boy sees a face in a history book, spends years sketching it, then meets the man in real life—turns out, some crushes time can’t kill. (SAMBUCKY)
FRESHMAN YEAR - 1991
Sam Wilson bit his fingertips.
Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to feel something—anything—other than the slow crawl of boredom inching across his history classroom. The textbook in front of him smelled like mildew and old hands, its spine cracked and pages soft at the edges like they’d been thumbed through by generations of teenagers just as disinterested as he was.
He rubbed his fingers on a worn ‘hi’ on the page. His clumsy handwriting was beside it as if he was speaking to the person in the past. A stupid impulse, sure, but it made history feel less like a lecture and more like a conversation - one only he knew he was having.
His dad would tell him to get out more. Get more friends.
Mr. Denton droned on about the Allies, the Axis, and victory gardens. Sam was barely listening - his eyes dancing against the ceiling tiles as the sound of the clock trailed on into the background. Someone in the back tapped a pen against their desk. A girl chewed gum too loud. The air was thick with dust and spring humidity, and Sam felt like he was sinking into it.
“Our last topic before the bell,” Mr. Benton pulled back his sleeve and looked down at his watch. A second passed. “The Howling Commandos.”
Something about the name made Sam sit up a little. Not much. Just enough for his eyes to drift back to the book in front of him. Mr. Denton clicked to the next slide on the overhead projector, but Sam was already there.
He knew where he was.
Page 142.
The grainy photo was there waiting for him - just like it always was. Six soldiers. One on a tank, one holding a gun, one barely in the photo at all, and him - James Buchanan Barnes. His name was displayed beneath the image with the rest of them like it was normal. Like he was just another bullet point in history.
But Sam knew better.
There was something about the way Bucky stood, slightly apart from the others. Like the war hadn’t dulled him yet. Like he knew something no one else did, and it was worth holding onto. That smile wasn’t for the camera. No. This was his to keep. His secret.
Sam traced his thumb along the corner of the page, careful not to smudge the fading ‘hi’ in the margin.
JUNIOR YEAR - 1993
Sam fell into a habit that year. Checking the book out every few months, look for the picture. Return it with a sharp feeling in his chest. Different copies, same photo. Sometimes, the order would be torn. Sometimes, someone else had crossed out parts of the caption - a close friend of Captain America, Winter campaign, presumed dead. But the photo never changed. Bucky never stopped smiling.
He searched for him on the web. Came across the basics: Bucky Barnes. Born 1917. Died 1945. Medal of Honor. A close friend of Captain America.
Sam didn’t care much about Captain America.
He traced the pages with his eyes, so much so that he could make out his face in his sleep. He was scared to be so interested in a photo - a man, but he filled sketchbooks of his face. What he thought he looked like when he threw his head back in laughter, how his eyes would catch the sun if Sam had complimented him. He was losing his mind.
He didn’t tell anyone. Not Riley, not his sister, definitely not his dad. It wasn’t about the photo anymore. It was about how that face stayed with him long after the page was closed.
It made Sam realize things about himself. Quiet, sharp things.
SENIOR YEAR - 1995
Sam had his first kiss at a party that spring. It was fine. She was nice. But he felt nothing.
There were too many people around them - laughing too loud, tripping over beer cans, music pulsing through the walls like his heartbeat. The girl - Molly? Maya? - smelled like rum-flavored lip gloss and cheap perfume, and smiled like she already knew he wasn’t into her.
Afterward, they found a quiet spot outside, looking into the distance of the universe. She patted his shoulder, “You’re sweet, Sam.”
He smiled back because that’s what you’re supposed to do.
“I’m sure some guy out there is going to enjoy how sweet you are.”
He goes to disagree with her claim, but she is already turning on her heels to go back into the party. He stood up straight, calling after her, “I’ll write you. Tell you all my war stories.”
“I won’t wait forever for you, Wilson.” She was gone.
He didn’t write her at all.
Later that night, while his friends stayed behind to finish drinks and swap dares, he walked home alone to pack for the army. The cold air hit his face, sharp and honest in a way that the party hadn’t been.
His boots crunched against gravel and broken glass, and the night smelled like wet asphalt and woodsmoke. Somewhere, a dog barked. Somewhere else, a siren wailed. But the silence between those sounds felt full—like something just out of reach.
His leaving wasn’t an act of patriotism. It wasn’t even about a future. It was him getting out. Out of the neighborhood he was made to love, out of his head, out of the damn photograph he was never in.
He told the recruiter he wanted to fly.
And he will.
That night, when his bag was half packed and his mother had spent her tears, he lulled the sketchbook out from under his bed. Flip to the last page. His most recent drawing. Bucky, drawn softer. Older.
“I’ll write you,” He whispered, voice catching the edge of nothing short of hope and pain.
WASHINGTON D.C. - 2014
Sam stared.
He could have said something. Could’ve moved, reacted, breathed. Yet, his body disagreed with all those actions.
Not a half-imagined softness buried in graphite and nostalgia.
Not the blurry black-and-white photograph pressed between textbook pages or the one Sam had secretly printed out and folded into the back of his sketchbook—creased from years of handling, hidden in a shoebox buried deep in his closet back in Louisiana.
Real.
Breathing.
Bleeding.
Bruised.
His hair is longer now, darker too. Face leaner, jaw sharper, eyes blown wide with something Sam didn’t have the language for—fear, maybe. Disorientation. Guilt. None of that mattered. Because the moment felt still like the world had folded inward like everything else had quieted down just so this could happen.
Sam’s hands twitched at his sides. He had to clench them into fists before he did something stupid—like reach out and touch the man. Just to feel the heat of him. To know he wasn’t made of ink and paper and dream.
“You okay?” Steve eyed him, sensing something underneath the surface.
Sam didn’t look at him. “Yeah.”
One word. Flat. Sharp. A lie.
Steve turned, stepped closer to Bucky, and said one thing Sam couldn’t hear. Bucky didn’t answer, just a twitch of his jaw, and looked past him like the room was too loud.
Sam’s throat tightened. He wasn’t owed anything, but there was something he craved at this moment. An introduction? A handshake? A moment where Bucky looked at him and knew something? That this wasn’t the first time Sam had met him?
“So, this is him,” Sam muttered, his voice low, a little bitter. His eyes traced the angles of Bucky’s face—the same face he’d drawn a hundred different ways.
Steve turned, watching him. “Yeah. Bucky.”
“Huh,” Sam replied like the name meant nothing. Like it hadn’t been haunting him for a decade. You were my first sketch. My first secret. My first maybe.
But he said nothing.
Bucky didn’t look at him at all.
DELACROIX - 2026
The years, though terrible in their own right, had been kind to Sam.
To Bucky too.
Kind, not in the way of soft days or easy nights - it is in the way scars fade and breath returns. In this way, silence between people becomes comforting instead of loaded.
Sam carried the shield now. Not a burden, but like a truth. It fit against his back like it belonged there. Because it does. Bucky - well, Bucky didn’t flinch as much anymore. He didn’t wake up swinging. He didn’t leave in the middle of the night. He didn’t run. Ate full meals. Let sunlight hit his face.
In those moments, Sam gladly picked up a phone, promising to sketch the photo later, yet he never did.
Tonight was different.
“How was Brooklyn?” Bucky asked from the living room. Sam was barely in the house before Bucky’s voice invaded him. He had no problem with this. It filled the space like music.
Then, he heard it - pages flipping.
Soft.
Measured.
Sam’s breath caught in his chest as he stepped in and found Bucky there, seated on the edge of the couch, elbow on his knees. The light from the lamp beside him cast long shadows, turning the edges of his metal arm to gold. In his lap, one of Sam’s older sketchbooks was cracked open. Three others lay beside him in a neat stack, the old leather covers worn at the corners. He had not seen them in years. Buried them away with everything else.
Bucky didn’t look up, “Brooklyn? How was it?”
“What are you doing?”
Sam’s voice came out sharper than he meant.
Bucky blinked, head snapping up. “I was cleaning…” He straightened, closing the sketchbook gently like it was something sacred. “Came across them in your closet. I didn’t know…” He trailed.
Sam stood frozen in the doorway, chest tight.
“They’re private.”
“I know.” Bucky’s voice went low. Honest. “I’m sorry, Sammie.”
That nickname, usually thrown with a smirk or a nudge, landed softer this time—tentative, almost apologetic. Sam swallowed.
He looked at the books like they were open wounds. Fragile things, stitched together with pencil smudges and secrets he’d never planned to share. They were full of moments he’d never spoken aloud. Quiet hours spent alone in his bedroom, sketching a man he thought he’d never meet, chasing shadows of a long-dead soldier in the curves of graphite.
He’d never even let his sister see them. Riley had asked once, curious about the way Sam disappeared into his notebooks after school, but Sam brushed it off with a shrug and a joke. He could handle teasing. What he couldn’t handle was someone knowing. Knowing.
But Bucky wasn’t rifling through them like a thief. He wasn’t smirking or teasing. He held them like they meant something—like they were delicate, sacred. Like they were glimpses into something he didn’t want to damage.
“Some of these are dated, Sam,” Bucky said after a moment, glancing back down at the closed sketchbook in his hands. “The earliest one says 2009.”
Sam didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
He could feel the blood in his ears.
“You drew me.”
It wasn’t a question.
Bucky looked up, eyes searching Sam’s face like he was trying to read the years between the lines. And there was no judgment in them. Just a deep, aching curiosity. The kind that tugged at the edge of something fragile.
Sam opened his mouth. Closed it again.
He didn’t know how to explain it. He used to sit up late at night trying to figure out how someone could look both tragic and full of life in the same black-and-white photo. That he sketched Bucky’s face so many times it felt like muscle memory. That there were nights he pressed pencil to paper and imagined what it might be like if that face turned toward him, smiled, and said his name.
Instead, he said, quietly, “You weren’t supposed to be real.”
“But I am,” Bucky half smiled, “At least, you believed so.” He gestured to the books. The silence between them stretched - not heavy, but thick. Full of the weight of history, time, and all things they’d both buried in pages of memories.
Sam walked to the couch, settling beside him. His head rolled back and he let his eyes fall to the ceiling. Suddenly, he was back in Mr. Benton’s room, seeing Bucky for the first time. “I had the fattest crush on you. A little obsessed if you couldn’t tell.”
Bucky huffed out a quiet laugh, something disbelieving and almost shy. He looked down at the books in his lap, fingers brushing the edge of a page like it might burn him. “Yeah,” He said, “I figured that part out.”
Sam turned his head, eyeing him completely, “I don’t know why. I just fell for your…everything.”
Bucky didn’t speak at first. His thumb paused at the edge of a sketch—one where Sam had drawn him laughing, head thrown back, eyes crinkled, alive in a way Bucky had been with Sam.
“I wasn’t real,” Bucky murmured, eyes still on the paper. “Not to me. Not for a long time.”
“You were to me,” Sam said, voice low. “You were… comfort. You were a possibility. Back when I didn’t have words for any of it. I was just falling to fall.”
Bucky looked at him then, really looked—like he was seeing something fragile and sacred at the same time. “You ever tell anyone?”
Sam gave a small, bitter smile. “Nah. Just you. Just now.”
The quiet stretched between them again, but it held more truth than tension this time. Bucky’s hand moved carefully, closing the book and setting it aside, like he knew this moment wasn’t about what was on the pages—but what had finally been spoken aloud.
He leaned back, letting his shoulder press against Sam’s. Not by accident.
“You still fallin’?” he asked, gently.
Sam’s lips twitched. “Maybe.”
Bucky nodded once, gazing back on the ceiling like he was holding it all in place. “Okay,” he said. “Then I won’t move.” Bucky’s words hung in the air like a promise. “Then I won’t move.”
Sam let the silence breathe. He thought about what it meant to fall for someone who was never supposed to exist, to live with that quiet yearning tucked into the corner of his ribs for years, pressed between the pages of old sketchbooks and buried under the weight of duty and doubt.
He let his head tilt, resting lightly against Bucky’s.
“You were always on page 142, you know?” Sam asked suddenly, voice like a whisper across a memory.
Bucky turned just enough to glance at him. “The one in the history book?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. That’s where it started. You were standing with the Commandos. Dirty, cocky smirk. Thought you were the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.”
Bucky smiled, soft and wrecked at the edges. “That’s the one where I’ve got a cut above my eye. Steve said I looked like I got hit by a train.”
“You looked like you belonged to time,” Sam said. “Like history hadn’t swallowed you whole yet.”
Bucky exhaled slowly. “And you gave that version of me a second life.”
“I guess I did,” Sam said, voice almost breaking into a laugh. “And now you’re here. Sitting on my couch. Breathing my air.”
“Not moving,” Bucky added.
Bucky sat in the quiet with Sam’s shoulder still resting lightly against his own. The weight of what had just been said lingered in the room like smoke—thick with memory, fragile with truth.
His eyes drifted down again to the sketchbook nearest him, fingers brushing over the edge like it might dissolve. These pages were holy in a way—worn with time, heavy with feeling. A boy’s past. A man’s quiet becoming.
Bucky reached for the pen on the coffee table. It was cheap, half-chewed, the kind Sam always left lying around. Without asking, he flipped to the last page in the sketchbook. The only blank one.
Sam watched him, brows slightly drawn. “What are you doing?”
Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand moved in slow strokes, quick flicks of the wrist. Nothing grand. Nothing perfect.
Just a stick figure.
Sloppy curls on the head.
A lopsided smile.
A circular shield—cartoonishly big—strapped to the figure’s back.
Bucky leaned back and turned the book slightly toward Sam with a small, crooked grin. “There. Now, you’re in your sketchbook too.”
Sam blinked at the page, a surprised laugh catching in his throat. “That’s supposed to be me?”
“Obviously. The shield gives it away.” Bucky pointed at the squiggly lines like it was indisputable evidence. “Strong stance. Confident tilt of the head. Artistic accuracy.”
Sam shook his head, still smiling. “You can’t draw for shit.”
“Neither can you,” Bucky said, quieter now, the grin fading into something steadier. “Sam.”
Sam looked down at the page, then over at Bucky. The history they carried—the weight of it—suddenly didn’t feel so heavy. Not with this between them. Not with a badly drawn stick figure sealing something in ink that neither of them had ever really said aloud.
“You know,” Sam said after a beat, “That’s going on the fridge.”
“I’d be insulted if it didn’t.”
And for the first time since page 142, Sam didn’t feel like he was reaching back through time to find something lost. He was here. So was Bucky. And they were real.
Sam W. x Bucky B. AU: where Sam is a cafe owner in Delacroix and a new mechanic, Bucky, blows into town.
For the first time that summer, it rained. And not just a gentle drizzle, but a full-on downpour. The sky hung low and gray, and the air was thick and muggy as if you had been standing under a dense canopy for hours. The scent of wet earth and damp trees filled the air, with water still dripping from the branches, making the humidity cling to your skin.
For Sam Wilson, the rain signaled a slow day at the shop, but it hardly deterred him. There were plenty of tasks awaiting his attention in the back. One project, in particular, caught his eye: the small battery-powered car he had promised to fix for his nephews, AJ and Cass. It had been months since he made that promise, and today, with the rain pouring down outside, he finally had the time.
For AJ and Cass, the rain meant a monotonous day at the shop, confined to their uncle’s watchful gaze.
As Sam tinkered with his toolbox, occasionally glancing at the shop’s door in anticipation of the bell's chime, he decided to focus on the car. He would look over at his nephews now and then, catching their admiring gazes before they quickly returned to their homework, pretending to be studious. Sam chuckled softly.
The rain drummed on the roof, creating a steady, soothing rhythm. Sam glanced out the window, watching the heavy drops splatter against the road, turning it into a shimmering, reflective surface. A few cars braved the weather, but most remained parked under the awning across the street, seeking shelter from the deluge. Sam flipped on the coffee machine and lit a fire for the boys to keep them warm.
After dusting off his hands, Sam stretched and groaned, then turned to his nephews. "Grilled cheese and soup?" he asked. Both boys perked up instantly. Sam smiled down at them, his grin widening as he led them to the kitchen, memories of his childhood flooding back.
Sam had been around 15 when his father owned the café. He spent countless afternoons and weekends there, working alongside his dad. He'd wander the kitchen with a grilled cheese sandwich in one hand and a hammer in the other. While his father managed the café, Sam busied himself in the back, fixing anything he could get his hands on. That same passion still drives him today, and he often felt his father's guiding hand on his shoulder whenever he cooked or repaired something.
Now, those days are just lingering in the back of his mind. But, they aren't forgotten. Not by a long shot.
"Mom is cooking fish tonight if you want to come over," AJ stated as he pulled bread from a cabinet. Sarah had mentioned it when she dropped the boys off, but Sam told her no. He figured he would be too tired from work today, but the storm came. He shrugged, "I don't know, buddy. How about I come over tomorrow?" AJ frowned, and Sam added, "Plus, tomorrow is the big game. Saints versus Cowboys. Don't we have a bet going on?" AJ brightened considerably at this prospect, "Don't you mean the bet that you're going to lose."
Sam rolled his eyes affectionately. After minutes, the food was ready, and the boys were back in their original seats. They ate in companionable silence while their uncle fiddled with his tools.
Then, the door of the shop was pushed open. The sound drew Sam's attention away from the engine in front of him, and he looked up to see a soaking wet man walking through the door. His clothes clung to his body, and his hair clung to his forehead, sticking straight up like porcupine quills. He looked miserable. Sam almost laughed.
Almost.
He had seen more than his fair share of grumpy customers - ones that didn’t take nicely to his jokes or helping hands. So, instead of asking how the weather was, he asked, “Welcome to the Wilson’s Café.” Sam stood again, his bones growing tired. “Looks like you need help.”
The stranger looked upwards - his eyes matching the clouds of the storm. Rainwater trickled down his sharp features, clinging to his long, dark hair that hung in wet strands around his face. His leather jacket, soaked through, clung to his broad shoulders, giving him a rugged, almost forlorn appearance. As he stepped into the warmth of the cafe, water dripped from his jeans and boots, pooling slightly on the floor. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, attempting to push it back but only managing to slick it further. Despite his bedraggled state, there was a quiet intensity in his steel-blue eyes that captured Sam's attention from behind the table.
"Um," His voice matched everything about him, "Just needed to come in from the rain."
Sam nodded, "You got it," he replied. He gestured to a nearby stool that was stationed by the fireplace, "Would you like some tea? It's very hot." The man eyed the stool warily. Sam added, "First drink on the house."
"You're lucky. We never get our drinks on the house." Cass threw the statement to the stranger, which made Sam roll his eyes. "How do you like your tea?" he asked pointedly. The stranger glanced up at the menu that hung over Sam's head. His eyes shifted left to right before looking back at Sam. "Earl Grey. Medium sugar. Thanks."
The man was short with Sam, which made him push his eyebrows together in confusion. He was new here definitely, he thought to himself. New to the area, anyway. Sam fixed the tea with ease - an order he frequently made for himself on days like this. Then, he marched the warm cup to the man with a leftover grilled cheese.
"On the house too." Sam mumbled. The man grunted and took the mug wordlessly, holding it close to his chest. "Thanks."
Sam returned to his work as the boys focused less on their food and homework and more on the silent stranger who was staring into the fire. Sam would occasionally make a face at the boys which would cause them to turn away but never for too long. As the silence grew so did his frustration with the engine of the small car.
"So, why do you look like that?" AJ asked.
"AJ!" Sam called out. When AJ merely raised his eyebrows innocently, Sam shook his head and sighed. "It's rude to ask strangers stuff like that."
AJ nodded seriously in agreement. "Sorry, sir."
Sam sighed and shook his head, "Okay, you know the drill. Dishes in the sink, and head upstairs," He helped them place their things into a backpack, "No fighting. No biting, and no,"
"Crying." The boys finished in unison. Sam only nodded and patted them on their heads. After they left the room, Sam fixed himself a cup of coffee and headed to the man. "I apologize my nephews. They kind of just speak their minds whenever they want."
The man nodded silently. His eyes trailed over the tools littering the floor with the car - the hammer, the wrench, the pliers. His head nodded to them, "You fix toys?"
Sam shook his head, "Not usually, but I made that thing for the boys, and it doesn't work." He pointed to the engine. "I tried everything that I can think of, but nothing seems to be able to work. And my nephews are getting restless just spending their evenings on homework," he joked, trying to make light of the situation. The man smiled wryly and Sam wondered what had caused such a sour expression. "What makes it tick?" The man asked.
"The engine's busted. Doesn't turn on."
He hummed, then, he stood from the stool. "May I?" He asked, picking up a tool.
Sam was his opportunity. "I usually don't let people touch my tools unless I get their name." The man raised his eyebrows as he began to unscrew the panel covering the engine compartment, revealing the wiring beneath. "It's James," he began, a sly smile playing upon his lips, "But, everyone calls me Bucky." Sam watched as the man slid his fingers inside the wires - his interest peaked by the minute.
"I'm Sam."
Bucky looked up. "It's nice to meet you, Sam." He said sincerely, his voice echoing throughout the cafe. Once the last of the wires was removed, Bucky settled to the floor. His dark blue eyes met Sam's brown ones. "You can ask me."
He had read Sam's face; and saw that he wanted to know more about this stranger who blew into the cafe and started fixing the engine on a fake car. Sam nodded and leaned against the counter. "It's not often we get newcomers. Are you new in town or just passing through?" He asked, curious but cautious nonetheless. He was known to pry too much too soon. So, he kept his distance and just tried to make small talk.
"Not sure yet."
Sam watched as Bucky worked, his deft fingers maneuvering through the tangled wires with ease. It was clear that Bucky had experience with mechanical work, his movements precise and confident. The rain continued to beat against the windows, a constant rhythm that seemed to match the methodical movements of Bucky’s hands.
"You're good at this," Sam remarked, unable to hide his curiosity. Bucky glanced up, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "Spent a lot of time fixing things," he said simply, returning his attention to the engine. Sam studied the man closely; his gaze trailing along Bucky’s body, examining every curve, every freckle. Even though it wasn’t obvious from where he was seated, Sam could tell that Bucky was built like a brick house. Strong, sturdy arms, strong thighs, strong calves… Sam’s eyes lingered longer on Bucky’s waist. A little more defined abs than Sam was used to seeing.
Bucky noticed Sam watching him and cleared his throat awkwardly, pulling Sam from his thoughts. He coughed and sat forward on the stool he was perched upon, placing his hands on the countertop in front of him, "Your wiring was wrong. Common mistake."
"Thanks," Sam stated. "Think it will drive now?"
Bucky shrugged, "Maybe, if you get a new battery too. Dead ones don't make the car go."
Sam raised his eyebrows and grabbed his coffee mug. The coffee ran cold by now. Time seemed to speed by when he watched Bucky work. "Pas besoin d'être un connard." Sam whispered to himself softly. His gaze flickered over Bucky once again, who was chuckling into his cup.
"No need to be an asshole."
"French?" He asked, raising one brow. "Je ne voulais pas te contrarier. Pardonne-moi."
"I didn't want to upset you. Please forgive me."
Sam snorted quietly, the corners of his eyes crinkling with amusement. "You're forgiven." He lifted the mug and placed it on the counter with more force than necessary. "So, what brought you to Delacroix, Bucky?" His name tasted like honey in his mouth.
"I couldn't spend another night in the truck, so I decided to stretch my legs, and then, the storm caught me." His words were soft, barely audible as a slight shiver racked his entire being. "Not to mention, I saw the help wanted sign outside the shop," He cleared his throat, "I'm terrible at coffee, but I'm good with my hands."
Sam glanced down at them, which was covered by dark leather gloves. Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah," His tone was soft, "I noticed. I mean. it would be nice to have some help. I have a lot of projects back there that need to be finished," He leaned on the corner, "But, I still need to give you the interview. Can't just have anyone in my shop."
Bucky nodded, but Sam could see his mind was elsewhere with that statement. Sam was known for prying more than he should, offending people where he shouldn't, and he enjoyed it for the most part. He liked to watch people tick and wanted to know how to make them do so, but his mind had already decided that Bucky would not be one of those people - if he could help it. He started easy.
"Where are you from?" A simple question that made Bucky's face twitch. "Originally from Brooklyn. Moved around a lot." His eyes flickered towards him as if he were searching Sam's. "La maison est partout si vous la cherchez. My mother's saying."
"Home is everywhere if you are looking for it."
"Well, have you found it?" Sam whispered like a secret between them was about to be shared. Bucky matched his energy, "Not yet, but I'm not looking for it." Sam hummed as he thought.
"How soon can you start?" The sentence floated between the both of them, as they exchanged glances for several seconds before Sam pulled his bottom lip in between his teeth. Bucky smiled, showing his perfect teeth, and Sam swallowed - taking note that the man before him had no flaws.
"Tomorrow would be great."
"Good," Sam muttered. "We need a new face around here," His eyes flitted up to meet the man, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Then, he glanced over at the shop's window, realizing the rain had stopped. He quickly wiped his hands on his jeans, then stood from the counter. "I have to get the boys over to my sister's place. I can show you around," Sam offered, "If you're up for it."
Bucky smiled softly. "That sounds like fun." The grin on his lips grew wider, "Lead the way." Sam walked to the wall opposite of them and let his knuckles rap the wood in four hard taps. Suddenly, a door from upstairs came bursting open with the patterns of small footsteps following. His nephews were down the stairs, huffing and puffing.
"Who's ready to see Ma?" He grinned, his nephews answering in unison with enthusiastic yeses.
With a laugh, he stepped aside. "This is Bucky. He’ll be helping me with repairs for now. So, you have to treat him nice, alright?" The two children nodded solemnly as Bucky stood awkwardly next to their bubbling energy. It almost reminded him of his sister back home. His heart ached for a moment before he was pulled back into the moment by Sam speaking to him, "Are you ready to meet Delacroix?"
Bucky nodded. "Of course." He followed him as Sam opened the front door. The streets glistened under the soft glow of the streetlamps, their reflection in the puddles creating a mirror image of the world above.
The air was cool and fresh, with a crispness that only a day-long rain could bring. Bucky pulled his jacket tighter around him, feeling the gentle embrace of the damp, clean air. He looked around, taking in the quaint charm of the town. The buildings were a mix of old and new, their brick and wood facades adorned with ivy and flower boxes that overflowed with vibrant blooms, glistening with raindrops.
Bucky felt a sense of ease washing over him. Sam turned to Bucky with a smile. "Thanks for walking with us. It's nice to have some company."
Bucky nodded, appreciating the kindness. "Thanks for the tea and grilled cheese. It was just what I needed." Sam chuckled. "Anytime. And about that job—we'll talk more tomorrow. Get settled in tonight."
Bucky nodded again, feeling a sense of anticipation for the days ahead. "Sounds good."
The evening was calm, the air fresh after the rain. Sam looked at Bucky, seeing a potential friend and ally. "You know, this place could use someone like you. Maybe you'll find what you're looking for here."
Bucky met his gaze, a small smile forming on his lips. "I hope so, Sam. I really do." They shared smiles. Sam could almost feel something else lingering underneath the surface of the smile that rested on Bucky's features, but it wasn't exactly clear. He looked back towards, noticing the lights flickering slightly against the raindrops. Somewhere in the air, Sam swore he could feel it that day, there was hope of something beautiful blooming.
