Festivals And Things Shared
Bucky wasn’t entirely sure how he had ended up here.
Well—TECHNICALLY—he did know.
Sam had roped him into it, the same way he roped Bucky into everything lately, with a mix of sheer determination, infuriating charm, and the smug knowledge that Bucky would eventually cave.
Which was WHY, instead of spending his break alone in his office, he was now walking down the streets of Washington, D.C., with Captain America at his side—in full uniform, no less.
Sam, of course, looked completely unbothered, striding casually through the city like he belonged everywhere he went.
Bucky, on the other hand, was feeling deeply uncomfortable with the amount of attention they were attracting.
People were staring.
A few whispered to each other, eyes wide with recognition. Some even pulled out their phones, subtly snapping photos or pretending they weren’t recording.
Bucky hated it.
He shot Sam a look. “You couldn’t have just worn normal clothes?”
Sam smirked, clearly enjoying himself. “What, and miss the opportunity to make you look like my grumpy security detail?”
Bucky scowled. “I am NOT your security detail.”
“Yeah, but look at you,” Sam said, gesturing at him with his coffee cup. “You’re walking like you’re two seconds away from taking out a sniper.”
Bucky rolled his eyes but did not relax.
Sam just grinned and took another sip of his coffee. “C’mon, Barnes. Live a little.”
Bucky huffed, shaking his head as they made their way toward the National Mall.
It had been years since he had really LOOKED at this part of the city. He had seen it in passing, of course—on his way to meetings, while navigating the chaos of government work—but he had never walked it like this.
The wide-open space, the towering monuments, the blend of history and politics, all standing side by side in quiet authority.
Sam let out a low whistle, taking in the view. “Gotta admit, it’s pretty damn nice out here.”
Bucky snorted. “Yeah, real shocking revelation, Wilson. Who would’ve thought the capital of the country might be worth looking at?”
Sam shot him a look. “I KNOW it’s nice, smartass. Just saying, I’ve never actually taken the time to see it.”
Bucky frowned slightly. “Even with all the times you’ve been here?”
Sam shrugged. “When I was flying in for missions? Nah. It was always business. Same as you, probably.”
Bucky was silent for a moment.
Because, yeah.
That was exactly how it had been for him.
D.C. had always been just another backdrop to whatever fight he was in, whether it was alongside Steve in the forties, or against the government in another damn century.
He had never seen it like this.
Sam nudged him lightly with his elbow. “So, come on, Congressman. Give me the OFFICIAL tour.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “I WORK in the Capitol, Wilson. That doesn’t mean I know every damn fact about the city.”
Sam smirked. “Oh, so you’re USELESS then.”
Bucky shot him a glare. “You DO realize I’m the one who can punch through solid metal, right?”
Sam grinned. “Uh-huh. And yet, here you are. Giving me a tour anyway.”
Bucky exhaled slowly, staring up at the towering Washington Monument ahead of them.
And then, against his better judgment, he gave in.
“Alright, fine,” he muttered. “You wanna know something? THAT,” he pointed at the obelisk, “is the Washington Monument.”
Sam snorted. “Wow, Barnes. INCREDIBLE INSIGHT.”
Bucky smirked. “It gets better. See, it’s made of MARBLE.”
Sam let out a dramatic gasp. “Holy shit.”
Bucky ignored him. “And if you look real close, you can see a slight change in color about a third of the way up.”
Sam actually looked, squinting slightly. “…Huh. Yeah, I see it.”
“That’s because they started building it in 1848,” Bucky continued, “but ran out of money and had to stop. Didn’t finish the damn thing until almost forty years later, and by then, they had to get marble from a different quarry. So now, it’s got a permanent line running through it.”
Sam blinked at him.
Bucky smirked. “And THAT, Wilson, is your first official fun fact of the tour.”
Sam stared for another second before grinning. “Well, DAMN, Barnes. I take it back. You ARE useful.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it.”
But the truth was, he was enjoying this.
More than he had expected to.
Sam had a way of making things lighter, of making it feel like Bucky wasn’t just existing—like maybe, just maybe, there was more to life than just surviving.
They kept walking, Sam tossing questions at him, Bucky answering when he felt like it, occasionally throwing in a sarcastic remark just to keep Sam on his toes.
And by the time they reached the Reflecting Pool, Bucky found himself… comfortable.
At ease, even.
It was a strange feeling.
A dangerous one.
Sam glanced at him, still sipping his coffee. “So, what’s next on the tour, Congressman Barnes?”
Bucky thought for a second, then smirked. “Lunch. And you’re paying.”
Sam laughed, shaking his head. “Of course I am.”
Bucky just took another sip of his coffee, hiding his grin behind the cup.
Yeah.
Maybe this wasn’t so bad.
----------------
Bucky had never been the type to sit down for a long, casual lunch, especially not in a city like Washington, where everything felt stiff and calculated, where people in suits moved like they had somewhere more important to be. Meals had always been functional, necessary refueling rather than something to be enjoyed, something to be shared.
And yet, here he was.
Sitting across from Sam Wilson in a tiny, unassuming diner that smelled like fresh coffee and sizzling butter, the kind of place tucked away from the main streets, unnoticed by the fast-moving crowds of politicians and aides.
Bucky wasn’t sure how Sam had found it—probably the same way he found everything, through sheer stubbornness and an uncanny ability to make himself at home in places Bucky never would have thought to step into.
The moment they had walked in, Sam had greeted the older woman behind the counter like he knew her, flashing that easy grin of his, already comfortable in a place he had never set foot in before.
Bucky had followed, watching as Sam chatted with her for a brief moment, asked her for “the best thing on the menu,” and then, without missing a beat, turned to Bucky with a look that was far too smug.
“You ever been here before?” Sam had asked, sliding into the booth like this was his idea.
Bucky had scoffed, taking the seat across from him. “No. I don’t go around exploring like you do.”
Sam smirked, flipping open the menu. “See, that’s your problem, Barnes. You live in a city like this and don’t even know where the good food is.”
Bucky had just huffed, shaking his head, but the truth was, he didn’t know.
Not really.
Washington had always been a backdrop to whatever war he had been fighting—first, as a soldier in the forties, then as a fugitive, and now as some reluctant congressman trying to pretend he had a place here. He had never seen it the way Sam did.
Hell, he had never even tried.
Their server had come by then, and without hesitation, Sam had ordered pancakes and eggs, leaning back like he was settling in for a real meal.
Bucky had taken a second longer, flipping through the menu, before settling on a burger—figuring it was the safest choice.
Sam had arched a brow. “A burger? At noon?”
Bucky had shot him a flat look. “You’re eating PANCAKES, Wilson.”
Sam had grinned. “Yeah, because pancakes are a gift from God. Burgers are, like, midday desperation food.”
Bucky had just rolled his eyes, handing the menu back to the server. “I hate you.”
Sam had chuckled, sipping his water. “Nah. You love me.”
Bucky had pretended not to hear that.
Now, as they sat waiting for their food, the easy normalcy of the moment stretched between them in a way that should have felt wrong, but didn’t.
Bucky tapped his fingers against the table, glancing around. The diner was cozy, all warm tones and faded photographs on the walls, the kind of place that had existed for decades, untouched by the outside world’s urgency.
Sam followed his gaze. “Bet you a hundred bucks this place has been here since before either of us was born.”
Bucky smirked. “I’m over a hundred, Wilson.”
Sam grinned. “Yeah, yeah, Grandpa, I know.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite to it.
Their food arrived a few minutes later, plates set down with the kind of no-nonsense efficiency that only came from a place that knew their food was good. Sam had dug in immediately, cutting into his stack of pancakes with the kind of appreciation that made Bucky snort.
“You eat like you haven’t had a real meal in days,” Bucky muttered, picking up his burger.
Sam pointed his fork at him. “I ENJOY my food, Barnes. You should try it sometime.”
Bucky just shook his head, but when he took a bite, he had to admit—it was good. The kind of good that made him take another bite before he could even think about it.
Sam noticed.
Smirked.
Bucky scowled. “Don’t say it.”
Sam grinned. “Didn’t say ANYTHING.”
“You were THINKING IT.”
Sam chuckled, tearing off a piece of pancake. “Damn right I was.”
They ate in relative silence for a few minutes, the clinking of utensils against plates filling the space between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
If anything, it was… easy.
Bucky didn’t do easy.
Didn’t do comfortable.
But somehow, with Sam, it was happening anyway.
Halfway through their meal, Sam leaned back, stretching his arms over his head before looking at Bucky with a smirk that immediately put him on edge.
“What?” Bucky asked, wary.
Sam grinned. “Just realizing this is basically a date.”
Bucky choked on his water.
He coughed, glaring at Sam as he reached for a napkin. “It is NOT a date, Wilson.”
Sam shrugged, sipping his coffee. “We’re out together, getting food, enjoying each other’s company…” He tilted his head. “Sounds a lot like a date to me.”
Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. “You’re insufferable.”
Sam just laughed, the sound warm and easy, something that made Bucky’s stomach twist in a way he refused to acknowledge.
The conversation drifted after that, touching on everything from Sam’s latest mission to Bucky’s growing hatred for bureaucracy, both of them occasionally tossing in a sarcastic remark just to keep things interesting.
And somewhere between Sam laughing at one of Bucky’s grumbled complaints about Senate hearings and Bucky stealing one of Sam’s fries just to be an ass, something settled.
The weight in Bucky’s chest, the ever-present tension that never fully left him, it… loosened.
Not much.
But enough.
Enough that when their plates were cleared and Sam leaned back with a satisfied sigh, Bucky didn’t feel the immediate need to retreat.
Instead, he found himself watching—just watching—the way Sam fit so easily into moments like this, the way he filled spaces without trying, without forcing anything.
It was infuriating.
And, somehow, comforting.
Sam caught him looking and raised a brow. “What?”
Bucky shook his head, taking a sip of his coffee. “Nothing.”
Sam smirked. “You get all sentimental on me, Barnes, I swear—”
Bucky scoffed. “Please. You’d cry first.”
Sam grinned. “Damn right I would.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched just slightly.
He hadn’t smiled this much in years.
And he wasn’t sure if that terrified him or not.
------------
When they finally stepped back out into the city, the afternoon light was golden, stretching long shadows across the pavement.
Sam glanced at him. “So, what now? You heading back to your fancy congressman office?”
Bucky huffed. “FANCY? Wilson, I work in a government building with flickering lights and coffee that tastes like despair.”
Sam snorted. “Alright, so NOT fancy. You going back, though?”
Bucky considered it. He probably should.
But.
For the first time in a long time…
He didn’t want to.
Instead, he shoved his hands into his pockets and muttered, “You ever been to the Library of Congress?”
Sam frowned. “What?”
Bucky nodded toward the street. “C’mon. It’s got a bunch of old books. Thought you might need some CULTURE.”
Sam laughed, shaking his head, but he followed anyway.
---------------
The knocking was insistent, loud enough to shake the doorframe, echoing through the quiet of Bucky’s apartment like a personal attack.
Bucky groaned into his pillow, squeezing his eyes shut, willing whoever it was to go away.
They didn’t.
Instead, the knocking grew more relentless, followed by an all-too-familiar voice cutting through the morning silence with an infuriating amount of energy.
“Barnes, I know you’re in there. Open the damn door.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose, debating whether or not he could get away with actually ignoring Sam Wilson.
“Don’t make me break in,” Sam warned, voice edged with amusement. “You know I will.”
Bucky grumbled something unintelligible into the mattress, his limbs lead-heavy with exhaustion. He hadn’t slept well.
That wasn’t new, of course—it was practically his default state—but last night had been particularly restless. Too many thoughts, too many half-formed memories swirling in the dark, refusing to let him settle.
He had just managed to drift off again when Sam decided to show up, pounding on his door like an overenthusiastic law enforcement raid.
With a frustrated sigh, Bucky finally dragged himself upright, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair before rolling out of bed. His body protested the movement, muscles stiff from too little rest, but the knocking hadn’t stopped, and if he didn’t answer, Sam would probably escalate his antics to something worse.
Still half-asleep, he padded barefoot across the apartment, not bothering to grab a shirt, his loose gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.
He unlocked the door and swung it open, already scowling. “What the HELL do you want?”
Sam blinked.
Froze, actually.
For a fraction of a second—just long enough for Bucky to notice—Sam’s eyes definitely did a quick up-and-down sweep of his bare torso, pausing slightly at his chest, then lower, before snapping back up to meet his gaze.
Bucky arched a brow, exhausted but not blind. “Wilson.”
Sam cleared his throat, shifting his weight like he hadn’t just gotten caught ogling. “Morning, sunshine.”
Bucky scrubbed a hand down his face, too tired for this shit. “It’s too early for your nonsense.”
Sam smirked, but there was a flicker of something else there—something assessing.
He noticed the exhaustion, Bucky realized.
The deep circles under his eyes, the way his body still felt too heavy, like he was running on fumes.
But instead of commenting on it, Sam just lifted a to-go cup and shoved it into Bucky’s hand.
“Drink that,” Sam said. “We’re going out.”
Bucky blinked at the coffee, processing the words at an infuriatingly slow speed because his brain was still waking up.
“What?” he finally muttered, taking the cup out of sheer reflex.
Sam strolled past him into the apartment like he owned the place, completely ignoring the fact that Bucky was still standing there half-dressed and half-asleep.
Bucky exhaled deeply, shutting the door behind him. “One of these days, I’m changing the locks. Or my fucking address.”
Sam, making himself comfortable against the kitchen counter, took a sip of his own coffee. “Wouldn’t matter. I’d still find a way in.”
Bucky grumbled something under his breath and took a tentative sip of the coffee, his coffee, made exactly how he liked it. He swallowed, sighing slightly at the warmth, then frowned at Sam. “Where are we going?”
Sam grinned. “Festival downtown.”
Bucky blinked, the words not quite making sense yet. “Festival?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah. You know, food stands, live music, actual human interaction. Figured you could use some exposure to civilization.”
Bucky scowled. “Pass.”
Sam tsked, shaking his head. “See, I KNEW you were gonna say that. Which is why I came prepared.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Prepared HOW?”
Sam smirked, taking another sip of coffee before setting the cup down. “By refusing to leave until you put on some damn clothes and come with me.”
Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. “Wilson.”
Sam crossed his arms, looking far too pleased with himself. “Barnes.”
Bucky gestured vaguely to himself, to his current state of existence. “Do I LOOK like someone who wants to go to a festival?”
Sam, infuriatingly, actually pretended to consider it. His gaze flicked back down over Bucky’s still-bare torso, way too slow, before he tilted his head. “I mean… right now, you look like you just crawled out of bed, so… nah.”
Bucky sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That’s because I did just crawl out of bed.”
“Exactly,” Sam said, as if that proved his point. “Which means you have NO PLANS, which means you’re free to come with me.”
Bucky let out a slow, suffering breath, drinking more coffee while glaring at Sam over the rim of the cup. “I JUST woke up.”
“It’s eleven,” Sam pointed out.
“Exactly.”
Sam sighed dramatically. “Damn, Barnes. You have no fun.”
Bucky grumbled, setting his coffee down. “I have fun.”
Sam shot him a look. “Lies.”
Bucky exhaled sharply, staring at the ceiling like it might grant him patience. “Why are you like this?”
Sam grinned. “Because someone’s gotta make sure you don’t die of boredom.”
Bucky rolled his shoulders, still trying to shake the stiffness from his body. “And I don’t get a choice in this, do I?”
Sam clapped him on the back. “Nope.”
Bucky grumbled something unrepeatable under his breath, but even as he acted like this was the worst thing that had ever happened to him, something in his chest loosened—just a little.
Sam had noticed he was exhausted.
Had seen it and decided, instead of pressing him on it, to drag him out of his head for the day.
And maybe—just maybe—Bucky didn’t actually mind that.
He downed the rest of his coffee in a long gulp, shaking his head before pushing off the counter. “Fine,” he muttered. “Give me ten minutes.”
Sam beamed. “Knew you’d come around.”
Bucky grumbled all the way to his room, but even as he pulled on jeans and a T-shirt, lacing up his boots with practiced ease, he knew—
He wasn’t really dreading it.
----------------
Bucky didn’t know why he had let Sam drag him into this.
It had started with relentless knocking on his door, an unreasonably cheerful Sam Wilson standing in his apartment way too early, and now, somehow, he was being herded through the busy streets of downtown D.C., surrounded by a sea of strangers, flashing lights, and the overpowering scent of deep-fried everything.
The NOISE was what got to him first.
The festival was alive in every sense of the word—music pouring from street performers on every corner, vendors calling out to potential customers, the distant laughter of children weaving through the chaotic hum of the city. People bustled past, brushing against him in the crowded streets, their voices blending into a steady, disorienting buzz.
It was too much.
And yet—it wasn’t awful.
At least, not with Sam beside him.
Bucky wasn’t sure how Sam did it—how he made things seem so easy, how he strolled through the festival with an effortless energy that seemed to pull people toward him, how his presence alone took the sharpest edges off of everything.
“Alright, first thing’s first,” Sam announced, scanning the line of food stalls like a man on a mission. “You’re trying something new.”
Bucky sighed, stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets. “I don’t need to try anything new.”
Sam shot him a deeply unimpressed look. “You eat like an old man stuck in his ways.”
“I AM an old man.”
Sam smirked. “Exactly. Which is why it’s time to expand your culinary horizons, Barnes.”
Bucky rolled his eyes but let Sam lead him toward a brightly lit food stand, its sign boasting the best festival food in the city. The air was thick with the smell of caramelized sugar and sizzling meat, the kind of scent that made his stomach growl before he could stop it.
Sam grinned, catching the small betrayal of his body. “See? You want to try something.”
Bucky scowled. “That doesn’t mean I trust you.”
Sam let out a dramatic sigh, shaking his head. “Man, you WOUND me.” Then, before Bucky could protest, he ordered two plates of something Bucky didn’t catch, handing over cash before turning back with a smug expression.
A few moments later, the vendor slid a plate into Sam’s hands, and Bucky eyed it warily. It was piled with some sort of golden, deep-fried pastries drizzled with syrup and dusted with powdered sugar.
“Loukóumades,” Sam announced proudly. “Greek honey balls.”
Bucky frowned. “That sounds made up.”
Sam barked out a laugh. “Barnes, I SWEAR to God, it’s real. Just try it.”
Bucky hesitated, watching as Sam popped one into his mouth with way too much enjoyment.
With a deep sigh—because of course Sam wasn’t going to let him get out of this—he picked up one of the small pastries, taking a tentative bite.
His brows lifted slightly in surprise.
Crisp on the outside, soft and warm on the inside, the honey coating melting on his tongue in an explosion of sweetness.
“…It’s good,” he admitted begrudgingly.
Sam grinned. “Damn right it is.”
They ate as they walked, the festival stretching before them in a blur of color and sound. At some point, Sam stopped at a game booth, challenging Bucky to a completely unnecessary round of ring toss.
Bucky had won, of course, his aim perfect, and had promptly refused to take the ridiculous stuffed animal prize Sam had tried to hand him.
“I’m not carrying that, Samuel,” Bucky had muttered, “YOU keep it.”
Sam had laughed, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re no fun.”
Bucky huffed. “That’s what I’ve been telling you.”
Still, Sam carried the damn thing—an oversized plush falcon—tucked under his arm like he was personally invested in making sure it got home safely.
And, somehow, Bucky didn’t hate it.
Didn’t hate any of this.
Didn’t hate the way Sam’s presence filled the space beside him, didn’t hate the way the city felt alive in a way that didn’t immediately make him want to disappear.
For the first time in a long, long time, he wasn’t just existing.
He was participating.
-----------
It happened suddenly.
One second, everything was fine—the music, the movement, the sounds of the festival swirling together into something almost bearable—and then, just as quickly, it wasn’t.
The crack of fireworks split the air.
Bucky flinched.
His body reacted before his brain could catch up, his muscles tensing, his breathing stuttering as the sound ricocheted through his skull like a gunshot.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
Too much like the past.
Another bang followed, louder this time, and Bucky’s pulse spiked, something inside him coiling tight, instincts roaring to life before he could stop them.
His hand twitched toward his hip—toward a gun that wasn’t there—his vision tunneling, the flashing festival lights blurring at the edges.
His throat tightened.
Not here. Not here.
“Hey.”
The voice cut through the noise—not the fireworks, not the crowd, but the chaos in his head.
Sam.
Bucky barely registered the hand on his arm, firm but not forceful, grounding enough to cut through the static for just a second.
“Let’s step out for a second, yeah?” Sam’s voice was steady, not demanding, not sharp. Just there.
Bucky couldn’t speak.
Couldn’t move.
Not yet.
Another firework exploded above them, and his breath stuttered, his throat closing up as his feet felt too unsteady, as the sounds around him blurred.
“Bucky.”
Sam was closer now, his grip tightening just slightly—not pulling, not dragging, just anchoring.
And somehow—somehow—that was enough.
Bucky let himself be led, barely aware of the way Sam maneuvered them through the crowd, cutting through the thick press of bodies with ease, keeping him moving before he had the chance to spiral completely.
Then—
A quieter street.
An alley.
Cooler air.
Less noise.
His back hit the brick wall, and he sank against it, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes, breathing too fast, still caught somewhere between now and then.
“Breathe,” Sam said, voice calm, right in front of him now.
Bucky let out a sharp exhale, but it wasn’t enough. His lungs still felt too tight, his pulse still pounding, his body still trapped in the moment.
His fingers twitched.
Felt like they weren’t his.
The phantom sensation of metal where there should have been flesh.
‘Report, Soldier.’
He squeezed his eyes shut.
Still not here.
Still not safe.
Then—
A touch.
Gentle.
Sam’s hands on his wrists, solid and warm, REAL, pulling his arms away from his face.
“Look at me.”
Bucky didn’t.
Couldn’t.
Sam’s grip didn’t falter. “Bucky.”
He forced his eyes open.
Sam was right there.
Right in front of him, steady and focused, his expression serious but not pitying, not afraid.
Just here.
“Breathe with me,” Sam said, voice softer now, the kind of calm that wasn’t forced—the kind of calm that knew what this was, that knew how to handle it.
Bucky clenched his jaw, still shaking slightly. “I’m—”
He wasn’t fine.
He wanted to say it. Wanted to push it away, shove it down like he always did.
But he couldn’t.
Sam’s hands were still there, grounding him, solid and unmoving.
So, instead of speaking, Bucky focused on the way Sam inhaled—slow and measured—exaggerating it just slightly, giving Bucky something to follow.
Bucky forced himself to match it.
One breath.
Then another.
And another.
Eventually, the haze in his mind started to lift.
His hands stopped trembling.
The noise faded back into the city, no longer sharp, no longer all-consuming.
Still there, still present, but no longer a threat.
Sam watched him carefully, his gaze scanning Bucky’s face, reading something in him that Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to be read.
After a long beat, Sam finally spoke, voice quiet. “You good?”
Bucky swallowed hard.
Nodded once. “Yeah.”
Sam didn’t look convinced, but—mercifully—he didn’t push.
Instead, he took a slow step back, giving Bucky space but not leaving, still close enough that his presence lingered, something steady against the lingering unease.
A few more breaths.
A few more moments of quiet.
Then—
“Damn,” Sam said, finally breaking the silence. “And here I thought I was the one who hated fireworks.”
Bucky let out a sharp, exhausted huff of breath. “They’re overrated.”
Sam smirked. “Agreed.”
Bucky exhaled again, his shoulders finally settling, the tension in his body loosening just enough that he could stand properly.
Sam let the silence stretch between them for another few beats before he finally nodded toward the street.
“C’mon,” he said, voice casual again, easy in a way that didn’t push, didn’t force. “Let’s get out of here.”
Bucky didn’t argue.
Didn’t resist.
Because, somehow, Sam had known exactly what to do.
Hadn’t spoken too much. Hadn’t tried to fix anything. Hadn’t told him to move on or to just breathe in that way people who had never been through it always did.
No.
Sam had just been there.
And that—
That was enough.
-----------------
The city still buzzed behind them, distant fireworks cracking through the air, laughter and voices weaving through the streets, the festival pulsing with life. But here, where the noise didn’t quite reach, the world felt smaller. Quieter.
Bucky exhaled, slowly, steadily, still working to ease the tightness in his chest, still trying to convince himself that he was here, now, and not wherever his mind had tried to drag him.
He’d thought he was getting better at handling it.
But sometimes, it still crept up on him. Sometimes, it still hit like a sudden shift in gravity, dragging him down before he could catch himself. And it pissed him off—how something as simple as a noise could still have this much power over him.
Beside him, Sam walked with an easy stride, hands in his pockets, eyes on the pavement ahead. He didn’t speak right away, didn’t try to fill the silence with some empty attempt at reassurance.
Bucky appreciated that.
They moved together through the quiet side streets, leaving the festival behind. The farther they walked, the calmer the city felt—less frantic, less suffocating. The buildings around them weren’t the grand, imposing structures of Capitol Hill but something older, quieter, the kind of streets people passed through without really noticing.
Sam finally glanced over. “You ever been to my spot?”
Bucky frowned slightly. “What?”
Sam tilted his head, nodding toward the direction they were heading. “There’s this place I go sometimes. When I need to clear my head.”
Bucky considered him. “And you’re taking me there why?”
Sam’s lips quirked. “Because you look like you could use it.”
Bucky wanted to argue.
Wanted to say he didn’t need comfort or distractions or whatever the hell Sam thought this was.
But his feet kept moving.
And Sam, as always, just knew.
They walked for another ten minutes, neither of them speaking much, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was the kind of silence that felt natural, the kind that didn’t demand to be filled.
Then, Sam turned down a narrow side street, leading Bucky through a stretch of old brick buildings before slipping into what looked like an overgrown park entrance, barely noticeable from the main road.
Bucky hesitated.
It was quieter here.
No cars, no passing voices—just the faint rustle of wind through the trees, the smell of damp earth and grass cutting through the lingering scent of smoke from the fireworks.
Sam led him down a stone path, past a row of streetlamps that flickered faintly, the light dim but warm. And then—
A small clearing.
A single wooden bench beneath the stretch of an old tree, the kind that had been standing longer than most of the city. The branches hung heavy, draping like curtains, casting long, soft shadows against the ground.
Bucky stopped.
It was—
Nice.
Peaceful in a way that felt deliberate, like this place existed outside the rest of the world.
Sam took a seat on the bench, stretching his legs out with a sigh, nodding for Bucky to sit.
Bucky hesitated for half a second, then sank down beside him, exhaling slowly.
For a while, they just sat.
Neither of them said anything.
Sam leaned back, tilting his head up toward the sky, watching the remnants of the fireworks flicker between the tree branches. Bucky kept his gaze forward, grounding himself in the rough texture of the wood beneath his hands, in the distant hum of the city, in the way this moment felt separate from whatever had happened earlier.
Eventually, Sam broke the silence.
“I get it, y’know,” he said, voice quieter now. “The whole… getting stuck in it thing.”
Bucky glanced over.
Sam didn’t look at him.
Didn’t need to.
“You think you’ve got it handled,” Sam continued. “Think you’ve got it under control—that you can move past it. But then something HAPPENS, and it’s like your body doesn’t get the memo. Like it just REACTS before you can stop it.”
Bucky swallowed.
Yeah.
He knew exactly what that felt like.
Sam let out a slow breath. “After I got back from my last deployment, it was loud noises for me too. Not fireworks, though. Helicopters. The sound of the rotors spinning up.”
Bucky watched him now, quiet, listening.
Sam’s jaw tightened slightly. “I used to wake up in a panic every time one flew overhead. Didn’t matter where I was. Even back home, sitting on the dock, where I KNEW I was safe—it would hit me just wrong, and suddenly, I was back in the desert, waiting for the next mission, the next order, the next damn fight.”
Bucky’s throat tightened.
He hadn’t expected this.
Hadn’t expected Sam to offer this.
But Sam understood.
Not in a distant, sympathetic way. Not in the way that people tried to understand when they hadn’t lived it.
But in the way that only someone who had been through it could.
Sam shook his head slightly. “Took me a while to get a handle on it. Hell, I still have moments. But you know what helped?”
Bucky swallowed, voice rough when he finally spoke. “What?”
Sam exhaled, tilting his head to look at him. “Not doing it alone.”
Bucky looked away, his fingers flexing against his knee.
Sam let the words sit for a moment before continuing, “You don’t always have to muscle through it, Barnes.”
Bucky clenched his jaw. “That’s all I know how to do.”
Sam huffed, shaking his head. “Nah. You THINK that’s all you know how to do.” He gestured vaguely between them. “But, y’know, evidence suggests otherwise.”
Bucky exhaled sharply through his nose. “You dragged me to this festival.”
Sam smirked. “And yet, here we are.”
Bucky shook his head, but there was the faintest hint of amusement beneath the exhaustion.
The silence stretched again, easier now, more settled.
Sam leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You ARE getting better, man. Even if you don’t see it.”
Bucky swallowed. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Sam’s expression softened. “It never does. Not when you’re in it.” He nudged Bucky’s shoulder lightly. “But you’re HERE. That counts for something.”
Bucky let that sink in.
Because—
Yeah.
Maybe it did.
They sat there for a while longer, the city breathing around them, the noise distant but not pressing, not suffocating.
Eventually, Sam stretched, pushing up from the bench. “C’mon,” he said, offering Bucky a hand. “Let’s get you home.”
Bucky stared at the outstretched hand for a beat, then sighed, taking it.
Sam pulled him up easily, giving him a small grin. “See? Progress. You let me help you.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, but his grip lingered on Sam’s for a fraction of a second longer than necessary before he let go.
They started walking back, the night stretched out before them, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky didn’t feel like he was carrying all of it alone.