Work Text:
It's been a good week, a good month; Sam struggles through their screen door with two armfuls of groceries, tells himself he's definitely going to remember to buy WD-40 next time he goes to the store because the squeaking only seems to get louder each time they open it, and power walks to the kitchen. He drops the bags on their little table with a relieved sigh, shakes out his wrists and stretches his aching arms and back like the issue was the groceries and not a lifetime of occupied bed changes, carrying boxes to the elevator that always seems to be four floors down when he gets to it, stooping to reach the bottom shelves as he does inventory. Still, it's been a good month. It's going to be a better week because some unexplainable stroke of luck had all the things they needed on sale and sure, some asshole who's got his light bill on auto-pay's going to argue that if the grocery bill came up to eighty percent of what it normally is he should save that twenty percent for a rainy day, but that twenty percent isn't very much anyhow. It's enough to cover three boxes of the good popsicles, the ones they can never convince themselves to splurge on when they can get eighty ice pops for the same price as one box of these, but they were buy-two-get-one.
Sam still got a box of ice pops. He tears off a strip of them and leaves the rest in the box, sets it on top of the refrigerator and pushes it to the back; it's going to be hot these next few days and a freezer full of popsicles goes a long way to making it bearable when they can't really afford to set the air conditioning below eighty, when they usually just leave it off and use the ceiling fan unless they're about to die of heat stroke anyway.
The rest of that twenty percent went to a bag of Idaho potatoes, a couple sweet potatoes as a treat, and a bag of peach rings that'll make a nice surprise.
He'd been pleasantly surprised to still have a couple dollars left at the end of it all. That in-store McDonald's called to him and maybe he could'a gone in and gotten a medium fry and not even felt bad about it but, well.
Sam shoves the still-folded bills into the little mason jar they keep for emergencies.
They still have frozen french fries anyway. Delayed gratification or whatever they say.
He connects his phone to the portable speaker sitting in the windowsill, turns it up loud and hums along while he puts away the rest of the groceries then neatly folds the plastic bags and shoves them into the overflowing bucket they keep under the sink.
He also flinches back from a couple ladybugs stuffed up in one of the corners before gathering his wits and spraying them into submission.
One day they'll call an exterminator, maybe. They don't really got a bug problem, not like some of the neighbors do, so it seems last a waste when they could just spray or squish them every once in a while.
He keeps right on humming, refusing to let a couple bugs detract from the fact that he got off a little early today and was able to get to the store before it really got crowded with the after-school bunch, that his manager'd called him in to talk and Sam'd been so nervous he could shit but he'd only told him that he was getting a small raise 'hey keep up the good work,' and they had candy in the break room for whatever reason and that Sam was able to grab a hard candy for himself and a couple mini chocolates to bring home; that Bucky'd finally been able to fix whatever was making the brakes on Sam's car squeal and he'd driven home in blissful silence just for the novelty of it all. They've been stupidly lucky recently but he's not complaining, he's progressed to singing along with a song he remembers his mama playing when she'd woken him up early on Saturday mornings to clean.
He's got to call Sarah, see how she's doing. It's been a busy few weeks and they haven't been able to do more but send some sporadic texts. A new baby'll do that, he guesses, and it's been a damn good month because they'd been able to afford some nice yarn for Bucky to knit a one of those blankets that buckles onto the handle of a stroller 'cause Sarah deserves to have things she doesn't necessarily need, and still had some left over for a couple packs of Pampers. They'd gotten some size twos and threes. People always buy too many for newborns and he didn't want Sarah to have to worry about trading diapers or trying to exchange the unopened leftovers without a receipt.
Sam shoots off a quick text to Sarah, curls up on the couch with one of his paperbacks and means to lose himself in the story but ends up losing a few hours of sunlight to a nap instead. He'd've slept all day probably except the damn screen door screams when Bucky walks in and looks at him sheepishly when he realizes Sam'd been sleeping.
Don't matter much, not when Sam's blinking sleep out of his eyes and Bucky's standing in the doorway, holding what looks like an Easter basket and backlit by the sunlight, standing there in the worn jeans that Sam loves because they ride low and his hair's down out of his work bun, spilling across his shoulders and tickling Sam's neck when Bucky squats to kiss him in greeting.
"Missed you," Bucky says, talking against his lips 'cause he hadn't pulled too far away to speak, just like he always does.
Sam smiles, pleased, and says "it's been twelve hours Buck" like he always does too before pulling him back down.
The plastic wrapping of Bucky's maybe-an-Easter-basket crinkles between them and the same swooping feeling, the one that Sam's gotten in his gut since Bucky'd hit puberty in seventh grade and Sam realized some things about himself, follows it.
They'd known each other from birth, damn near, Sam and Steve and Bucky and Natasha all toddling around the playground together and taking turns scraping their knees all to hell trying to do skateboard tricks when they got a little too old for the slides. Sam doesn't know if somebody was pulling strings or what but they'd only been in different classes once, in second grade, and Steve had cried so loudly and so inconsolably that Sam's convinced to this day that's how they all ended up back together for third grade. It'd taken the better part of a week to get Steve participating in class, and Natasha had shown her displeasure by kicking the chair of the kid in front of her until they threatened to suspend her.
Their little quartet had been inseparable aside from that; they'd stuck together through Steve's parents' divorce and Natasha getting sent to foster care, through Sam crying until he threw up while he struggled to find the words to come out even knowing that Bucky had once punched someone in the mouth for calling another kid a dyke like it was a dirty word, then through Bucky whispering that he might like boys too a couple weeks later. Maybe they were destined to be together or something, maybe that's why nobody was surprised when Bucky kissed him not too long after that, sweet and shy and barely-there. Nothing like how he'd come to kiss Sam later, once he'd gotten confident and they'd learned how Sam liked to be kissed.
Bucky's kissed him much the same since then, slow and sweet and warm, like he's got to savor it, like there's nowhere he'd rather be.
"Felt like forever," Bucky says when they finally break apart.
He's always been a charmer. He's always liked watching Sam blush.
"Brought us somethin'," he continues, holding out the basket for Sam to unwrap.
Sam carefully picks apart the little ribbon holding the plastic together at the top, "s'a little early for Easter Buck."
It's a basket full of goodies. Name brand snacks and candy Sam hasn't had since he was a teenager, a mug with the logo of the auto shop Bucky works at printed on it in a little tiled pattern and a small bag of ground coffee, a couple of truck-shaped sugar cookies to really drive that all home.
"Some kind of employee appreciation thing the new manager'd gotten it in him to do," Bucky's explaining, "got us all baskets for the shop's anniversary an' everybody got at least a gift card for coffee but they gave me n' a couple of the other guys another for getting mentioned in so many good reviews."
Sam grins broadly. Bucky's a damn good mechanic, damn good. He'd fixed up Sam's brakes as soon as they'd gotten money for parts, he'd fixed everything that'd went wrong with their cars over the years and done their oil changes timely to the day and stitched up the leather when Sam'd accidentally sat on his car keys and ripped a hole in the upholstery.
"'Course they mentioned you, you're the best damn mechanic they got."
Bucky flushes and continues, "I thought- d'ya wanna order pizza? It's for two-fifty and I thought we could use it to get some of the stuff we need for the bathroom but we got money for pizza I think."
He fishes around in his pocket for a moment, "I found this coupon. Only seven dollars each if we buy two, could put one in the deep freeze for later."
It hurts a bit, that they have to even consider it. In another life they might'a ordered a pizza just 'cause they felt like it; in another life they wouldn't be trading twenties with a neighbor 'cause someone's always running out of gas money, and they wouldn't be worried about Bucky's transmission 'cause they would'a just been able to fix it when they noticed it going, and they wouldn't be getting the runaround from the insurance company or dealing with the dental bills from Sam's cracked tooth, the chronic pain, all the salt in the food they eat driving Bucky's cholesterol up.
But they're having a good week, a good month. It's hard not to let the anxiety that always creeps in when they got something good going take over, hard not to think about all the bills piling up and the extra shifts he keeps taking that don't seem to do shit, hard not to listen to the Internet advice of people who've never been poor and hard not to put that gift card in their little jar, call it an emergency fund even as he knows they need to fix one of the pipes in the bathroom and they really do need a new bath mat. It's hard, but they're having a good week.
Sam swallows and laughs, delighted, "yeah Buck, I wanna order pizza."
"Call it in real quick? Gotta bring in a couple other things."
Bucky's back by the time Sam gets off the phone, having disappeared into the kitchen to put something away and now bouncing on his feet while he holds his hands behind his back.
Sam doesn't get the chance to ask; Bucky presents him with two paper-wrapped chocolate bars, the kind they see in the aisles of the grocery store but never pick up because who can justify paying six dollars for a single candy bar when there's a Snickers bar sitting right there. He's also holding out an iced something or another for Sam to take.
"What-" he starts, hoping Bucky didn't go out of his way to get all this for him.
Bucky'll do that sometimes, no matter how many times Sam tells him he doesn't need fancy candy or anything like that when Bucky's kiss is sweet enough.
"Don't worry," Bucky says, leaning down to kiss the top of his head, "got us both a coffee from the other gift card. Had mine this morning. And Tony came in with a fuckload of this chocolate too, said I could bring a couple home if I wanted 'cause there was still some left over at closing and Pepper was going to kill him if he brought home more chocolate. Dunno if there'll be any left tomorrow but I'm gonna swipe a couple more if there is."
Sam smiles and makes a mental note to thank Tony next time he stops by the shop; he hasn't been manager long but the guys all seem to like him as much as a manager can be liked. It helps that he isn't afraid to get his hands dirty if they're short staffed.
He also tilts his head up to catch Bucky's lips in a proper kiss, murmuring a quick 'thank you' against them as they part.
He wants to cry, just a little. They've been too lucky and it's almost too much; it's everything they needed and everything he knew better than to wish for. He feels like he's disappointing the memory of his mom sometimes 'cause he's trying but it's hard enough to get through the day and he doesn't have the energy to think of some way to make it out, not like she'd always wanted for him, and most of the time he's just happy when they make it home dry and in one piece, with enough peace of mind to know that money's tight and they don't really have room for extras but the rent's paid and the lights are on and they'll figure out that past due phone bill sitting on the coffee table somehow 'cause they always do. They're all real close on this side of the cul-de-sac and that's good enough for him, knowing they're good with the neighbors and they can trade babysitting duty for forty dollars in stamps at the grocery store everybody seems to work and have a discount at.
"What's wrong sugar?" Bucky asks anyway, 'cause he always knew Sam too well and at this point he's gotta have mind reading capabilities.
"I got a raise," Sam says softly, holding his arms out until Bucky climbs onto his lap and wraps his arms around his neck, "and I got the good popsicles on sale."
They've got so many good things going for them, really. There's the little path out back leading on into the woods where go walking, and every once in a while they win something at work or in some tiny local sweepstakes Sam entered 'cause he still reads the newspaper. The paint's peeling outside, one of their pipes is leaking, they still haven't fixed the goddamn screen door, and Sam's pretty sure he saw a roach or something he doesn't even want to think about the other day, but Bucky's murmuring comforting nothings into his ear and reassuring him about work, about the goddamn popsicles.
There's an ad playing in the background 'cause Sam's phone is still hooked up to his speaker and they're talking about some new album, some new artist who made it out the whatever and got their big break after three years of couch surfing in New York City.
"Do you ever wish-" Sam starts, then shakes his head.
They don't really talk about it. Ain't worth making wishes, setting yourself up for disappointment.
Bucky snorts anyway, breath huffing against his throat before he pulls back enough to look at Sam, "that we could get out the south 'n live up there in the city doing Lord knows what?"
He takes Sam's hands in his, squeezes comfortingly and smiles his sad little smile, "I wish I could give you the goddamn world Sammy but there ain't no sense living with my head in the clouds, and pizza with you sounds real good to me."