning.”

“It’s barely even raining,” Madi protests, and of course the sky takes that very moment to rip open, drenching the four in an icy downpour.

“Shit!” Sam exclaims, tapping Bucky’s calf. “Get down, let’s go!”

Sam hurries to help Madi and Romero stuff the buckets of peaches in the garage, then moves out of the way when Bucky comes through with the ladder.

Sam watches the rain, sighing as the wind picks up. Of course. They’d been so close to finishing, too.

But then he glances over at Bucky who has a big grin on his face, shirt clinging to his pecs and hair dripping.

Sam can’t help but smile.

Even though Romero and Madi beg, Sam says they’re going to head home. He wants to be there in case the boys come back. Or if Sarah needs something. He’s a little worried, her being out on the bayou in this weather.

Madi tosses them an umbrella before they leave— it’s useless. They’re already soaked to the bone.

Bucky waves goodbye to them, sticks the umbrella in his pocket.

“This is kind of fun,” he says to Sam, voice raised. “I think i like when it rains.”

“WILLIS, huh?”

Bucky looks bewildered. “What?”

“Oh. ‘I think i like when it rains’ is a song. We should listen to it.”

Bucky smiles. “I like when you show me songs. I like how much music means to you.”

He reaches out and Sam takes his hand. They walk quickly, not that it matters much. They’ll still be shivering no matter how fast they go.
Thunder rumbles through the clouds. Sam tips his head back, letting the rain hit his face.
He’s not surprised when Bucky grabs his face and kisses him. He could feel it coming.
Sam smiles and Bucky pulls back.

“I don’t wanna go back to work Wednesday.”

“I don’t know if i should be the devil or angel on your shoulder,” Sam says dryly. “I don’t want you to go either.”

“Maybe you could come with me?”

Bucky looks like a little kid, nervous to ask his crush out. Sam grabs his waist and pulls him close and kisses him hard. He smells like rain and peaches.

“So, we stick together from now on?” Sam asks, resting his forehead against Bucky’s.

“That sounds perfect to me.”

They run home, hand in hand. Stripping off wet clothes, laughing a little mischievously, because Bucky really is handsy, then bundle up in blankets on the couch.

The storm finally came.

And when it passes, Sam feels peacefully happy.

Everything was going to be okay.