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Morning comes gently, like Tokyo knows they’ve earned grace.
The café is narrow and warm, all glass and steam, tucked cozily into a side street that makes mornings feel less chaotic by design. Sam claims a small table by the window while Bucky and Joaquín hover nearby, mid-argument about Mount Fuji and Bucky’s unwavering, borderline delusional belief that he could still climb it “in, like, six hours max. Easily.”
“Samu-san,” the barista calls.
Sam gets up, threading through stools, knees, and backpacks with the ease of someone who’s already awake. He comes back with a tray, balancing three cups.
He sets Joaquín’s down first.
Black coffee. Extra shot. No ceremony.
Joaquín looks over-caffeinated even before he touches it, hands already moving, phone out, screen glowing. “Okay. Tokyo—Day 2,” he says, scrolling. “So we start in Odaiba for the Gundam. Then Harajuku—shopping, obviously—then Meiji Shrine for culture, then thrifting at Shimokitazawa. After that, Shinjuku. I wanna see the Godzilla head and the 3-D cat. Maybe dinner at Ichiran? And if you’re still up for it—Yokohama Bay.”
Sam hums noncommittally, muttering, “Dude, that’s not even Tokyo,” as he sets the second cup down in front of Bucky.
“Latte Valencia. Oat milk,” he says. “You’re welcome.”
Bucky eyes it, betrayed. “Grass milk?”
“Because you’re lactose intolerant, duh,” Sam says easily, dropping into his chair. “And I’m not dealing with your gut flora, or lack thereof after the capsule incident.”
He smirks.
Bucky scowls on principle, then takes the cup anyway, wrapping both hands around it like it might escape. He takes a sip.
“…It’s good,” he mutters, faintly annoyed that it is.
Sam grins into his cappuccino.
Joaquín finally takes a gulp of his and exhales like a man powering up. “See? Full bars. We gotta go. We’re wasting precious daylight.”
Sam rolls his eyes and leans back in his chair. “You ever been to Akihabara?”
Joaquín blinks. “Isn’t that the anime district?”
“Among other things,” Sam says. “Arcades. Electronics. Gachapon.”
“Gacha-what?”
Bucky looks up from his latte, staring at the middle distance. “Machines,” he explains. “You put coins in. You turn a knob. You get a tiny plastic thing you didn’t really need.”
Joaquín’s eyes light up. “That sounds absolutely amazing!”
“It’s like catching Pokémon,” Bucky adds. “But every throw costs money. And disappointment. Duplicates. Quadruplicates. It’s like gambling. But with eggs.” He lifts his latte. “You wouldn’t want to go there.”
Joaquín is already nodding, pulling up Google Maps. “Say no more. I’m all in.”
He looks at them. “You guys coming?”
Sam doesn’t even hesitate. “Oh, hell no. I have a torn meniscus and it’s your fault.”
Joaquín squints at him. “My fault?”
“You made us walk all over Tokyo all-day yesterday. Then you booked us one capsule. Best day of our lives,” Sam says flatly.
“That’s fair,” Joaquín concedes, already zooming in on a train route. “You guys aren’t fun after ten a.m. anyway.”
He’s on his feet in seconds, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Text me if you change your minds!”
“Not gonna happen,” Sam says, not even looking up.
The bell over the door jingles as Joaquín rushes out, already absorbed in directions and imaginary prizes—miniature bacons, Shiba Inu salarymen, octopuses with shoes.
The café quiets in his absence.
Sam exhales slowly, pleased. Bucky’s shoulders drop in tandem, unspoken relief settling between them.
They sit for a moment in comfortable silence, steam curling up from their cups.
“You didn’t sleep great,” Sam says eventually, gentle. Not accusing.
Bucky stiffens just a little. “I slept.”
“Mmm,” Sam says. “You were on your phone.”
Bucky shrugs. “I was just… looking.”
Sam looks at him, waiting.
“Our pictures,” Bucky admits. “At Sensō‑ji. At the fish market. And the one with the Hachikō statue.” He looks at his coffee, suddenly shy. “You looked happy.”
Sam’s mouth curves before he can stop it. A small smile. Soft.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I was.”
Bucky nods, satisfied, and takes another sip of his latte.
Outside, Tokyo moves on. Inside, for once, they don’t have to.