Chapter Text
*****
SAM
“You want to get dinner?” asked Bucky.
Like he was asking about the weather. Like he was asking for a piece of gum. And it felt normal. A strangely average thing to ask as they were stripping down in the locker room in the quinjet. Sam placed his jetpack down as he glanced over at Bucky, who was currently starting the complicated process of taking off his boots.
“I’m down for dinner,” Joaquín announced through his fresh t-shirt, his head springing free and reminding Sam that Joaquín was also there.
“I didn’t ask you out,” grumbled Bucky as Sam watched Joaquín whine nonsensical noises at Bucky.
“It’s okay, I’ll tell you what dinner’s like, Jay,” said Monica, grinning as she stuffed her uniform in a laundry bag.
Right. Monica was here too.
“I didn’t ask you either,” huffed Bucky, “I just asked Sam.”
Monica booed. Joaquín joined her in her disappointment, booing as well. Sam snickered as he watched Bucky pop his sleeves off like he was Magic Mike.
“What?” asked Bucky, smiling Sam’s way.
“The sleeves,” giggled Sam, “Was that necessary?”
“What? Do you have notes on how I should strip?” asked Bucky lowly, stepping into Sam’s personal space and when had Bucky gotten so close?
“Are you going to pull off your pants to reveal a thong too?” asked Sam, watching Bucky break and laugh with Sam.
And it was them.
Laughing there.
Until Joaquín sneezed. Sam turned to him, Joaquín making a regretful face, as if he were interrupting something.
Had he been?
Sam didn’t really think much about it, not when he felt the wind of Bucky moving away from his personal space.
“Maybe next time there’ll be more than a gun show,” said Bucky as he revealed some pretty basic boxers.
Just.
Boxers.
When had Bucky taken off his whole jacket?
Why didn’t he have a shirt under the jacket?
“You know, you’re supposed to wear an undershirt or something so that your outerwear doesn’t soak up your sweat,” said Sam without thinking.
Was Bucky staring at him?
What was Bucky staring at?
Sam really needed to put his shirt on, didn’t he?
“Huh. That makes sense,” said the shirtless abs before Sam, “I’ll remember that.”
Oh, hey, there was a shirt now. Sam forced himself to turn his gaze back up to Bucky’s eyes, which seemed to be a bad idea too because, wow, why were those eyes always so intense?
“So?” asked Bucky, and was his voice shaking?
Was Bucky swallowing hard?
“So, what?” breathed Sam, a little lost himself.
What had they been talking about?
“Dinner?” asked Bucky as his voice broke.
“Yeah,” said Sam, nodding, because, right, dinner, “I’ll get dinner with you.”
Bucky smiled.
“Right. Um. Aces,” said Bucky, awkwardly giving Sam finger guns, “We’ll get dinner later, then.”
Bucky then tripped over the laundry bin as he walked backward out of the room. Then noticed belatedly that the doors were still pull, not push.
Sam snickered.
What a weirdo.
“Looks like Sam has a date,” singsonged Monica as she clapped Sam’s shoulder.
“What?” said Sam, a little confused, “No. It’s just dinner. I get dinner with Bucky all the time.”
They did. It made sense. They both lived in Sarah’s house. Everyone else lived in other parts of the United States. Sometimes it was too late for them to get dinner at home without waking everyone up, so they would get dinner before heading home.
It just made sense.
“Oh. So, you’ve been dating Bucky,” said Monica with a knowing nod, “Okay.”
What.
“Okay?” said Joaquín, offended, “Not okay – Sam, why didn’t you tell me? I get why you didn’t tell Monica, but why didn’t you tell me?”
No.
“You get why he didn’t tell me?” asked Monica, offended too, “I’ve known Sam longer, kid. My mom Maria was the one who inspired Sam to become a pilot. Well. Before he decided to put on a jetpack.”
That wasn’t.
“But he’s my mentor. The mentor-mentee relationship is sacred,” explained Joaquín, “Secrets are told in the dark of the night.”
That couldn’t be what Sam and Bucky looked like to other people.
“Why are you so weird?” asked Monica.
That wasn’t what people saw.
“Why are you questioning the bonds brothers form in the dark of the night?” asked Joaquín.
Was it?
“Wait, are y’all having sleepovers without me?” asked Monica, narrowing her eyes at Joaquín.
“Stop. No. Um,” Sam started, their attention turning back to Sam, “We’re not like that.”
“You’re not having sleepovers without me?” asked Monica as she raised an eyebrow.
“What? No – Bucky and I. We’re just friends,” said Sam, much too flustered, “It’s a friend dinner. With a friend.”
There was a look between Monica and Joaquín which felt off. Like they didn’t trust Sam’s words. Like they knew something Sam didn’t.
“Oh,” said Joaquín, turning to Sam with a smile, “Oh, really? Just friends?”
“Yeah. Friends. Bucky was a dick for a while, yeah, but he worked on himself. He did the work,” said Sam, remembering the last year where Bucky proved time and time again that he had Sam’s back; that he wasn’t leaving Sam; that he was more understanding of Sam and made Sam understand that his feelings mattered to Bucky, “He’s my friend.”
It sucked when Bucky wasn’t his friend. When he had ignored Sam. When he had made Sam feel as if none of his opinions mattered, that some chunk of metal was more important than Sam. And even now, all of this was so fragile. Sam was scared to fully trust Bucky again.
How could Sam not be?
After half a year of ghosting and a rage machine replacing the man who was trying to find some peace, who cared about Sam – how could Sam not be skeptical that this Bucky could be there for Sam when Sam needed him? That they could be friends again?
It was tentative. It was so thin, it was gossamer.
But it was hope.
It was a reluctant want to have that friendship that once was. Not that what Bucky had done had been forgotten nor forgiven, but that they could live with that as part of their past with Bucky proving he would be better.
Sam wanted that. And he was sure Bucky wanted that too.
“Okay,” said Monica softly, “It’s a friend dinner. Got it.”
Sam wasn’t sure why she said that so softly, nor was he sure what it meant that Joaquín nor Monica asked nothing else on the subject. Sam was fine with that, though. He was okay with just looking forward to dinner.
*****
“Oh,” said Bucky.
Sam, stopping at the red light, glanced over at Bucky.
Bucky was relaxed; slouched in shotgun of Sam’s car as he checked his texts. Even with Sam’s truck stopped, the wind coming through both of their windows in lieu of a broken air conditioner made the hair Bucky had grown back wave messily around him.
“What?” asked Sam curiously.
Bucky opened his mouth. Sam snickered as he watched Bucky spit hair out. Pulled his hair into a ponytail in a fit of grumbles.
“Don’t say a word,” said Bucky, his eyes intense.
Like a mopey cat.
“Okay,” said Sam, unable to stop himself from at least smiling, “What is it?”
“Sarah and the boys are still on that boy’s scout camping trip,” said Bucky, “Looks like we’ll have the house to ourselves.”
Oh.
“To ourselves, huh?” said Sam, not sure why his heart started picking up the pace at that thought.
Sam felt some relief when he noticed the green light. He turned his attention back to the road.
“Yup. Want me to make some dinner at home tonight?” asked Bucky.
And Sam wanted to say yes. But what he said was, “Are you sure? That’s a lot of work.”
“You’re never home on time for a homecooked meal. You either eat out or heat something up. Let me do this. Let me make you dinner,” said Bucky, and it was everything.
Something about his tone, about knowing Bucky’s hair was still blowing everywhere despite Bucky’s best efforts, about how “That’s the Way Love Is” by Marvin Gaye from Sam’s What’s Going On Live CD crooned slowly in the background.
It was everything.
How could Sam do anything but breathe, “Okay.”
And Sam could hear him. Hear Bucky humming to the song, probably thinking about what he could make for Sam. And Sam did his best to not think of that at all. No. Sam had backroads to drive down. Sam focused on the autopilot of the long and winding roads until he brought them to Delacroix, parked them in Sarah’s driveway.
“You okay?”
Sam blinked away whatever that was. He turned to Bucky.
And cackled.
“Your hair,” wheezed Sam, gazing upon the immensity of the rat’s nest before him.
Bucky glowered.
“Forget I asked,” said Bucky as he stomped out of the truck.
“No, no, but are you okay?” asked Sam as he followed Bucky to the door, “I’d ask you where the wind hurt you, but I can see it.”
“Gee, thanks,” said Bucky as he opened the door like a gentleman for Sam, “Truly. Keen fella behavior.”
“Oh, like you don’t make fun of me ever,” said Sam as they found their way through the house.
It was an organized mess.
It had always been on, ever since Sam was a child. Judging from the photos of his own mother’s childhood, it had been an organized mess before as well.
It was little things. Beautiful, fragile knickknacks soaked in importance and life.
Old art and designs of fishing techniques; nets collected by Sam’s grandfather and mom found homes on the hall walls. Old fishing nets draped behind the framed hypothetical techniques that were intermixed with photos from the triumphant beginnings of Wilson Family Seafood to where it was today, still small, but highly respected in the greater New Orleans area.
There were brief glimpses of all of their lives.
There was a shoe rack; filled with rain boots and running shoes and several pairs of sandals despite most of them never wearing sandals unless they were going to the beach. Sam and Bucky placed their own shoes there before walking deeper into the house.
And next to that, were gym bags on the ground – ones placed by Sam and Bucky at that moment. Their laundry would be done later. Food first. Their bags were placed next to the soccer ball AJ and Cass played with mostly during the weekends with kids in the neighborhood.
There was the half-finished robot arm for Cass’ robotics team sitting in the dining room. Next to it was Sarah’s paperwork, collected by month and in bulging folders due to be placed in the filing cabinet upstairs in Sarah’s room. On the far side of the dining table, was AJ’s heavily highlighted Hedda Gabler by Henrik Ibsen, the inappropriate choice for the spring play, left there after a particularly long memorization session as he tried to wrap his mind around his role as Jürgen Tesman.
The kitchen always felt like an instant shot of nostalgia and serotonin. It was joy and love wrapped in a semi-small space with equipment that probably needed replacing. All of the house was Sam’s house, much like it was Sarah’s, but this kitchen was home. It was where Sam’s first memory lived; where he was bounced on Darlene Wilson’s hip as she hummed and sang along to “Bridge Over Troubled Water” by Aretha Franklin as she tended to a simmering bouillabaisse, the smell of the ocean transformed into a dish filling the air.
It still felt like his mom was there. Her spice rack was mostly organized how she had it. The tile splash she had poorly chosen in the nineties still displayed a black and white checkered pattern across the back of the kitchen counter. Her pots and pans were all still there, quality copper pieces. It always felt as if at any moment, she would walk into that kitchen; talking with his daddy about new dishes they should try out for their menu this week.
But they wouldn’t.
And while Sam wasn’t sure if he would ever be okay about that, he had at least acknowledged and lived with that reality.
Bucky wandered to the fridge, scanning what he had to work with for dinner.
“Would you be good with something breakfast-y? I need to go grocery shopping tomorrow,” said Bucky, glowering at the contents remaining in the fridge.
“It can’t be that bad,” yawned Sam as the exhaustion from the mission finally hit him – how had he stayed up for forty-nine without feeling it up until now?
How had Sam driven them back home?
“Whoa, there,” whispered Bucky, low and a little distracting and Sam could feel Bucky’s hand on his hip; loose yet firm.
When had Sam started leaning on Bucky?
Bucky was always a little warmer than most people, as if he had a fever. Bucky had explained that he just ran hotter after he was given the serum. Close like this, Sam could feel that heat radiating off Bucky. He could feel Bucky’s breathing; deep and steady and a comfort. If Sam focused, he could feel Bucky’s heartbeat; quicker than an average heart rate, much like his body temperature.
“What about you take a nap while I get this ready?” asked Bucky and Sam knew they were walking over to the couch.
Sam knew it was probably not a great idea to fall asleep now. Taking a nap around five at night wasn’t going to help his circadian rhythm get back on track. But Sam’s body wasn’t going to listen to any of the logic Sam’s mind had, and just grumbled a bit as Bucky helped him onto the couch.
“I’ll wake you up when it’s ready,” whispered Bucky as Sam felt Bucky drape a few throw blankets onto Sam.
Sam hummed at that. He heard the creaks of Bucky walking back to the kitchen. Sam found himself drifting to sleep to the sound of sizzling and Aretha Franklin singing “Bridge Over Troubled Water” in the kitchen.
*****
Candles.
There were.
There were candles on the coffee table.
Lit candles.
And Bucky must have noticed that Sam was staring at them, because Bucky then said, “You’d been sleeping. I. Um. I thought candlelight would be easier on your eyes.”
Which didn’t quite explain the flowers in the vase. Bright orange Butterfly Weed and vibrantly purple Mealy Cup sage and soft white Evening Rain lilies all collected in a vase next to the candles.
Sam vaguely remembered the vase from when Cass was unfortunately in a ceramics class for a semester, and the pieces he had made were tragic. Well-loved by the Wilson family, of course, no matter how terrible the pieces he made were, but tragic. This vase was no different. Designed to look like Sam in his Captain America costume, it came out more like a humanoid blob with blobby sort of wings.
Where had Bucky gotten the flowers?
Where had Bucky found the vase?
And as if sensing those other questions, a Bucky with a growing blush said, “Carlos and Tommy came by when you were sleeping with a bouquet from their garden. I thought it was pretty, so I just… I’ve helped Sarah find vases before for their bouquets, so I brought out my favorite one.”
Sam laughed.
“Your favorite’s this one?” asked Sam bewilderingly.
Bucky shrugged sheepishly.
“I like Cass’ work,” Bucky said honestly, “I like that he liked art too. It was fun when we got talking about ceramics together. And it’s. Um. You. Which. I think is. Cute.”
Oh wow, Bucky was red now.
Wait, was this a date?
Nope. Just a. Candlelit Dinner of Friendship.
With a vase that sort of looked like Sam that was filled with flowers.
Yeah.
It was that.
Just a friend dinner.
With Candles.
And flowers.
Definitely a friend dinner.
Sam tried not to think of that intrusive question as he turned his gaze down to the food. Sam grinned as he pushed aside the nerves that came from that thought and focused on what Bucky made for him.
Pancakes.
It was just blueberry pancakes with sausage patties.
“This looks delicious. Thanks, Buck,” said Sam as he grabbed his fork and knife.
“It’s really nothing. I just sort of put it all together,” mumbled Bucky, already stuffing his face with the food.
As if to stop himself from saying too much.
“No, this is perfect,” said Sam without thinking, “Really.”
Sam’s eyes locked with Bucky’s. God. Those eyes were intense. They had to be searching for something from Sam, right? Peering into Sam’s soul. Trying to figure out what Sam meant by that. What any of this meant.
Was this a date?
Sam turned his gaze away from Bucky’s, hoping Bucky didn’t see that question in Sam’s eyes. Sam stuffed his own mouth with blueberry pancakes and sausage patties. Probably to stop that intrusive thought from becoming an actual question spoken aloud. Sam didn’t think about the candlelight. He didn’t think about the flowers. He didn’t think about Bucky eating with him in such an intimate setting. Sam just focused on his breakfast for dinner.