Motorcycles and Baseball Games
Bucky wasn’t entirely sure why he was doing this.
The idea had come to him in the middle of the night, creeping in like an unwelcome guest while he lay awake, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of his too-empty apartment. It had been three weeks since the cemetery—three weeks since he had shattered under the weight of his grief, since Sam had held him through it, had stayed even when Bucky was at his lowest.
And in those three weeks, Sam had continued to show up.
Not in an obvious way, not in a way that screamed ‘I’m worried about you’, but in a way that made it clear he was watching, waiting, making sure Bucky wasn’t slipping back into the version of himself that locked doors and let the world go silent.
So maybe this—showing up at Sam’s office, tickets in his pocket, the smallest attempt at doing something in return—was his way of proving that he SAW it. That he KNEW what Sam was doing, even if neither of them talked about it.
He stepped into the building, helmet tucked under his arm, the weight of it grounding him as he walked through the halls, his boots a little too loud against the polished marble. He could feel the way people’s eyes flickered toward him—he wasn’t exactly dressed like someone who belonged here.
No suit. No tie.
Just his usual attire—tight black jeans, a black t-shirt stretched across broad shoulders, and the well-worn leather jacket that had seen more years than most people in this damn building. He hadn’t meant to make a statement, hadn’t thought much about what he was wearing at all.
But now, standing here, surrounded by stiff suits and sharp glances, he realized he looked more like a man about to start trouble than one here for a friendly visit.
That thought almost made him smirk.
He didn’t bother knocking when he reached Sam’s office. Just pushed the door open like he owned the place—
And immediately regretted it.
Torres was there.
That damn kid was leaning against Sam’s desk, all too-comfortable, too-relaxed, grinning like he expected something interesting to happen. His expression shifted the second he saw Bucky, amusement flashing across his face like he knew something he shouldn’t.
Bucky’s jaw tightened.
“Wow,” Torres said, his grin widening as he took in Bucky’s appearance, eyes flicking over him in a way that made Bucky feel assessed. “That’s a new look for a congressman.”
Bucky narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t realize I needed a dress code to kick you out.”
Torres let out a low whistle, clearly unbothered by the warning in Bucky’s tone. “Damn, Barnes. You always this charming, or am I just special?”
Bucky stepped forward, slow and deliberate, letting his presence loom the way he had perfected over decades of being the kind of man people feared.
Torres’ smirk faltered, just slightly.
Good.
Bucky tilted his head. “You talk too much.”
Torres blinked at him, then grinned harder. “I LOVE that you think you intimidate me.”
Bucky clenched his jaw.
Sam’s office door swung open before he could respond.
And then Sam was there.
Looking damn good in a navy dress shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fitted fabric doing entirely too much for the shape of his arms.
Bucky barely registered that before he caught the way Sam’s movements hesitated for the slightest second, the way his eyes flickered over Bucky’s outfit—taking in the jacket, the shirt, the way the jeans fit him just right—before quickly moving on like he hadn’t noticed at all.
Bucky didn’t think anything of it.
Didn’t process the pause, didn’t give it a second thought.
But Torres did.
Bucky felt Torres noticing, saw the slight shift in his stance, the way his gaze flicked between them like he was putting something together.
Bucky ignored it.
“Barnes?” Sam frowned slightly, stepping toward him. “What are you doing here?”
Bucky exhaled slowly, reaching into his jacket pocket, pulling out the tickets. He tossed them onto Sam’s desk with a casualness he didn’t quite feel.
“You free tonight?”
Sam looked down at the tickets.
Paused.
Then—
His head snapped back up.
“No way,” he said, blinking at Bucky, then back at the tickets. “No WAY you got these.”
Bucky smirked, just slightly. “Figured you could use a break.”
Torres let out an obnoxiously loud breath. “This is adorable.”
Bucky glared at him.
Sam ignored the comment entirely, still staring at the tickets like he couldn’t quite believe what he was looking at. “You GOT these?”
Bucky shrugged. “Yeah.”
Sam shook his head, grinning. “Front row seats?”
Bucky arched a brow. “You wanna stand here and question it all day, or are you coming?”
Sam’s grin widened.
Then—
“Yeah. Let’s go.”
Bucky felt a small, unexpected thread of satisfaction settle in his chest.
Torres sighed dramatically. “Wow, Barnes. You ask him out and he actually says yes? I’m impressed.”
Bucky turned his head slowly, and whatever Torres saw in his face at that moment made him shut up real fast.
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. “Don’t poke the bear, kid.”
Torres lifted his hands. “No poking, no poking.”
Bucky didn’t break his glare. “Good.”
Sam clapped a hand against his shoulder, pulling his attention back. “Gimme ten minutes to change, and we’ll head out.”
Bucky nodded.
Sam turned toward his office, but not before Torres leaned in slightly as he passed Bucky, voice low enough that only he could hear—
“Man, you are SO down bad.”
Bucky didn’t respond.
Didn’t react.
Just waited until Sam was out of earshot—
Then stepped closer, invading Torres’ space just enough to make him straighten slightly, that smug grin faltering.
“You talk too much,” Bucky muttered again, voice quiet, dangerous.
Torres blinked.
Then, slowly, his grin returned.
“Yeah,” Torres said, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder like he wasn’t afraid at all. “But you like HIM too much to do anything about it.”
Bucky clenched his jaw.
Didn’t dignify that with an answer.
Didn’t let it land.
Just turned, walking toward the door, already focused on the one thing that mattered—
The fact that Sam had said yes.
-----------
Bucky hadn’t been to a baseball game since the forties.
He wasn’t even sure why he had decided on this—why this had been the thing he’d chosen as a way to do something for Sam, to try and return even a fraction of what Sam had done for him. Maybe it was because it had been a long time since he’d seen Sam look genuinely happy. Maybe it was because Bucky had started paying attention, had started remembering the little things Sam had mentioned in passing—the way he had played ball as a kid, the way he used to watch games with his family, the way he had once admitted, offhandedly, that he hadn’t been to a real game in years.
Or maybe it was because, deep down, Bucky had wanted to see that look on Sam’s face. The one that wasn’t weighed down by responsibility, by expectation, by the crushing weight of what it meant to carry that shield.
Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was something else.
But whatever it was, it had led them here.
The stadium was alive in a way that Bucky had forgotten places could be. The energy of the crowd pulsed in the air, an ever-present hum of voices rising and falling like waves, the sharp scent of grilled food and cheap beer hanging thick in the cool evening air. People moved in chaotic patterns around them, families with kids in oversized jerseys, groups of fans shouting over one another, the sounds of vendors calling out their sales blending into the steady, rhythmic background of a world that didn’t need saving.
Bucky had never been one for crowds, but this…
This felt different.
He let his gaze drift to Sam, watching as he took it all in with something like ease, his body settled into the chair beside him, long legs stretched out, one arm resting lazily on the back of Bucky’s seat. It was comfortable. Natural. Like Sam belonged here, in this moment, without the weight of everything else hanging over him.
And that—
That was what Bucky had wanted.
Not the game. Not the tickets.
Just this.
Sam turned toward him suddenly, his grin easy, his eyes bright in a way Bucky didn’t see often enough.
“I gotta admit,” Sam said, his voice warm, teasing, “this is the last place I expected you to take me.”
Bucky huffed, rolling his eyes, letting himself settle more into his seat. “Yeah, well. Don’t get used to it.”
Sam smirked, leaning in slightly, his shoulder brushing against Bucky’s. “Too late.”
Bucky swallowed. Didn’t move away.
Didn’t want to.
The game started, the first pitch thrown, the crowd erupting in cheers and scattered boos, but Bucky barely paid attention. His focus was elsewhere—on the way Sam’s fingers tapped absently against the armrest, on the way his eyes tracked the movement on the field with a kind of quiet excitement, on the way he existed in this space like he hadn’t been pulled in a thousand different directions lately.
It was easy to forget, sometimes, that Sam wasn’t just Captain America.
That he wasn’t just the man who carried the shield, who gave speeches, who held the weight of an entire nation’s expectations on his damn shoulders.
Here, right now, in this moment, he was just Sam Wilson.
And Bucky liked this Sam.
Liked the way he nudged Bucky’s knee with his own when something exciting happened, the way he laughed at something an overly enthusiastic fan shouted from a few rows behind them, the way he leaned closer whenever he had something to say, like he had already decided Bucky was the only person worth talking to.
It made something in Bucky’s chest tighten.
Not in the way grief did.
Not in the way guilt did.
But in a way that felt almost…
Sam nudged him again, pulling him from his thoughts.
“You’re not even watching the game,” Sam accused, tilting his head slightly, giving Bucky that LOOK—the one that said he saw him, the one that made it impossible for Bucky to hide.
Bucky snorted. “Didn’t come for the game.”
Sam arched a brow. “Oh? And what DID you come for?”
Bucky opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Looked at Sam.
And—
Damn it.
Sam was still smiling.
Still looking at Bucky like this was the easiest thing in the world, like this—the two of them, together, here—made perfect sense.
Bucky cleared his throat, glancing away. “Thought you could use a break.”
Something flickered in Sam’s expression, something quieter, something real.
He didn’t tease. Didn’t push.
Just nodded.
“Yeah,” Sam said, voice softer now. “Yeah, I think I did.”
The game carried on, but the space between them shifted, became something warmer, something less complicated.
At one point, Sam stretched again, arm moving easily across the back of Bucky’s seat, fingers brushing against his shoulder, lingering JUST enough to make Bucky’s breath hitch before he forced himself to focus on literally anything else.
Sam didn’t seem to notice.
Or maybe he did.
Maybe he always noticed.
But if he did, he didn’t say anything.
Didn’t move away.
And Bucky—
Bucky didn’t mind.
Didn’t hate it.
Didn’t even try to convince himself that it wasn’t nice.
He let himself sink into the feeling, let himself enjoy it, let himself exist in the space Sam had made for him.
Because for the first time in a long time, Bucky wasn’t sitting in the past.
He wasn’t thinking about the war, or the Winter Soldier, or the ghosts that still lingered in the back of his mind.
He was here.
At a baseball game.
With Sam Wilson.
And for now—
Fuck.
For now, that was enough.
-----------
By the time they stepped out of the stadium, the crowd had thinned, leaving only stragglers weaving through the parking lot, voices echoing in the cool night air. The sharp scent of hot dogs and spilled beer still clung to the pavement, mingling with the distant hum of the city beyond the stadium walls.
Sam was walking with an easy swagger, his movements just loose enough to be noticeable. Not drunk, exactly, but drunk enough—that warm, tipsy kind of buzz that made his steps a little too relaxed, his grin lingering for a beat too long after a joke.
Bucky exhaled through his nose, shaking his head as he watched Sam dig through his pockets for his truck keys.
“Yeah, no,” Bucky said flatly, snatching them out of Sam’s hand before he could react.
Sam blinked, his brow furrowing as he patted his now-empty pocket. “Hey, what the hell?”
Bucky crossed his arms, unimpressed. “You’re not driving.”
Sam scoffed, trying to snatch the keys back, but Bucky was faster. “I’m fine.”
“You had four beers.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “And?”
Bucky arched a brow. “And I like not having you die in a fiery crash, thanks.”
Sam squinted at him, then sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Alright, fine. I’ll call a damn cab.”
Bucky snorted. “Not happening.” He jerked his chin toward his bike, parked a few spaces away. “I’m taking you home.”
Sam followed his gaze, his expression shifting into something vaguely concerned. “…On THAT?”
Bucky fought back a smirk. “On that.”
Sam hesitated, glancing between Bucky and the bike like he was considering whether this was worth arguing about.
Bucky didn’t give him the chance.
Instead, he shoved the spare helmet into Sam’s chest. “Here. Put this on.”
Sam caught it, staring at him. “What about you?”
Bucky shrugged, utterly unconcerned. “I’ll be fine.”
Sam let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Right. ‘Cause you’re indestructible or whatever?”
Bucky smirked. “Pretty much.”
Sam shook his head, muttering something under his breath about reckless idiots, but he didn’t argue further. With a resigned sigh, he strapped the helmet on, adjusting it slightly before turning back to Bucky.
“This feels like a bad idea,” Sam muttered.
Bucky slung a leg over the bike, kicking up the stand. “Then don’t fall off.”
Sam groaned but climbed on behind him, his grip tentative at first, hands resting lightly at Bucky’s sides.
That wouldn’t do. Not if he didn’t want Sam going ass over foot off the back of his bike.
Bucky sighed, reaching back to grab Sam’s wrists before yanking them forward, forcing his arms to wrap fully around his waist.
Sam tensed. “Jesus, Barnes—”
“You’ll thank me when you don’t fall off,” Bucky said, far too smug for his own good.
Sam huffed, but he didn’t let go.
Bucky rolled his shoulders, feeling the warmth of Sam’s chest pressed against his back, the way his grip was sturdy despite his grumbling. It was… different. Not bad, just—
Fuck.
It had been a long time since someone had touched him like this. Not in combat, not in a fight, but in a way that was trusting, in a way that felt solid, like Bucky was something to hold onto.
It was—
Shit.
Bucky shook the thought away, revving the engine before he could start thinking too much about it.
The bike roared to life beneath them, the deep vibration thrumming through Bucky’s chest, through Sam’s arms where they wrapped around him.
Then they were moving.
Bucky pulled out of the parking lot, accelerating smoothly onto the main road. The streetlights flickered past in golden streaks, the wind rushing against his face, the sound of the city melting into the steady hum of the bike beneath them.
Sam lasted all of five seconds before he started yelling.
“BUCKY!”
Bucky grinned, barely slowing as he took a sharp turn. “Relax, Wilson.”
“Relax?! You drive this thing like you’re in a damn high-speed chase!”
Bucky chuckled, gunning the engine just a little more, feeling Sam tighten his grip around his waist.
“Slow the hell down!”
“This IS me slowing down.”
Sam swore, his grip vice-like now, and Bucky could practically feel the glare burning into the back of his head.
They hit a stretch of open road, the city lights glimmering in the distance, and Bucky couldn’t help himself—he pushed the speed just slightly, just enough to feel the full power of the bike beneath him, the rush of wind cutting through the night air.
Sam freaked out immediately.
“BARNES—”
Bucky laughed this time, full and genuine, the sound ripped from his chest before he could stop it.
Sam groaned. “I swear to God, if I die like this, I’m haunting your ass.”
Bucky smirked. “Cause you’d miss me too much?”
Sam’s scoff was indignant. “You wish.”
Bucky slowed slightly—slightly, just enough to be merciful—taking the next turn smoothly, guiding them onto a quieter street. The road stretched out ahead, lined with trees, the traffic thinning as they moved further away from the city’s center.
Sam finally let out a long, suffering sigh, his breath warm against the back of Bucky’s neck. “You enjoyed that.”
Bucky hummed. “Little bit.”
Sam groaned again, but his grip had eased, his body settling more comfortably against Bucky’s back.
They rode in silence for a few minutes, the night air wrapping around them, the engine humming beneath them in steady rhythm.
Bucky wasn’t sure why this felt different.
Why the weight of Sam behind him felt good in a way he hadn’t expected.
Why he wasn’t in any rush to pull up to Sam’s place, to end this moment.
Eventually, Sam spoke again, voice quieter this time, less exasperated, more thoughtful. “You ever take anyone else for rides like this?”
Bucky swallowed, fingers tightening slightly around the handlebars.
“No,” he admitted.
Sam was quiet for a beat.
Then—
“…Huh.”
Bucky didn’t ask what that meant.
Didn’t want to know.
Instead, he pulled onto Sam’s street, slowing as they neared his building, the engine purring beneath them as he finally rolled to a stop.
Sam let out a slow breath, his grip loosening.
Bucky stayed still for a moment, feeling it—feeling the absence of Sam’s warmth as he hesitated, then finally let go, swinging his leg over the bike and stepping onto the pavement.
He pulled off his helmet, running a hand over his face before glancing back at Bucky.
Bucky hadn’t moved yet.
Just sat there, hands on the handlebars, watching.
Sam smirked, shaking his head. “Never again, Barnes.”
Bucky huffed a laugh, finally shutting off the bike. “We’ll see.”
Sam pointed a finger at him, stepping backward toward his door. “I mean it. Next time, we’re taking my damn truck.”
Bucky just smirked.
Watched Sam turn, watched him pause for half a second before finally heading inside.
And then—
Only then—
Did Bucky let himself breathe again.
--------------
Bucky dropped his keys onto the counter with a dull clink, shrugging off his jacket as he stepped into the dimly lit quiet of his apartment. The space felt colder than usual, though maybe that was just in his head. The night air still clung to his skin, cool from the ride, his body humming with the aftereffects of the road, the wind, the distant echo of Sam’s laughter still ringing in his ears.
He had dropped Sam off barely twenty minutes ago.
It should have been easy—get home, get some sleep, move on like it was just another night.
But Bucky wasn’t wired like that.
Never had been.
Instead, he stood there in the middle of his apartment, hands braced against the edge of the counter, eyes staring blankly at the far wall like he could force himself to unwind just by willing it. His pulse was still running faster than it should have been, his chest tight with something he couldn’t quite put a name to.
He let out a sharp breath and dragged a hand down his face.
He was restless.
That was the problem.
It had been a good night—too good, maybe. It had been easy, in a way nothing in Bucky’s life ever was. A baseball game, cold beer, greasy food, Sam pressed against his back on the bike, yelling in his ear about reckless driving like he hadn’t been holding on tight enough to make Bucky feel everything.
And that—
That was the real problem.
Bucky had spent years training himself to not feel. To compartmentalize. To shove down everything that made him weak, that made him human.
But with Sam—
With Sam, it was getting harder.
There had been a moment tonight, a brief, fleeting second, when Sam had looked at him—really looked at him—and Bucky had felt something stutter in his chest, something unfamiliar, something dangerous.
And now?
Now, alone in his apartment, with nothing but the silence and the memory of Sam’s warmth still ghosting against his skin, Bucky wasn’t sure how to shake it.
He turned abruptly, pushing off the counter, pacing toward the window. The city stretched beyond, glowing faintly in the late-night haze. It was quiet this high up, the hum of traffic distant, muffled by glass and concrete.
Bucky ran a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly.
This was stupid.
It was just a night out. Just baseball. Just—
His phone buzzed.
Bucky frowned, pulling it from his pocket.
SAM: ‘You make it home alive or did your bike finally kill you?’
Bucky huffed, shaking his head. He shouldn’t be smiling.
BUCKY: ‘Disappointed?’
The dots popped up almost immediately.
SAM: ‘Mildly.’
Bucky let out a quiet laugh, rubbing at the tension in his chest.
BUCKY: ‘You should be thanking me for getting you home in one piece.’
SAM: ‘Bold of you to assume I’m not still recovering from the trauma.’
Bucky smirked.
Paused.
Then, before he could think better of it—
BUCKY: ‘Could’ve been worse. I could’ve made you drive.’
A beat.
Then—
SAM: ‘…I regret everything.’
Bucky snorted, shaking his head as he leaned back against the counter, his fingers still curled around his phone.
The apartment didn’t feel so cold anymore.
Didn’t feel quite so empty.
------------
Bucky woke up the next morning with his phone still in his hand.
The screen had gone dark, but his fingers were curled around the device like he had fallen asleep mid-conversation—not that he would ever admit to that. He blinked blearily at the ceiling, his mind slow to pull itself into full awareness, the memory of last night still too fresh, lingering at the edges of his thoughts like something that wasn’t quite ready to let him go.
The game.
The laughter.
The way Sam had leaned against him on the bike, warmth pressed into every inch of Bucky’s back, grip steady around his waist.
Bucky exhaled sharply, forcing himself upright.
Nope.
Not doing this.
Not getting lost in his own damn head over something that meant nothing.
Nothing at all.
He shoved the blankets off and swung his legs over the side of the bed, his body moving on autopilot, training kicking in where rational thought refused to cooperate. He was already halfway through his morning routine before his mind caught up—shower, coffee, a half-hearted attempt at breakfast before he abandoned the idea entirely.
He needed to move.
To shake this off.
He was fine.
Absolutely, completely fine.
So when his phone buzzed again, he ignored the way his chest tightened before he even glanced at the screen.
SAM: ‘You up, Barnes?’
Bucky stared at the message.
Contemplated throwing his phone across the room.
Then—
BUCKY: ‘No.’
The dots popped up immediately.
SAM: ‘Damn. Guess I’ll eat these extra beignets by myself then.’
Bucky scowled.
Because of course Sam would play dirty.
BUCKY: ‘You’re bluffing.’
SAM: ‘Am I?’
A photo came through a second later—an unmistakable white paper bag from Sam’s favorite café, peeking open just enough to show powdered sugar dusted over warm, golden pastry.
Bucky HATED how fast he was reaching for his boots.
BUCKY: ‘I’m gonna kill you.’
SAM: ‘At least wait till after breakfast.’
Bucky scrubbed a hand over his face, shoving his phone into his pocket as he grabbed his jacket.
Yeah.
Denial was a hell of a thing.