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.
summary: Living under your ex-military father's strict rules has always been suffocating, but now that your parents are leaving for a three-month trip, you're finally getting a taste of freedom. However, just as you're ready to embrace it, your father adds a new layer of oversight by arranging for a friend to keep an eye on you. Despite the looming watchfulness, you're determined to prove your independence.
As you lifted your eyes from the pages of your book, you were surprised to find the night had settled in faster than you anticipated. The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, leaving behind only a gentle, lingering glow that barely touched the corners of your room. Sleep eluded you, knowing that in a short while, you’d see your parents off on their trip, a farewell that weighed lighter with each passing minute.
Seconds ticked away as your thoughts drifted, pondering what freedom might feel like if not for the constant, looming presence of your ex-military father, whose shadow seemed to shape your every move. You knew he meant well, that his strict rules and watchful eyes came from a place of love, but it often felt suffocating.
He wasn’t just a father; he was a guardian, a sentinel who saw the world as a place filled with threats rather than opportunities. His experiences had made him cautious, and that caution had seeped into your life, shaping your choices, your actions, and even your thoughts. Yet, all of that would soon come to a pause when you wished them good luck on their three-month trip, a temporary release from the constant watchfulness that had defined your existence.
For the first time in what felt like forever, the prospect of having the house to yourself stirred something unfamiliar—a mix of excitement and anxiety. The absence of your father’s ever-present gaze would grant you a freedom you hadn’t known in years. But with that freedom came uncertainty. Without his steady hand guiding every move, you would finally be able to explore life on your own terms.
There were so many possibilities, so many things you had pushed aside out of respect for his boundaries. You could stay out late without a curfew, invite friends over without worrying about his disapproving look, or even take a spontaneous trip without needing to provide a detailed itinerary. But along with the excitement was the nagging fear of stepping too far, of what might happen without his protection.
Your father’s voice boomed through the room, "Young lady," The weight of his tone instantly commanded your attention, as it always did. You turned to face him, bracing yourself for whatever lecture or piece of advice he was about to deliver. His expression was stern, his eyes searching yours as if he could read every thought and feeling you were trying to hide.
You went to nod before your mother stepped out from behind him, her expression softer and filled with understanding. "Give her a break, Maliki. She's 21," she said, her tone gentle yet firm.
Her words brought a momentary relief, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips as the tension in the room eased slightly. Your father's eyes flicked to her, his brows furrowed in that familiar way he always did when he was caught between his protective instincts and the reality that you were no longer a child. "I know," he replied, his voice carrying the weight of a man who had seen too much in his life to ever take safety lightly. "But she's still our daughter, and it’s my job to make sure she’s safe, even when we’re not here." There was a pause, his gaze locking onto yours as if silently pleading for your understanding.
Your mother stepped closer, placing a gentle hand on his arm, her touch doing what words couldn’t—calming the tension that had built in the room. "Maliki," she said softly, her voice a soothing balm to his worries. "She’s responsible. We’ve raised her well. Let her have some space to prove it."
He sighed deeply, the sound heavy with a mixture of concern and resignation. The years of military service had made him see the world through a lens of potential threats, and letting go—even just a little—was no small task for him. He turned back to you, his expression softening as he looked into your eyes, the same eyes he had watched grow from a curious child to a determined young woman.
"Alright," he conceded, though his voice still carried that underlying edge of caution. "But you know the rules, and I expect you to follow them."
"I will," you promised, your voice steady as you tried to reassure him. The tension in your chest eased slightly, thanks to your mother’s gentle intervention. Your father turned to retrieve their bags, the sound of his footsteps momentarily filling the room with a sense of finality.
Your mother smiled warmly at you, her eyes reflecting a deep understanding of what this moment meant. It was a look that spoke volumes—a mix of pride in the person you had become, trust in your ability to handle things on your own, and an unspoken acknowledgment that this was your time to step into your independence. "Have a little fun while we’re gone, okay? But not too much," she added with a playful wink, her attempt to lighten the mood bringing a soft chuckle from you.
Her words were a gentle reminder that while your father’s rules still applied, there was room for you to breathe, explore, and to enjoy the space they were leaving behind.
"One more thing," your father announced, marching back into the room with his usual determined stride. You sighed deeply, the sound heavy with a mix of exasperation and resignation. If it weren’t for your mother, this place would be run like a military camp, every minute accounted for, every action scrutinized.
He paused, clearly preparing to deliver another one of his directives. "I have a friend who's moving into town while we're gone. I asked him to keep an eye on you for me."
You felt your heart sink a little at the thought. Just when you had started to embrace the idea of freedom, another layer of oversight was being added. It was classic Dad—always thinking two steps ahead, always making sure you were protected, even if it meant infringing on your newfound independence.
Your mother, ever the mediator, shot him a look that spoke volumes, but he remained steadfast. His concern for your safety outweighed any notions of giving you space. As much as you appreciated his intentions, the idea of someone else watching over you in his absence felt like a tether, holding you back just when you were ready to spread your wings.
You and your mother exchanged glances, both of you struggling to hide your disbelief. You wanted to protest, to argue that you were capable of managing things on your own, but you knew better than to invite an hour-long lecture. So, instead, you took a deep breath and nodded.
"I am an adult, Dad," you said with as much sincerity as you could muster. "But thanks for looking out for me. I promise all the rules will be followed."
Your father's expression softened a bit at your words, though the concern in his eyes didn’t entirely fade. He gave a nod of approval, seemingly satisfied with your response. Your mother’s smile was both understanding and relieved, her eyes conveying a silent message of support.
With one last look around the room, your father finally turned to finish preparing for their departure. You felt a mix of frustration and acceptance, knowing that while you might have a bit more freedom, your father’s protective instincts would always be a part of your life.
With the little freedom you did have before the mystery friend showed up, you decided that spending the night at an old fling's house was smart. Except… as the night wore on, you realized that old sparks didn’t always reignite the way you expected. What once felt exciting now seemed dull, the connection that had once drawn you to them fading into something that felt almost forced.
The conversation lagged, the laughter felt hollow, and the thrill you’d anticipated was replaced with a creeping sense of discomfort. That led you to a bar within walking distance of the college you attended. It was a place where you had spent many nights before—familiar enough to feel comfortable but far enough from home to let you forget about the lingering weight of your father’s rules. As you pushed through the doors and into the dimly lit room, the hum of conversation and the clink of glasses provided the backdrop you needed to clear your head. Here, among strangers and old acquaintances, you could lose yourself in the anonymity of the crowd.
You settled by the bar, knowing the bartender, Danny. You called out to him, and as you did, you noticed his eyes already scanning you, a familiar gleam in them. "Is that my baby?" he teased, his voice warm and inviting, the grin on his face growing wider.
It was the kind of greeting that brought an instant smile to your face, easing the lingering discomfort from earlier in the night. You felt a sense of comfort in his playful tone, the familiarity of it all a welcome change from the awkwardness you had just left behind.
"Only if you’ve got something strong for me," you replied, your voice carrying the same playful edge.
He chuckled, already reaching for a glass. "For you? Always." With that, he poured you a shot, the amber liquid catching the low light as it filled the glass. He slid it across the bar towards you with a wink. "On me tonight," he added, his tone softening with a touch of familiarity.
Your eyes lingered on the drink for a moment, watching the way the light played off its surface, shifting colors as it danced through the glass, casting an orange glow. You wrapped your fingers around the cool glass, bringing it to your lips with a sense of anticipation.
As you downed the shot, the burn of the alcohol was immediate, but it quickly gave way to a spreading warmth that settled deep within you.
Danny smiled deeply at you before returning to some people who shouted orders at him. But even during the chaos, he didn’t forget about you. Without a second thought, Danny placed two glasses in front of you—a small routine he’d developed over the years. One glass held another mystery alcohol, something he knew would be strong but smooth, and the other was filled with water, a silent reminder to pace yourself.
You took both glasses in hand, the coolness of the water a sharp contrast to the warmth still lingering from the first shot. With a nod of thanks, you left the bar and headed upstairs to your usual table on the second floor, a quiet spot tucked away from the busier parts of the bar.
Yet, as you approached your usual table, you found it already occupied. Sitting there was a man who seemed to draw every eye in the room.
He had a striking presence that commanded attention effortlessly. Tall and broad-shouldered, he exuded a confidence that was both relaxed and commanding. His skin was a deep, warm brown that seemed to glow under the bar’s ambient lighting, and his well-defined features were framed by a neatly trimmed beard that added a touch of rugged charm.
His eyes were captivating—dark, expressive, and framed by thick lashes that only intensified their depth. They held a warmth and intensity that suggested both kindness and a hint of mischief. He wore a simple yet stylish outfit: a well-fitted shirt that accentuated his muscular frame, with sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, toned arms. His casual, yet impeccably put-together appearance spoke of someone who was effortlessly stylish, with an air of sophistication that suggested he knew exactly how to balance charm and grace.
As he leaned back in the chair, his posture was relaxed but confident, and every movement he made seemed deliberate, adding to his aura of effortless cool. It was the kind of presence that made heads turn and hearts flutter, the kind of charisma that made any woman, or anyone, for that matter, fall for him almost instantly. And despite not even hearing this man speak, you were falling.
"Excuse me, you're in my booth." The words came out with a boldness that surprised even you. Normally, if your spot was taken, you would have found somewhere else to enjoy your drink and listen to the live music. But tonight was different. Something in you stirred, pushing you to assert yourself in a way you usually wouldn’t.
The man looked up, his gaze meeting yours with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. He didn’t seem fazed by your direct approach—instead, a hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth, as if he found your boldness refreshing. He straightened in his chair, his posture now more attentive, and his eyes sparkled with interest.
"I’m sorry about that," he said, his voice smooth and reassuring, with just a touch of charm. "I didn’t realize we had assigned seating in the bar."
The playful glint in his eyes suggested he was enjoying the exchange. His smile remained, warm and inviting, as if he were genuinely intrigued by your assertiveness. You noticed the way his smile seemed to light up the space around him, making it hard to stay annoyed. Despite the initial irritation of having your usual spot taken, you found yourself drawn to his easy confidence and charm.
"No, but it’s my usual spot," You continued, trying to maintain a balance between firmness and the hint of humor in your voice. "I guess I just get a little territorial over it."
He chuckled softly, the sound smooth and easy on the ears. "I see. Well, if it’s that important to you, princess, I’m happy to move." Yet, he didn’t budge. Instead, he picked up his drink, taking a casual sip while holding your gaze.
You found yourself swimming in the depths of his eyes, losing track of everything else around you. There was a magnetic quality to his stare, a captivating intensity that made it hard to look away. The playful challenge in his expression seemed to dare you to continue, making the air between you feel charged with unspoken possibilities.
You met his gaze with a raised eyebrow, trying to maintain your composure despite the flutter of excitement in your chest. The question hung in the air, a playful invitation wrapped in charm.
“Well, considering you seem to be quite comfortable,” you replied, a touch of amusement in your voice, “I guess I’ll have to find another spot.” You started to turn, but his voice stopped you.
“Why don’t you join me?” he offered, his tone a bit darker despite the earlier banter.
The subtle shift in his voice didn't scare you away. Instead, it drew you closer, adding an intriguing layer to the conversation. The seriousness of his offer contrasted with the playful edge, making the invitation feel more intimate. You settle into the booth - just across from him.
"How long have you been in college?"
The question took you by surprise. It was an unexpected shift from the lighthearted banter you’d been engaged in. You blinked, momentarily caught off guard, trying to gauge the intent behind the seemingly simple question.
You quickly recovered, a hint of amusement dancing in your eyes. “A couple of years,” you replied, your tone casual but with a trace of curiosity. “How did you know I was in college?”
His gaze remained steady, as if he were genuinely interested in your answer, adding a new layer to the encounter. "You have a full glass of alcohol in your hand. The college is quite literally walking distance from the bar. Plus, you just have that look." You were used to being read. Your father did it effortlessly, and you often found it intrusive and irritating. But when this man did it, you found it surprisingly attractive. Something was compelling about the way he observed you, his insight was delivered with a mix of curiosity and charm that felt both flattering and intriguing.
A smile tugged at your lips as you leaned in slightly, your interest piqued. “And what kind of look is that?” you asked, your voice laced with playful challenge. The attraction you felt was undeniable, and you found yourself wanting to dive deeper into this unexpected connection.
"What are you studying in college?" He ignored you, but the way he spoke, with that mix of confidence and insight, made the atmosphere between you both feel electric. His words, though perceptive, were wrapped in a charm. You took a sip from your glass, savoring the warmth of the alcohol as you considered his observation. “Psychology. Minor in astrology,” You admitted your voice soft. His eyes never left yours, and there was something in his gaze that made you feel seen in a way you rarely experienced.
"Oh, a stargirl. What, you're going to read my palm? Tell me that my sun's in retrograde, and I'm going to experience something devasting next week?" He was playing with you. That teasing grin plastered on his face told you everything. You played along,
"You wish," you replied with a smirk, leaning in slightly. "But no, I’m more interested in the why behind it all. Like why you think your not-so-subtle charm works, Mr…" His teasing grin faltered for a moment, caught off guard by your directness. You could see him recalculating, trying to figure out whether you were playing the same game or a different one entirely.
"Call me Sam."
"Sam." You repeated. "Nice to meet you." You let his name linger on your lips, testing the waters. The way he watched you, eyes narrowing slightly, told you he was still trying to get a read on you. "Well, now that we’re on a first-name basis, care to enlighten me on why you think my charm isn’t working?" he asked, leaning in closer, his tone playful but with a hint of genuine curiosity.
You tilted your head, considering him for a moment before responding. "It's not that it isn’t working. It’s just that it’s a little too practiced. Like you’ve used it one too many times and are still waiting for someone to catch on."
His smile grew, but there was something different behind it now—an acknowledgment that you weren’t just another easy mark. "Maybe you’re right," he conceded, his voice dropping lower. "But maybe I’m not the only one with a practiced game."
You raised an eyebrow, a small smile playing at your lips as Sam slipped closer to you in the booth. The sudden closeness sent a jolt of awareness through you, the space between you shrinking until you could feel the warmth of his presence. His arm brushed against yours, a deliberate move, but his gaze remained steady on yours, searching, perhaps, for a reaction.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low and inviting, “it’s not often I meet someone who can see through the act.”
You felt the pull of his words, the way he was trying to draw you in, but you weren’t about to let him take control so easily. “Maybe it’s because I’ve seen it all before,” you replied, your tone casual, though your heart was pounding. “Or maybe it’s just that I’m not as easily swayed as you think.”
The band downstairs began to play a tamer version of "Lost in The Fire" by The Weeknd, the sensual beats weaving through the air, amplifying the tension between you and Sam. He leaned in even closer, his voice barely cutting through the music. “Seems like the universe is giving us a moment,” he teased, his lips dangerously close to your ear. You could feel the heat of his breath, the intimacy of the moment making your pulse quicken.
You turned your head slightly, just enough to meet his gaze, which had grown darker, more intense under the dim lights. “Is that what you think this is?” you asked, your tone playful but edged with challenge.
“Maybe,” he said, his eyes flicking down to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “Or maybe it’s just a lucky coincidence. Either way, I’m not going to waste it.”
The brief touch of his lips sent a shiver down your spine, and before you could fully process the moment, he closed the distance completely, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that was both soft and deliberate. The world around you seemed to blur, the music, the crowd, everything fading into the background as the warmth of his kiss anchored you to the moment. For a second, you hesitated, feeling the intensity of the connection, the electricity between you both undeniable. But then you found yourself responding, your hand instinctively reaching up to touch his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of stubble beneath your fingertips.
The kiss was his, yours—a perfect blend of give and take, like a dance where neither led nor followed, but both moved in sync. It wasn’t just about the physical connection; there was something deeper, an unspoken understanding that neither of you had expected but couldn’t ignore. You weren’t new to this. Kissing strangers in a bar whenever the mood struck was something you could handle—a momentary escape, a way to feel something real in the midst of a night out. But this time, it felt different. There was something in the way Sam kissed you, something more than just a fleeting connection. It lingered, like a spark that refused to die out.
The desire for more surged through you, overpowering the usual restraint you held onto in these moments. You bit his lip, a teasing nip that conveyed your need without words. It was a bold move, one that signaled you were no longer just playing along—you were in control, too.
His response was immediate. A low groan escaped him, and you felt the shift in his demeanor as his hand slipped up your leg, fingers tracing a path that left a trail of heat in its wake. The closeness between you intensified, the air around you thick with tension as the line between want and need blurred.
You were teetering on the edge, knowing that you were pushing boundaries, both yours and his. The thrill of it all, the way he responded to your every move, made you crave more. It wasn’t just about the kiss anymore; it was about the power, the connection, the undeniable chemistry that was sparking between you two.
He pulled away just enough to shift your position, lifting you effortlessly onto his lap. The movement was fluid, controlled, and he held you there with a firm grip, his eyes searching yours for any hesitation. For a brief second, he paused, giving you the space to decide, to back out if you wanted to. But who were you to do so? The thrill of the moment, the intensity of the connection—it was all too intoxicating to resist. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your palm as you steadied yourself on his chest, your legs now straddling his.
His hands settled on your hips, holding you close, but still allowing you the freedom to move, to take control if you wanted. The music, the dim lights, the distant hum of the crowd—all of it faded into the background as the space between you vanished once again.
His hand traveled farther up your thigh, reaching the edge of your lacey underwear. The touch was tentative at first, his fingers brushing lightly against the delicate fabric. You could feel the heat of his touch through the lace, a mix of anticipation and excitement building between you both.
His eyes remained locked on yours, seeking any hint of reluctance, but all he saw was the undeniable intensity between you. Your question, murmured against his lips, was met with a dark, hungry look.
“Nervous? I can stop if you don’t think you can handle it?” you asked, your voice teasing and breathless.
He responded by pulling you down harder onto him, the pressure of his hard on unmistakable against you. You could feel the heat and firmness through the fabric of his jeans, his desire pressing firmly into you. The action was assertive, a clear statement of just how much he wanted you.
His grip on your hips tightened, his gaze intense as he sought your reaction. “Handle it?” he growled softly, his voice a mix of raw desire and playful challenge. “I’m just getting started."
Finally, his pulls your underwear to the side, and ran his thick, long fingers against your pussy. You let out a soft gasp as his fingers did wanders. He bit at your neck as you moaned. His thumb stroked your clit gently, and he smirked when he heard you suck in a sharp intake of breath, the sensation making you arch against his hand. "Tell me how much you want it, my stargirl?" He purred, his voice rough. He pressed his hand forward, rubbing against your center, slowly increasing the pace and pressure, his other hand moving higher, stroking over your breasts while his mouth trailed kisses along your neck and down your jawline to your shoulder.
A deep groan tore from your throat as you bucked against his hand, the sensations overwhelming you. The pleasure was intense, a wave of heat and desire crashing over you, making it hard to focus on anything else. You could only hope that the music blaring around you would drown out the sounds of your moans, as you lost yourself in the moment.
His hand pressed against you with increasing firmness, each touch igniting a new wave of pleasure that had you gasping for breath. The crowd and the music faded into a distant background as you focused solely on the connection between you, your body responding instinctively to every movement he made.
The intensity of the moment was undeniable, the pleasure building with every second, leaving you both caught in a heady mix of desire and anticipation. Sam knew exactly how to touch you, his touches always light, almost hesitant.
His hand now underneath your shirt and letting his rough fingers pull and rub on your nipple. As soon as the sensation became too much, you arched your back towards him, desperate for release, wanting his touch to be the only thing keeping you grounded as you struggled to hold on. He continued to tease you. His words floated through your head, charged with a mix of command and promise. “Don’t you come, or I’ll bend you over the table and let the world see how beautiful you look when you moan.”
The intensity of his voice, combined with the forbidden edge of his words, only heightened the pleasure you were already experiencing. The image he painted was both thrilling and provocative, pushing you to the brink of control. Your body trembled in the need to comply with this stranger's demand. You could feel him, feel yourself pulsating beneath his hand as his finger played around the tip of your swollen clit. The sensations were indescribable, sending your mind flying as you tried desperately to stay afloat on the waves of sensation crashing around you. His fingers worked quickly, his motions slow and calculated.
“Sam,” you whined, your voice a mixture of desperation and desire. The sound was almost a plea, a soft, urgent call. He responded with a low, approving growl, his hand continuing its relentless exploration. “That’s it,” he murmured, his voice laced with satisfaction. “Let me hear you, Stargirl."
You whimpered, the sound vibrating in your throat as his lips pressed harshly against the spot below your ear, his teeth grazing ever so slightly across the sensitive flesh. The combination of his touch and his rough, seductive whisper made your breath hitch.
“Come,” he murmured, his voice rough and commanding, “Come on, Baby Girl. Tell me what you want.” The raw intensity of his voice was a seduction all on its own, fueling the fire within you. Your pleas came out in a breathless rush. “I want it. I want it so bad. Please.”
You were pleading with the devil himself, caught in the overwhelming blend of desire and desperation, the need for his touch and his dominance consuming you completely. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, the touch burning through the thin fabric of his shirt, making him shudder slightly as you gripped him. He could feel your nails digging into his scalp, scratching at the strands of his hair before dragging them down his neck. He shuddered again as his fingers moved faster, circling your clit in small circles. Each one drove you closer to the edge, until there was no turning back. No running from this. There was no going back after this, only forward.
As the orgasm took over, your cries echoed throughout the room, punctuated by gasps and moans that grew louder with every passing second. The intensity of the moment left you breathless, your body struggling to contain the overwhelming surge of pleasure building inside you. Each muscle felt strained, pushed beyond its limits, as every thrust drove you closer to the edge.
The sounds you made, the way he looked at you, and the intensity of his touch all combined to fuel the fire between you. The passion and energy surged, driving both of you to the brink, as you fought to get even closer, to experience the connection at its fullest.
With every movement and every word spoken in your favor, the climax approached with a force that left you completely vulnerable, the moment consuming you entirely as you both reached for that ultimate release. As the climax surged through you, it felt like an explosion of sensation, every fiber of your being caught in the throes of ecstasy. Your cries grew more frantic, each sound a testament to the intensity of the moment. The room seemed to spin around you, the music and the crowd becoming distant echoes as you were consumed by the overwhelming pleasure.
His movements were relentless, perfectly in tune with your responses, pushing you to the absolute edge. Every thrust, every touch was precise, maximizing the pleasure that you were both experiencing. His eyes never left yours, filled with a fierce, possessive intensity that only heightened the sensation.
The energy between you was electric, a tangible force that seemed to build with each passing second. You could feel the sweat on your skin, the heat of his body against yours, and the rhythm of your combined breaths creating a symphony of desire.
As the final wave of orgasm washed over you, it was as if time stood still. Your body tensed and shuddered uncontrollably, every muscle locked in a state of heightened pleasure. You were utterly lost in the moment, every sensation amplified, every sound magnified.
Finally, as the climax began to ebb, you both slowly came back to yourselves, the immediate rush of pleasure giving way to a lingering sense of satisfaction. The intensity of the connection between you remained, a testament to the shared experience and the power of the moment. He gently eased his hold on you, his touch becoming tender and reassuring as he helped you settle.
"Your charm is working wonders." You whispered to him
His eyes sparkled with a mix of satisfaction and amusement as he looked at you. You could see the effect your words had on him, the way his smile widened at your playful gratitude. He brushed his thumb over your lip before leaning in close to your face, pressing his mouth to yours in a passionate kiss. "It really does."
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the window, you lay in bed, reflecting on the night you had just shared. The warmth of Sam’s touch and the intensity of your connection replayed in your mind, vivid and electrifying. You could still feel the lingering traces of pleasure, a reminder of the unforgettable experience that had left an indelible mark on you.
But as you thought back on the night, a pang of regret tugged at your heart. The abruptness of your departure weighed heavily on your mind, leaving you unsettled. You had wanted to leave with him, to linger in the warmth of the connection you had forged. But as he turned to pay the tab, a sudden wave of uncertainty had washed over you.
In that fleeting moment, doubt had crept in. The intensity of what you had shared felt almost too real, too overwhelming, and the vulnerability that came with it scared you. So, instead of waiting for him, instead of letting yourself be drawn back into his orbit, you slipped quietly through the bar door, leaving before he had a chance to turn around. Not to mention, your father's call.
Now, in the light of morning, you couldn’t shake the feeling that you had made a mistake. You had let the moment slip away, leaving behind something that had felt meaningful, something that had the potential to be more than just a fleeting encounter.
You wondered what Sam had thought when he turned around and found you gone, and whether he had felt the same connection you did. The regret gnawed at you, but so did the uncertainty of what might have happened if you had stayed.
As you lay there, the room quiet and still, you couldn’t help but replay the scene in your head. You remembered the way Sam had looked at you, the way he had responded to your every touch and whisper. The memory was tinged with a bittersweet edge now, the sudden end to such a profound connection leaving you with mixed emotions.
The departure had been sudden and unceremonious, and you found yourself wishing you had been able to give the night—and Sam—the closure they deserved. You thought about how you might reach out to him, how you might explain the abrupt end and express your gratitude for the night you had shared. Yet, your little Cinderella act left with you nothing.
You decided, then, that you couldn't waste your three months of freedom of fantasizing over what ifs with a guy the same age as your father. It would never happen, and besides, you knew nothing about him. He was just some guy in the bar with really nice hands.
The doorbell rang, pulling you from your thoughts. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion as you sat up in bed, wondering who could be at the door so early. The bell kept ringing, persistent and insistent, refusing to be ignored. After another few moments, you gave in, sighing as you pushed off the covers and swung your legs over the side of the mattress.
As you made your way downstairs, you passed through the kitchen, absently pushing some dishes into the sink, just in case your father had returned. The house was quiet, the early morning light casting soft shadows across the floor. You couldn’t shake the strange mix of anticipation and anxiety that had settled in your chest, a nagging feeling that something unexpected was about to happen.
Reaching the door, you paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before opening it. The thought of who might be on the other side lingered in your mind, a blend of curiosity and trepidation swirling together.
With a quick twist of the knob, you pulled the door open, and the breath caught in your throat. There he was. Sam.
He stood on the doorstep, phone pressed to his ear, but his eyes were fixed on you, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, neither of you moved, the tension from the night before lingering in the air between you. The surprise of seeing him here, of all places, left you momentarily speechless.
His gaze didn’t waver, and though he was speaking softly into the phone, his attention was entirely on you. There was a mixture of emotions in his eyes—curiosity, maybe even a hint of something deeper, something unresolved from the night before.
He said something quickly into the phone, his voice low and calm, "Yeah, she came to the door."
You cocked your head to the side slightly, confusion and curiosity mixing in your expression. The way he spoke, so assured and composed, contrasted with the flurry of emotions you were feeling. His words hung in the air, leaving you to wonder who he had been talking to and why he was here.
"Sure thing, Maliki," he said, putting extra emphasis on your father's name. The realization hit you like a jolt—this wasn’t just a chance encounter. This was the man your father had sent to watch over you.
Your eyes widened slightly as the pieces fell into place. The sudden phone call last night, the urgency in your father’s voice, and now Sam standing here on your doorstep, all made sense. The night you had shared, the connection that felt so real, now had an entirely different context. He wasn’t just some guy you met at the bar—he was here because your father had sent him.
"Don't worry," Sam stated, his tone darker and more intense than anything you had heard from him the night before. The shift in his voice sent a shiver down your spine, and your heart fluttered with a mix of fear and curiosity, wondering what he truly meant.
"I'll make sure she never leaves the house," he continued, his words lingering in the air, heavy with implications.
Your pulse quickened, a knot of anxiety forming in your chest as you tried to decipher his intent. The man who had been charming and playful just hours ago now seemed to harbor a side you hadn’t anticipated—a side that was far more serious, possibly even dangerous.
★5,008 words★
summary: Bucky has to go, and Sam lets him, which cause them both to question whether their love deserves to be fought for.
★★★
The first time Sam Wilson saw him again he had prayed that morning - actually got down on his knees and prayed for a sign that he was moving in the right direction. And when his prayers seemed to dissolve into the ether, leaving him with nothing but the echo of his loneliness, he rose, wiping away the remnants of his plea, and faced the day with a heaviness that clung to him like a shadow. His knees weak with uncertainty as he moved throughout his day and life, craving. He still had this hunger that could not be fed.
He knew it was there but couldn’t identify what it was. It ate at the inside of him. In his mind, he imagined it to be the hunger of yearning. A hunger born from his inability to have something and call it home again. The need to feel something close to his heart and hear it again, even if it was just in words. To touch again, and taste another flavor. So, Sam decided to walk the streets of New York. He would look in store windows for inspiration and hope that one of them might give it to him. But when his feet found themselves in the doorways and window displays of the stores in Manhattan, he felt no inspiration. Just emptiness. And maybe a little bit of fear because he didn’t know how long it would take him to find some kind of fulfillment again.
For the last two years, he was a husk of himself. A shell. It was as though someone had sucked out all his emotion and left nothing but a hollowed vessel behind. He felt empty, broken, and useless. That was when the hunger set in. He craved something real and substantial to hold onto, and he wanted to feel that again.
He sighed as he settled into a cafe just north of his apartment. The sun hung low in the sky and the breeze carried with it fresh scents of coffee and baking bread. Sam closed his eyes as the cool air brushed his face, and breathed deeply. Something was calming here. The smells were rich, enticing, and familiar.
Then, and only then, he heard it.
A laugh.
A loud, throaty laugh. Like laughter that is forced through too much tension and has lost its sense of humor. Sam knows who it belongs to. He was once the person - the only person - to bring it out of him. It was a rare occurrence for Bucky to truly laugh, especially around other people. He was always so stoic - cold and distant - but Sam knew him better than most.
Sometimes, Sam had caught him laughing - sometimes, Sam could make him smile. Sam was the only person who had ever made him really laugh. Not just a small chuckle, but actual full-out laughter. Sam remembered it well, he’d never forget it.
Bucky's back was towards Sam, but he was sure it was him. He could recognize Bucky anywhere, especially after these many years. The way he walked, held his body and spoke. This was Bucky Barnes, and he was in the cafe, laughing freely with a woman at a table near the window.
His smile was wide and genuine - his cheeks slightly pink from the heat of the day, his eyes crinkled in laughter. Sam had seen this expression a thousand times before but, now it was different. Different than the usual frown, the downturn of his lips, or the tight line across his forehead that was always there, even in a smiling situation. His laugh was light and free. As though there wasn’t anything in the world to worry about.
Sam couldn't stop staring. He didn't want to. It was the first glance he had of Bucky since that night in New Orleans. Seeing him was like finding a piece of himself that he misplaced. He hadn't been looking for it, but its absence was noticeable. Sam wondered how Buck could smile so easily - wasn't the world caving in on him too? Wasn't it harder to get out of bed? Didn't he, too, reach for emptiness and sigh when that's all he received? Didn't all his emotions writhe within him and a hunger he couldn't feed replace them?
The more Sam watched Bucky's body light up with joy, the more he grew envious. He grew angry. Envied how much this mystery woman was baking Bucky smiled and laughed. Angry because he hadn't so many months trying to figure out how to be better - if that was possible - so Bucky would choose him for once. Envied the man he was before Bucky left. Angry that he had to change to so much.
But beneath the anger, beneath the envy, there was something else—a longing so profound it threatened to consume him whole. A longing for something he couldn't name, couldn't quantify, couldn't even begin to understand.
Sam couldn't take it anymore. His feet were already moving him through the cafe. Through the tables, chairs, and people between him and everything he thought he didn't want anymore. Towards Bucky, who was so far away now and so completely unaware of his approach. Sam took another step. Another. Then another. Two more. One.
One step from him and Bucky. Just one, but he couldn't move. Couldn't bring himself to confront him. What would he say? 'You took my heart. I want it back’? His mouth went dry at the thought of speaking to him. His tongue felt heavy as a rock and he feared he might just lose it. His palms grew sweaty and slick. Sam felt sick at the pit of his stomach as if he was about to throw up. He squeezed his fists. Squeezed. Until the skin turned white with pressure.
The laughter bubbled around him, filling the air with a sense of warmth and camaraderie that felt like a cruel mockery of his own shattered existence. Sam's chest tightened with each peal of laughter, each joyful sound a reminder of everything he had lost, everything he had been unable to hold onto.
He tried to breathe, tried to force air into his lungs, but it felt like he was suffocating like the walls were closing in around him, trapping him in a prison of his own making. Panic surged through him, a tidal wave of fear and desperation that threatened to consume him whole.
He staggered backward, his heart pounding in his chest, his vision swimming with black spots. The café spun around him, a dizzying blur of colors and shapes that seemed to warp and distort with each passing moment.
And then, without warning, he was stumbling towards the door, his movements frantic and uncoordinated. He could feel the eyes of the other patrons on him, could hear their murmurs of concern, but he couldn't bring himself to care. All he could think about was escaping, escaping the suffocating weight of his own despair, escaping the laughter that echoed in his ears like a cruel taunt.
And so, he fled.
In his wake, Bucky caught a glimpse of a familiar, brown-stained leather jacket. He waited for it again. Waited for those dark lashes and those beautiful brown eyes. He didn't get the chance to.
★★
The second time Sam Wilson saw Bucky Barnes was in his own home and in his own front yard.
Winter had settled in. He had spent the past three days trapped in his Brooklyn flat, trying desperately to make sense of his life. Trying to see how this new reality - the reality where he was the one everyone depended on now, had a team to care for as well as a family, and he was finally someone he could be proud of - worked for him. He had done so much of the work for the cause, but Brooklyn wasn't home. His sisters and his nephews were.
So, he packed a couple of bags and headed home for the winter. He would spend his days caring for them and his nights working to make his place homely. He would cook and clean play games and read stories until he fell asleep under the comforting blankets of his warm bed, and he didn't miss anyone. He missed nothing and no one.
That morning, Sam made breakfast for Sarah and the boys. He and his sister swapped childhood stories while the boys ate and listened. This was slowly becoming one of Sam's favorite pastimes. He liked seeing the happiness on his sister's face when he recounted stories to his nephews - the things that brought a tiny, content smile to their faces. And, for a short time, he forgot what had happened. Forgot about the screaming that night. Forgot that he had to run to Brooklyn because the silence afterward was killing him.
Yet, he was better now. He was.
A car horn blared from outside.
Sarah stopped mid-story; her gaze drawn towards the kitchen window. She looked out in surprise and then suddenly at Sam. He looked back at her questioningly. AJ and Cass raced to the window to see it was the one person they'd been waiting in silence for Uncle Bucky. They raced to the front door, each boy trying to be the first one to reach him.
Sarah stood.
Sam stayed in his seat - he looked straight ahead like he was being interrogated. He didn't look at her; he stared at his cup of coffee. He didn't know what to say. His hands were pressed tightly together, knuckles turning white. He swallowed the hunger down.
"I'll go talk to him. Just stay here, okay?" Sarah pleaded because she knew, deep down, that her brother was hurting. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around him, tell him everything was going to be fine, and that he shouldn't beat himself up over losing someone. But she couldn't do that. That wouldn't help. She knew Sam needed to do this at his own pace.
Bucky stood in the yard, hopeful.
Sam watched from the safety of the kitchen as Sarah stepped out to greet Bucky, her silhouette framed against the winter light streaming in through the window. He could feel the weight of her concern, her unspoken worry for him, hanging heavy in the air like a shroud.
As they exchanged words, their voices muffled by the distance between them, Sam felt a pang of guilt tug at his heart. He knew he should be out there too, facing Bucky head-on, confronting the ghosts of their shared past. But the thought of it made his stomach churn with unease, his mind clouded with uncertainty.
He wanted to be strong, to show Bucky that he had moved on, that he was okay without him. But deep down, beneath the facade of composure, he tried so desperately to maintain, Sam was anything but okay. He was drowning in a sea of conflicting emotions—regret, longing, and an overwhelming sense of loss that threatened to consume him whole.
And as he sat there, alone with his thoughts, he couldn't help but wonder if Bucky felt the same. If he, too, wrestled with the demons of their past, haunted by memories of a time when they were more than just strangers passing in the night.
But before Sam could dwell on it any longer, Sarah returned, her expression a mix of concern and compassion. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, a silent gesture of support that spoke volumes more than words ever could.
"He wrote you something," she said softly, her voice tinged with understanding. "He said it explained everything."
Sam nodded, his resolve wavering but not broken. With a steadying breath, he pushed himself up from the table, his footsteps heavy with the weight of his uncertainty. As he made his way to the door, he couldn't shake the feeling that this encounter would change everything—that the second time he saw Bucky Barnes would be the beginning of something new, something uncertain, but perhaps, something beautiful in its own right.
Sam hesitated before opening the door, his fingers trembling as he gripped the knob. As he lifted his arm and twisted the handle, a rush of adrenaline filled his body. It was almost too much. Almost all too much, especially since he hadn't seen him since…since he had left that morning.
It felt like years ago.
It was.
"I thought you wouldn't want to see me."
Those were the first words that came out of Bucky's mouth after Sam had stood completely still in front of him and made sure he wasn't looking at him but through. His words sounded hoarse to Sam's ears. Something desperate, broken, and full of regret. Like the pain that lay behind it. And for some reason, it stung even more to hear it coming from the man who caused it.
"I don't."
A small envelope rested between the two of them. Bucky's hand was outstretched, bridging the gap of years between them, but Sam wasn't moving. Bucky wasn't giving up.
His eyes darted to the paper in his grip, scanning it quickly before returning his attention to Sam, a hint of a frown wrinkling his brow. He dropped his hand and tucked it into his pocket, his expression twisting with sadness. His lips pursed slowly, and his shoulders tensed like they were preparing to snap. Confusion flashed behind his blue eyes.
"Sammie, I want to apolo-"
"I can't take personal documents from people like you without a government witness present." Sam was formal - his persona working overtime while he was cracking behind it. His voice held none of its usual warmth, and he was careful to keep his expression blank.
"People like me?" Bucky asked, taken back but the sudden use of formalities. This wasn't his Sam. He was too guarded now. Too closed off. Too distant. Not Sam at all. He didn't nod or try to correct himself, but instead, he continued looking out. Bucky swallowed his pride and nodded finally.
"I'll see you around then."
"You won't," Sam answered simply. Then, before another word could simply between and fix this mess they made, Sam slammed the door.
★★★
The third Sam Wilson saw Bucky Barnes was the evening he decided to put on his best suit. The blue silk shirt fit perfectly across his broad chest and tailored trousers hugged his hips and ass with enough grace to make anybody swoon. The cuffs of his sleeves reached well above his wrists. A pair of dark, fitted sunglasses completed the picture. Even without his hair gelled to perfection, even though his face was clean-shaven, and his skin freshly washed. He was the image of perfection.
Everything from his shoes to his posture to his smile screamed power and authority. It seemed ridiculous to Sam, considering how he'd spent his life running away from that image, but he supposed he was used to the fact by now.
The Hero's Gala had invited him, and he was expected to attend as an honored guest. So naturally he had agreed - even spent all night and morning writing a speech he wasn't sure of. He imagined Steve in his place, and when that familiar voice in his mind told him it wasn't enough, he called it a night and got dressed.
By the time Sam had arrived, the hall was filled with hundreds of people mingling and talking. He had hoped the noise would drown out the sound of his heart drumming against his rib cage. After a quick hello with a few of his acquaintances and an apology to a few other guests he had been avoiding, he made his way to Carol Danvers - his second in command when it came to in-field battles.
"You look pretty, Cap," She whispered to her glass as she raised it to her lips. That brought a chuckle out of him. Nice and warm.
"You don't look bad yourself, Danvers." Carol smiled brightly at him, her blue orbs softening, a small smile playing on her lips. Sam was happy with himself for not breaking eye contact with her, the tension between them long gone and replaced by mere familiarity. Friends.
The evening was beginning to pass by quicker than he would like. The count was slowly winding down, and New Year was coming closer by the second. He was about to excuse himself, to excuse himself and leave as fast as he could when he spotted him. Bucky. In a corner booth, hunched in a shadow, the man in question staring down at his drink and seemingly lost in thought.
He wore a completely black suit. His clothes were sleek and elegant. His hair was styled up, falling in neat waves over his forehead. His jawline was sharp, his cheeks smooth, and his cheekbones defined by the subtle curve of his lips. His eyes were a brilliant shade of green, and the corners were crinkled in an attempt to conceal the pain that had settled into his features. Sam found himself taking a tentative step forward.
Sam, however, found himself and walked to the door. He whispered suddenly, 'Come to me' and 'Come home' in his mind. In a far, far corner of it. Even if there was a moment where Bucky could hear him, Sam was sure he wouldn't come. Not after he offended him.
The light of New York and the cold air rushed to Sam. He breathed deeply, allowing the fresh scent of crisp winter air and snow to fill his lungs. The balcony was quiet beside the sudden hum of music that was happening on the inside. He let go of a breath and inhaled it back in deeply.
He didn't even hear the door open behind him.
"It's nice to see you again, Sammie." Bucky's voice was quiet yet firm, carrying some trace of its former sweetness and gentleness. Sam's whispered yearns had paid off, but to what extent?
He was unsure.
Sam turned around to face him; his arms crossed as he looked Bucky straight in the eyes. He didn't know why his body betrayed him by reacting in such an unfriendly manner; he knew it was irrational, but he couldn't stop it. It felt as if a fire burned deep within his chest.
"It's Captain, now," Sam was more than elated to say that. "Is it still James?" The name tasted like ashes in his mouth, but somehow, Sam knew that if he let them linger for too long, he wouldn't be able to say it anymore.
Bucky nodded. "You've never called me that before," he whispered, his eyes never leaving Sam's. There was an unspoken plea there, begging for forgiveness, begging for understanding, begging for friendship. For all of that, Sam gave nothing. I shouldn't have to, he thought.
"How's the Lightening Squad or whatever you call yourselves?" Sam questioned, turning his gaze from Bucky to the lights of the city. They were a vibrant red, their colors shining so beautifully beneath the night sky.
Bucky shrugged lightly, following Sam's gaze. They both knew that Sam knew who the Thunderbolts were. They had caused enough trouble between the two of them. It's hard to figure out a name like that.
"Thunderbolts, and we're good." He grinned softly.
"That's great," Sam said with forced enthusiasm. He could feel the disappointment seeping into his tone. Bucky didn't seem to notice it, though, because he was busy taking in his surroundings once again. Sam could tell. His fingers wrapped tightly around his glass, his knuckles white, his breathing shallow. His lips parted slightly, revealing pearly whites that shone in the bright lights of the city. Sam seemed just as affected by it as he was by everything else. "It's uh-" Buck hesitated for a moment, "-Nice out tonight, isn't it?"
It was.
But Sam seemed distracted. "Cap…"
Finally, Sam smiled and nodded towards the city before him, "I sold the apartment here," His eyes twinkled from something unsaid yet, "And I moved back home."
He waited for Bucky to say something, anything, but the only sound he heard was his own calm breathing. Bucky nodded slightly, his eyes glazed with a sort of wonderment that Sam hadn't seen on his face since he first met him.
There were a million things Sam wanted to say, to ask. His mind buzzed with unspoken words, with the longing he felt deep down but couldn't voice. The tension between them hung heavy in the cold night air, each of them waiting for the other to break the silence, to bridge the chasm that had grown between them.
"You should told me," Bucky joked, but there was truth in there, "I would have come and helped you move boxes, Old Man."
Sam's jaw tightened. "You weren't exactly around to tell," he replied, a bitter edge to his words. "James."
He hated himself for saying it, hated the way that name rolled off his tongue so easily, so seamlessly. He tried to swallow the lump of bitterness forming in his throat. But it remained. And it kept growing, pushing its way past his teeth, past the tightness in his chest, and making the edges of his vision blur.
The silence was tense.
Bucky leaned his back against the railing and pushed his hands in the suit's pockets - he wouldn't control his hands if they found their way to his. If his body somehow winds up on his and pleads with Sam to take him and take him back. Nor could he stop himself if Sam planted a rejection to his ears, and his body decided to swan dive over the balcony. So, he placed his hands in his pockets.
"You know, I didn't know have to face you," Bucky confessed. "I wasn't - I'm not the same person."
Sam's eyes softened slightly, the anger within him dimming. "You didn't have to face me," he said quietly. "You just had to be there."
Silence hung heavy in the air. Neither one of them dared to speak. They couldn't bring themselves to, no matter how much they wished they could. The cold wind blew harshly through their faces, bringing goosebumps to their arms. They both pulled their coats tighter over their shoulders and sighed in relief as they saw one another.
Bucky stepped closer, the tension between them electric. "I'm here now," he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. "And I want to be here, with you, if you'll let me."
Sam opened his mouth to answer but stopped short when a voice interrupted him, "Captain." He turned towards it and looked towards Carol, who was leaning out the door. Her eyes shifted between Sam and Bucky.
"Danvers," Sam gained her attention again. "You need something."
Her eyes widened a bit. "Right. Sorry," her eyes darted from Sam to the man standing beside him. "They're asking for you to come make the speech." Carol had a suggestive look on her face, and Sam knew if he could read minds she was making every dirty joke in the book. He ignored it.
"Or I can just improvise," Carol offered - her eyes matching the lights of the party, "So, you can… catch up." She smirked knowingly, nodding towards Bucky before she closed the door gently.
Both men watched her disappear into the party. Sam cleared his throat awkwardly, his mind spinning with thoughts and feelings that were threatening to consume him. The atmosphere was suddenly stifling and thick, and Sam couldn't stand to hold it any longer.
Sam leaned over the balcony, watching the city lights. He hated them. They blocked the view of the stars. Maybe, that's why he decided to move him. It had nothing to do with the possibility of running into Bucky Barnes
"I thought 3 years apart would be enough time. I thought I could just rip you from me," Sam was confessing, laying his cards on the table, "And I would somehow feel whole. Yet, we're still connected." He shook his head with a small smile. Something Bucky had never seen from him. His heart ached.
"Of course, we are." He added. "I ripped out so much of myself, and I'm left with nothing. This big. gaping hole and the only thing I can think to fill it with is more you. I don't want to."
Sam stopped and finally looked at Bucky. His Bucky. The one that was broken and bruised, but still beautiful. Bucky took a tentative step forward. Sam didn't stop him. "I'm sorry," Bucky's pleading expression was painful to watch. "You know that I am."
Sam felt his resolve crumbling, the walls he'd built around his heart beginning to fall. He took a deep breath, the weight of his emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He fought to keep himself steady. "I know." He managed. The pain that was evident in Bucky's features tore through his heart like knives, but he continued anyway. "I know, but I also know it's going to take me a while to just exist outside of you. I've been living my life always following behind. First, Steve, and now, you. I need to be alone right now."
He was struggling to even utter those last few sentences. "After you left three years ago and never came back, never utter a word, I felt like someone had just carved me open and left me there to bleed out. I don't want to feel that ever again. So, I need to protect myself first and figure out how to fix it. Fix me."
A torrent of emotions surged within him, a mixture of guilt, regret, and a deep, abiding sorrow for the pain he'd caused.
He felt his chest tighten as if an invisible hand was squeezing his heart, making it hard to breathe. Sam's words cut through him like a knife, each one a reminder of the times he'd turned away, the moments he'd let slip through his fingers. The memories of their friendship, the laughter, the camaraderie, all of it now tinged with a sense of loss and missed opportunities.
Bucky's mind raced, filled with the haunting image of Sam's eyes, once so full of life and determination, now clouded with a weariness that seemed to seep into his very soul. He could see the cracks in Sam's armor, the vulnerability that lay beneath the surface, and it tore at him to know that he was partly responsible for that.
A wave of self-loathing washed over him. How could he have been so blind? How could he have let things get this bad? The weight of his mistakes pressed down on him, almost suffocating in its intensity. But beneath the guilt, there was also a flicker of something else—a glimmer of hope. Sam had said it was going to take time, but he hadn't shut the door completely.
The tear that had escaped was soon joined by others, cascading down his face as he struggled to find the right words. His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper. "Sam… I'm so sorry," he choked out, his throat tight with emotion. "I never meant to hurt you. I never wanted this."
He took a tentative step forward, his hand reaching out as if to bridge the gap between them, to offer some form of comfort, but he hesitated, afraid that his touch might be unwelcome. Bucky's eyes searched Sam's, looking for any sign of forgiveness, any indication that his words were getting through. He could feel the desperation in his own heart, the burning need to mend what was broken, to heal the wounds he'd inflicted.
He felt exposed, raw, as if his soul had been laid bare. The vulnerability was terrifying, but it was also liberating. For the first time in a long while, he was letting go of the mask he'd worn for so long, allowing himself to feel, to truly connect. And in that moment, despite the pain and the uncertainty, there was a spark of something precious—a chance for redemption, for renewal.
He spoke again, "I'll wait," He promised. "Wait until you want me again. Wait until you think I fit back into your life, and we'll pick up right where we left off." He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts. "I'll wait for you. For us."
He waited for a beat. His heart dropped. And then it skipped a beat. And then a beat…
He exhaled slowly, staring into Sam's eyes, hoping for something - anything. A response. An acknowledgment. Anything to show that he wasn't alone. He wasn't giving up. He wasn't letting go of Sam. Not yet.
The countdown to midnight began in the distance, voices chanting in unison as the seconds ticked away. The final seconds of the countdown echoed around them, and as the clock struck midnight, the sky above erupted in a blaze of color. Fireworks lit up the night, their vibrant bursts painting the darkness with streaks of red, gold, and blue. The sounds of celebration from the party behind them faded into a distant murmur as both men turned their gazes upward, watching the spectacle unfold.
For a moment, they stood side by side, their differences and distances seeming to fade in the glow of the fireworks. Bucky had never been one for making wishes, but as he watched the sky light up with a kaleidoscope of colors, he found himself wishing for something with all his heart. He wished that Sam would come back to him, that they could find a way to heal together, even though Sam was standing right beside him.
As the final fireworks faded, leaving trails of smoke and the lingering scent of gunpowder in the air, Bucky smiled, "Happy New Year, Sam."
A hand was placed on Bucky's back. Sam was closing the distance with a warm embrace the both of them needed. A hug. They melted into it. Welcoming the feeling and neither wanting to pull away. This was the closeness they'd craved. Sam's hunger was nowhere to be seen.
