Chapter Text
Gary’s not even up. That’s how early Sam drags his hungover ass out of bed and then out of the house, too. Figures if he gets moving, keeps busy, he can’t overthink anything.
Bucky’s still asleep. Sam hasn’t even seen him, but he felt it last night—this lingering anticipation he caused. Saying the kind of shit he said right when they couldn’t talk about it. Holding his damn hand like that. Things were definitely easier when he was drunk off his shit.
He’s not exactly torn about it—about him and Bucky and what he wants. He knows what he wants, he's been fighting it off long enough, for years actually, God knows he has. But it’s fair to say he’s on the shallow end of chickening out right now. It’s never been closer within reach than it is today, never more tangible, and now, after all this goddamn time when he can finally just let it be, he’s afraid.
I missed you the way I miss him —what the fuck was he thinking?
His heart stammers uncomfortably in his chest, just at the thought of it.
The barn is chilly and dark this early in the day, so he throws on his flannel work shirt and switches on the overhead lamps, gets to work on the kids’ jungle gym. He fixes the tires to the logs, bolts the base down, and starts mixing a shade of red no one’s ever heard of. After that, he sands down the sides and hammers the roof into place and for a good long while he is busy and distracted enough that Bucky Barnes is worlds away, sleeping peacefully somewhere on the other side of the fence.
Reprieve, of course, doesn’t last.
Bucky finds Sam in the barn a little after nine. Sam pretends not to notice his figure in the doorway with the rising orange sun at his back, but of course, he does. Because he’s noticed every goddamn thing about this man since the day they met.
Bucky comes over with two large cups of coffee in his hands and puts them down on the workbench, leans back against it. Purposely stands so close, Sam can’t help but stop what he’s doing and acknowledge him.
Sam looks at him and sighs. “You’re up early for someone who was still pouring shots at eleven,” he says, then swallows. He straightens up and leans back too, and doesn’t bother putting distance between them.
The air is so thick with unspent tension that Sam can hardly breathe. He’s tired from a restless sleep, his body stiff from tossing and turning, his mind a tumultuous mess thinking about what he said. Or rather, what he was about to say before they were interrupted. He spent the better part of last night thinking about it. He’s halfway insane by now.
He’s about to open his mouth and see what comes out when Bucky speaks.
“Sam,” he says, shoulders tight. “I need you to say what you wanted to say yesterday. I need you to say it. All of it.” He ducks his head, giving it a slight shake. “I need to hear it. I need this—I need to know, alright?”
Bucky’s eyes are a beautiful blue glow in the early rays. Sam lets out a shaky sigh, a defeated, soft laugh.
“Had it all planned out yesterday, you know? Gone and lost the nerve now,” he says, raw and honest, more so than he’s ever been, closer than he’s ever been to admitting this.
“What was it, Sammy, hm? God, you gotta tell me. I’m going crazy over here, sweetheart,” he says, tangible nerves and uncertainty and restraint rolling off him.
Sam sighs. “Jesus. You know what it is. You know what I was gonna say.” He looks away to the soft glowing morning sun outside, the silhouetted trees in the distance. Then softer, “You gotta know by now, Buck.”
Sam’s heart pounds with painful velocity. Whatever they say, whatever they admit right now, changes it all forever, the same way everything spun on its head the day Riley died. It changes them, changes the rest of their lives and everything they thought they knew.
“That you love me?” Bucky says, voice soft and unsure.
Sam feels a cold splash of shock but nods, and Bucky inhales a rugged breath that sounds nearly suffocating.
“Yeah?” he says, eyes wide.
Sam swallows, feels his eyes sting, throat closing up. It’s been goddamn years, and he’s never been able to say that, never been able to admit it out loud to anyone. Relief falls from his shoulders by the ton.
“Yeah, Buck. Yeah, I do.”
Bucky stares at him, standing dead still. And when it hits him, it’s visible. Like an axe straight into the chest, hitting all the vital organs on the way through, so hard he can’t fucking breathe.
Then he walks back to the door and stops just outside it. Just stands there on the gravel path outside the barn, hands on his hips and looking toward the creek. His head drops and he sniffs.
Sam smiles. “Got something in your eye, Buck?”
He laughs, tilting his head up at the sky now. “Yeah. Pollen.”
“Yeah, might be pollen this time,” Sam says. “Come on back here.”
Bucky runs the back of his hand over his eyes and stalks inside again. He stops an inch away and puts his hands on either side of Sam’s face. Sam inhales and closes his eyes, resting his hands on Bucky’s hips.
“Jesus Sam, me too,” Bucky says. “Since the moment I saw you. Every moment after that, every goddamn day, sweetheart. You know what that’s like? Loving someone you can’t ever have?”
And then Sam looks at him, another ice-cold jolt to his heart, and with no uncertainty says, “Yeah. I do.”
Bucky stares at him, realizing what he’s saying, what he means, and for a second time in just a minute he’s visibly knocked right on his ass. For a few seconds, he looks completely stunned about it.
“Jesus Christ,” Bucky says and wraps his arms around Sam, cradling Sam’s body against him in that way Sam knows all too well by now. “All this time, huh?”
Sam squeezes him tight. “I missed you the way I miss him.” He wiggles out of Bucky’s hold to look him in the eye. “Because I love you the way I love him,” he says, finishing what he’d meant to say the day before. “Now, fuckin’ kiss me, man.”
Bucky smiles at him, all white teeth and eyes crinkling in the corner, and then does what Sam asked.
Kisses him right on the lips and it feels like a supernova coursing through him.
Sam smiles against his lips then kisses back and he is sure he’s never felt anything better, except maybe Bucky’s fingers curling into his shirt and bringing him closer so that their bodies press tight together. But then he opens his lips and Sam feels his tongue and thinks maybe he’s departing the plane of the living.
But he somehow finds the presence of mind and remembers how to do this back, how to hold a guy and kiss him, and how to squeeze just right to make him groan a little.
In response, Bucky loops his arm around Sam’s waist and tugs him close, walking them back against the workbench. He sweeps the tools to the side and they clatter to the ground. Sam doesn’t give a single fuck, because Bucky picks him up onto it and kisses him some more.
Makes Sam laugh and pull away breathless, his lips tender and a little kiss-damp, his heart a thudding mess and everything inside of him alive and on goddamn fire for the first time in ages. And God, then Bucky smiles at him, gorgeously happy. Sam touches his fingers to Bucky’s lips, to that smile, tumbling down into absolute blissful relief.
“Hey, Buck,” Sam whispers, smiling too.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Bucky says, and it makes Sam’s heart clench.
They’ve waited so long, too long, to do just this. Sam thinks it’s written all over his face, it’s in the way Bucky’s holding him as if he might slip away again at any second.
When Sam leans down this time, the kiss is softer, slower, careful almost. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck and his legs around his waist and they kiss and kiss and Sam’s disinclined to ever stop.
But just then Joaquín skids into the barn, panicked and breathless and clutching Gary under his arm, the gravel crunching under his feet. “Sir?” he heaves and then, seeing them intertwined on the workbench, stops dead still. “Oh,” he says, heaving, and starts smiling, his cheeks balling high when he looks at the scattered tools on the floor. “Oh. Alright. Never mind. Heard a commotion, thought something—but clearly. As you were, Mr. Wilson. Mr. Barnes.”
When he turns to leave, he fist-pumps the air and kisses Gary’s feathery little head.
Sam laughs, couldn’t even care. “Thanks, Joaquín!” He turns his attention back to Bucky. “This—” he says and kisses Bucky, tender and lingering, and then pushes his long hair back. The touch makes Bucky shudder—“is real distracting. I got work to do around here.”
Bucky helps him down from the bench, holding onto Sam’s hand. “Can’t risk the market guys catching us necking in the barn too, huh?”
Sam snorts and sways closer to Bucky anyway, despite his plans to leave. “Yeah.”
“Yeah, alright. We got all the time in the world, huh?”
Sam stops, a sickening twist taking hold of his heart. If there’s one thing he’s learned in his life is that time is never promised, always just borrowed.
“No one ever does, Buck. Don’t live that way.”
Bucky brings Sam’s hand up to his mouth and kisses the back of it, then pulls him closer and kisses his forehead too.
“Hey. I ain’t going anywhere,” he whispers. “Except now. Gotta feed the horses.”
Sam laughs, somehow soothed, and gives Bucky a shove toward the door. “Alright. Yeah. See you later, Buck.”
Bucky winks over his shoulder, a dumb smile stuck to his face. “I'll see you, sweetheart.”
The ranch work goes by pretty quickly, being this high on oxytocin. The heat doesn’t even bug Sam all that much. He breezes through collecting eggs from the pesky chickens, packs them swiftly, and drives them over to the pickup zone. He stops by the parlor and gets a couple of liters of milk from the cows, too.
When the market guys have gone with the goods, Sam gears up, buckles his harness into place, and gets up on the roof. He finally fixes that damn beam that’s been hanging so low. While he’s up there, he patches some loose tiles and paints the left side before he sees Bucky approaching on a horse in the distance.
“Sweet Jesus,” he mumbles, checking his footing before he falls right off this roof. “Joaquín,” he says to his bodyguard on the ground. “Is that my—is that Barnes on a goddamn horse?”
“Looks like it, sir.” He smiles. “Even got a Stetson on.”
“Damn,” Sam says, watching. It’s a whole thing. It’s very distracting.
He sails down and unclips his harness and uses the hem of his shirt to wipe his forehead. When he finally drops his shirt, he catches Bucky staring, blatant and obvious, at the skin Sam had exposed. Sam licks his lips, bites back a smile, and Bucky has the nerve to look abashed about it.
“Pretty comfortable with those horses now, huh?” Sam says, nodding at Dunder. “Suits you, though, cowboy.”
“Alright. Okay.” He blushes. “I, uh, came to see if you’re hungry?”
Sam gives him and the horse an incredulous look. “I could eat. You came to pick me up?”
Bucky clears his throat and squints off into the distance. “Maybe.”
Sam ducks his head, ignores Joaquín grinning, arms folded, beside him. “Yeah, alright, give me a hand.”
Bucky reaches down and pulls Sam up behind him on Dunder's back. He’s suddenly acutely aware of the proximity of their bodies, the exact position they’re in. Sam slips his arms around Bucky’s middle and buries his face between his shoulder blades, and feels Bucky’s chest expand with a deep inhale.
A little way up the hill, Sam’s hands loosen from their tight grip around Bucky and slide up to his chest, then back down, slow, soothing, grounding strokes. Bucky holds the reins with one hand, spreads the other open on Sam’s thigh. Every rocking motion of their bodies as Dunder trots along, every touch sends bouts of bliss through Sam’s body, makes him want Bucky’s hands all over him, endlessly.
Behind the stables, between the long green grass and under a shady tree, there’s a checkered blanket spread out, a basket with wine glasses on top, and a platter of cheeses and crackers and grapes.
“You put olives on that damn thing?” Sam says. At his side, Bucky’s hand slides into his.
“You know I did. Fresh off your own tree.”
They sit down against the thick oak trunk, Bucky pours them each a glass of juice and they nibble on the snacks. They don't say anything about this morning and things aren't any different from before, not when Sam rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder, and not when Bucky calls him sweetheart five times in as many minutes.
Later, the calmness starts weighing down Sam’s limbs and bones and he spreads out on his back to soak up the fresh breeze and warm sun. It’s not long before Bucky’s lying down beside him. He props himself up on an elbow and leans down to kiss Sam.
It’s so sweet and slow and lazy Sam can hardly take it. He feels a cool fingertip slide along his exposed hipbone and Bucky’s kiss deepens just a bit, gets just a bit more insistent.
“I know you ain’t about to feel me up on the damn grass,” Sam whispers. He sounds pretty dismissive of something that’s making his stomach flip.
Bucky lets out a quiet laugh and drops his head on Sam’s shoulder. “Was that on the table?” he asks, his voice quiet and rough, body stiff from holding back. He noses at Sam’s neck but doesn’t put his mouth on it.
“Depends. Cook me dinner tonight?”
“Sweetheart, I’ll cook you dinner for the rest of your life if you want.”
Sam laughs, tugs on Bucky’s collar so he can look him in the eye, “Starting tonight.”
Then a smile cracks across Bucky’s face, narrowed eyes and all, and he kisses Sam again.
Bucky does cook that night, something that smells entirely delightful, but Sam’s mind is so far away from food it’s not even funny.
He’s thinking about whatever’s going to happen after dinner. He’s thinking about getting his hands on Bucky, Bucky getting his hands on him. Thinking about getting his mouth on Bucky’s again, maybe even getting it somewhere else. Wonders then if he should give Joaquín the night off.
“What are you thinking about?” Bucky asks, flipping the filet over in the pan.
Any other time, Sam would say ‘nothing’. He’d lie and say anything except what he’s really thinking. Would never admit that this man has been running through his mind on a constant loop since the goddamn beginning.
Now, though, he’s got no reason to lie. He says, “You.” and watches Bucky’s face go through it, hands faltering, mouth snapping shut, and then to Sam’s utter amusement he chuckles.
“Christ. You can’t say shit like that to me, sweetheart.” He regains some composure and continues what he’d been doing.
“It’s true though.”
“Yeah, well,” Bucky says with a smile so wide his face might split apart. “Feeling’s mutual.”
Sam fiddles with the fork, and glances up at Bucky skilfully pouring red wine over the filet. “You thinking about what we said earlier? On the grass.”
He sees Bucky swallow, then exhale hard as if he’s only just holding back. “Honey, you got no idea. But you gotta eat first.” He brings the filet and vegetables to the table and dishes up for Sam, pours him a glass of water.
“Cause I’ll need it after you’re done with me, huh?”
And Bucky sputters out a deep laugh, an undignified guffaw. Sam laughs too, watching him, his eyes wrinkling in the corners, his cheeks plump with happiness.
“Jesus, Wilson. Ain’t a day you haven’t made me laugh,” he says. Then he places the pan and utensils on the table and leans down, slips his hand into Sam’s neck to tip his face up, and kisses him.
Slides his tongue between Sam’s lips again and again, rounds it off sweetly with a tender press of his lips to Sam’s. Leaves Sam goddamn gasping for air, feeling awfully unsteady with it and simultaneously wanting him to do it again. To lay him out on this table and do it over and over and over.
Sam tugs him closer by the collar when he leans back. “Then let’s fucking eat, Buck,” he says, hoping Bucky knows how to read between the lines, and kisses him back with the little orientation and sense he’s got left.
Bucky sits close to him while they eat, leg pressed tight to Sam’s beneath the table, Bucky’s pinky stroking Sam’s where they’re touching. He remembers the way Bucky’s touch used to feel, how it burned him up, the sickening guilt of wanting more, worried that it would spiral all the way out of hand and he’d lose everything.
Now, with it all stripped bare, Bucky’s touch makes him tremble, the anticipation of what it holds stokes to life a storm inside him, knowing he can simply have it now. It’s making him vibrate in his skin.
So when they’re finally alone in Sam’s bedroom, and Bucky has closed the door behind them, Sam doesn’t let another minute pass. Bucky’s got the same idea; they meet each other in the middle in a rush, kissing hard, hands wandering, grabbing, twisting in the fabric of each other’s shirts.
Sam yanks his shirt off first, starts lifting Bucky’s at the hem, but Bucky stops for a moment. He’s breathless, eyes closed, lips wet from Sam’s mouth.
“Slow down, sweetheart,” he says but drags his shirt over his head so they’re chest to chest.
Sam’s heart skips. His hands travel up the outline of Bucky’s arms, metal under some of his fingers, skin under the rest. He lifts his mouth to Bucky’s again, just tender and chaste.
“Slow down for what, though? Hasn't it been long enough, Buck?”
And then Bucky leans down, kissing him, and on the way up, lifting Sam into his arms. Easy as anything, palms strong and steady on the back of Sam’s thighs as he walks them to the bed.
“For me, honey,” he says, dropping Sam on the mattress and lowering half his body weight onto Sam. He nudges Sam’s head aside and buries his face in Sam’s neck, kissing open-mouthed and warm along his jugular and clavicle before he murmurs, “For me. To savor this, you. To make sure I ain’t dreaming here.” He pushes down, pushes their hips together and Sam lets out a shocked gasp of pleasure, arches into it. Slips his fingers into Bucky’s hair. “God, you know I dreamed of you? Every fuckin’ night,” Bucky says. “Time after time, waking up soaked, feeling you on me. I could feel you in my sleep, honey, like you were there. I felt you.”
“Jesus, Buck. Fuck.” Sam closes his eyes and rocks up, gets hold of Bucky’s belt loops, and sets him in motion, faster than they’ve been going. “Buck, please, come on,” he says, finally finding Bucky’s mouth again.
They kiss hard and deep and Bucky finally gets rid of their pants—Sam’s half gone already—and then it’s just skin on skin, more than they’ve ever been, better than anything Sam could imagine. Bucky keeps up the even rocking, the steady jerk of his hips to create just the perfect amount of friction.
He rests his forehead against Sam’s, his lips hovering parted against Sam’s. Sam’s fist is tight in his hair, their bodies working up a sweat with every smooth motion against each other’s bodies, breathing each other in at last.
Making good of a goddamn tragedy.
“Hey,” Bucky says, panting, sweating, mouth kiss-swollen, gasping when Sam opens his eyes and looks at him. “Hey, sweetheart.” He runs his palm over Sam’s forehead and hair, eyes so reverent it drives Sam even closer to the edge. “Hi, baby. I love you,” he says, hips rocking, faster and faster now, until he groans as his release comes over him.
Sam holds onto him tightly, feeling it shudder through him, and gets a hand around himself when Bucky starts going soft and just basks, slumped against Sam, in the euphoria of it.
After a few strokes, Bucky lifts his head to watch. And just the look on his face, the feel of his warm skin on Sam’s, his hair wild and wrecked, the smell of him all over Sam—it’s enough to make Sam lose it.
His leg twitches as it hits him, senseless pleasure, black-out good. And Bucky kisses him through it, whispers all kinds of things Sam never thought he’d hear come out of Bucky's mouth, obscene things, worshipful things. Things that make Sam’s heart swell and his stomach erupt with butterflies.
“I love you, too,” he says, smiling now, breathless, still high, still all the way in another realm. “I love you too, Buck.”
Bucky laughs then, as if he doesn’t actually believe it, and looks at Sam like he might vanish from beneath his fingertips any second now. He leans down and kisses Sam with careful tenderness, again and again.
And Sam thinks that life—the one where he’s just some guy who is stupidly in love with his best friend—isn’t that much of a fantasy anymore.
It’s pretty goddamn real.
“Sam,” Sarah says, staring at the massive pirate-shaped jungle gym on Sam’s front lawn. “This is a lot. And you wanted to build it in my backyard? ”
It is a lot, he won’t lie. Maybe he lived out his childhood fantasy a little while building this thing, but it’s got about four secret tunnels, a slide leading right into a splash pool, and another into a sandpit. The boys are screaming.
“Come on, you can’t tell me you don’t like it!” He nudges her in the ribs. “Come on.”
She finally cracks a smile, nudging him back. “It’s pretty cool. You did all this?”
Sam glances over at Bucky. He’s kneeling in front of Cass, adjusting his pirate hat and eyepatch.
“Had some help.”
“Hmm,” says. “I bet you did.”
Sam smiles to himself. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it means.” She’s quiet for a beat. “You good, though?”
It’s been a long time since he’s been able to answer that completely truthfully. There was a time when he was sure there’d never be a reprieve from the devastation he felt inside. Those miserable few years after Riley died and Bucky disappeared from his life, too. The heartbreak, his life devoid of everything he loved in just a beat.
But when he answers now, it’s the truth. “Yeah, I’m good,” he says. “I’m real good.”
Sarah looks at him then, her eyes a little wet, and smiles. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, good.”
Sam laughs, throws his arm around her shoulder, and gives her a shake. “I know that ain’t you crying about your little brother!”
She punches him in the gut, makes him huff out a laugh. “You right, I ain’t!” But she still rubs her eyes, wraps her cardigan around herself like their mama used to do, then says, “Nobody wants to see their family hurt like that. You hurt, I hurt. You know how it is.”
He stands a bit closer to his sister. They watch Bucky hoist AJ onto the bow and put on a pirate hat. “It don’t hurt anymore,” Sam tells her. Because Riley’s a sweet memory now, his late husband’s with him no matter what, and he’s got his best friend back for good. He got a whole lot more back than that.
Just then, Bucky looks over from the helm, pretend-steering, kids running amok behind him, and winks at Sam. His smile’s devastating, his hair is a mess, and Sam’s heart skips.
Sarah clears her throat, smiling when Sam looks at her and nods to the kitchen. “You burning that shrimp.”
“Jesus!”
He rushes back inside, but Joaquín’s already stirring it. He’s got a pirate hat on, too. “I got you. I added some butter, though.”
“Let me see. Too much butter’s gonna kill it.” Sam takes the spoon and starts stirring himself.
“It’s fine, see.”
Sam gives him a stern eyebrow, but Joaquín’s face lights up, anyway.
“Hey, uh, I never thanked you,” Sam says.
Joaquín heads over to the stereo and puts one of Sam’s favorite oldie records on. “For?”
“Those first few months. Wasn’t easy. I know it’s your job. But, uh. You helped me more than you’ll ever know, J.” Sam pauses for a second. Swallows down the lump in his throat.
Joaquín shakes his head and joins Sam at the stove again. “Not just a job, Mr. Wilson.” He smiles, holds his fist out for Sam to bump.
Sam can’t help but smile, too. “No, it ain’t.” He bumps Joaquín’s fist just as Goddamn Gary completes his first circuit around the porch, giving an ungodly crow.
Joaquín throws his hands up and sets out after the pesky rooster. “It’s not even four, Gary!” Gary blares again. “Gary!”
Bucky saunters into the kitchen then, puts his pirate hat down and slides up behind Sam. He wraps his arms around Sam’s middle and rests his chin on Sam’s shoulder.
“Smells good,” he says, trying to nip a shrimp from the skillet.
Sam grabs his hand away, brings it up to his mouth, and kisses Bucky’s fingertips instead. Listens to the gears in his arm whirr as if they’re a happy cat getting head scratches. “Don’t stick your fingers in my food,” he scolds with no real heat.
“I’ll stick my fingers—”
Sam bursts into a cackle. It shuts Bucky up just in time. “Don’t do that either!”
Bucky snickers into his neck, makes Sam’s skin flush with goosebumps, makes his spine tingle.
In the lounge, Joaquín fiddles with the stereo, and a few moments later the sounds of a sappy oldie float through the speakers. He turns around and winks at Sam and Bucky, which gets another chuckle out of them.
“Dance with me?” Bucky says low in Sam’s ear and Sam actually wishes they were alone right now so he could drag Bucky to their bedroom. But instead of doing that—because they’ve spent God knows how many days naked in those sheets—he lowers the heat and dances with Bucky.
And Bucky’s all kinds of fancy—he’s the guy who taught Sam how to Lindy Hop after all—so he twirls Sam around about three times before yanking him close and staring down at him like it’s the first time he’s ever seen the night sky filled with stars and sways slowly along to the music.
His body’s warm and solid and it’s so easy to just melt into it, feels good dancing against him, sliding his fingers along the nape of Bucky’s neck, curling them in his long hair. It’s easy enough to kiss him too, soft and slow as if there’s no rush in the world.
“Hey,” he says, stopping and giving Sam a quick kiss. “Let me get the warmers out for that.”
Sam remembers then that he can’t just stare into Bucky’s blue eyes all goddamn afternoon; he’s got food to make and people to feed. Thankfully, Joaquín throws a Chubby Checker bop on the stereo this time and it lights a fire under Sam’s ass. He gets back to his pots, finishes up the shrimp and rice, then takes it over to the warmers Bucky had set up near the sideboard.
In passing, he kisses his fingers and taps them to the glass, greeting Riley, and catches Bucky smiling at him.
Bucky lifts his hand in a salute to the silver box filled with Riley’s ashes and Sam’s heart feels like it’s bursting at the seams. It’s good, now, finally loving him fully, the way he always wanted to. He’ll never stop loving Riley, never be over him, but there’s a wild kind of freedom to loving Bucky like this, with everything in his chest, so fierce and solid he can hardly breathe sometimes.
Later, after they’ve eaten, everyone’s relaxing on the porch and they’ve each got a beer in hand, watching the kids play on the pirate ship. Bucky’s sitting next to Sam, their hands entwined, Sarah on Sam’s other side with her feet in Cass's lap.
“Those kids are gonna be out like a light tonight,” Cass says.
“All thanks to uncle Sam,” Sarah says and pokes Sam with her elbow.
“Maybe y’all can get working on that niece of mine now that you got some free time, huh?”
Cass cracks up, but Sarah shoves Sam into Bucky. “Gross!”
“I’m just saying!”
“Oh, my god!” Joaquín shouts from the kitchen, face buried in his phone. They all turn to look at him. “Miss Rambeau won! Cali just turned blue!”
Sam gets up. “Monica won?” Everyone’s standing, watching Joaquín like a hawk.
Joaquín smiles, wide and bright, and nods. “She won!”
And then they all erupt in cheers of joy. They hug and laugh and pop a bottle of champagne while Bucky gets her on the line. It rings a few times before Natasha’s face appears on the screen. She’s in what looks like a black bikini on a beach.
“James,” she says, but she’s smiling.
“Natasha,” he says, smiling too, and again, everyone on the line and in Delacroix cheer loudly. “Hold on for your president please,” she says. Bucky laughs and kisses Sam and they all huddle close around the screen.
Images of golden sand and palm trees and sun loungers flash by as she carries the phone across the beach. A few seconds later, Monica appears on the screen, grinning her beautiful smile at them. Her hair’s pulled back and she’s in a lime green one-piece and big shades.
“You goddamn did it!” Sam says, a little choked up.
“You know I did.”
“Congratulations, honey!” Sarah calls from over Bucky’s shoulder.
“Thanks, y’all!” She laughs. “I almost missed it, gave Natty my phone and hid away all day! Rhodey just called.”
“You did good, Mon.” She reminds Sam so much of Riley lately. Those last few days leading up to his election, she’s just as anxious and distant and actively trying to dissociate from the entire ordeal as he was. Realistically they all knew, given her divorce and the controversy surrounding it, there was a chance Monica wouldn’t win it, wouldn’t serve her second term, which added to the anxiety. No one wants to lose like that.
“I miss you guys,” she says.
Just then a man passes behind her—tall, with a thick beard, an absolute tank of muscle in swim trunks—and they all gasp and point.
Bucky’s eyes go wide. “Is that—”
“No!” she says, but struggles to contain a face-splitting grin.
“No, that’s Rogers!” Sam says and everyone screams again. Sam’s neighbors are going to file a complaint if they don’t settle the hell down.
“I don’t know what y’all are seeing.” She licks her lips. Looks off to the side. “This is a secluded island. Just Natty and I here.”
“Hm,” Sarah says. “Girl, some bearded white man is haunting that secluded island, then.”
“And that ghost better treat you good,” Sam chimes in. She smiles at him and nods and they cheer again and start passing the bottle of champagne around just as Steve leans down in the frame, kisses Monica’s cheek, and hands her a fresh cocktail.
Sam looks at Bucky and Bucky kisses him. It’s just a peck, but it’s soft and reverent and lingering and Sam will never have enough of it. It’s good to know now that his friend is happy, too. That they’ve been through the goddamn most and came out on the other side whole again.
“To madam president!” Cass says. They all lift their glasses and clink them and throw the bubbly back. Joaquín starts up the stereo and Cass pulls his wife aside for a dance. She laughs as he spins her around, twirls her under his long arms, and kisses her cheek when they’re swaying close.
Sam can look at them being in love now and not ache inside.
Bucky waves goodbye to Monica and Sam blows her a kiss. He slips his arm around Bucky’s waist and they stand there watching the kids play beneath the orange sunset.
Then Bucky kisses Sam’s temple and says, “Your husband would be so proud of her.”
“He’s, uh,” Sam clears his throat. “My late husband.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“I don’t have a husband right now.” He’s quiet for a beat, ignoring the way Bucky’s staring at the side of his face. And then he smiles as he says, “That position’s open, though.”
Bucky looks like he suffers a malfunction, some serious cognitive damage. He blinks, mouth open but silent.
Sam just about keeps himself from laughing. “You reading me, baby?”
Bucky pulls himself together, takes Sam’s face between his hands, and kisses him. Kisses him for a long while, holding him tight, before he leans away.
He shakes his head in disbelief, eyes flicking between Sam’s, thumbs brushing the corners of Sam’s lips. And Sam would swear if he didn’t know any better, that Bucky’s seen heaven, that he’s seen something sacred, the golden streets, the pearly gates, the angel choir.
“Read you loud and clear, Wilson. Loud and fuckin’ clear, honey. Jesus.”
Sam tugs him closer for another kiss, but Bucky pulls back.
“Call me baby again,” he says and Sam laughs so hard, so happy, it feels as though it’s spilling out of him like waterfalls of light.
And, when their lips touch again, they’re smiling.
The End