As a rule, Sarah didn’t answer calls from unfamiliar numbers. She was happy with her insurance carrier and her internet provider, and wasn’t quite gullible enough to think that UPS needed her bank account number so she could pick up a package she’d never ordered. So, really, there was no reason for her to ever pick up her phone for any number that didn’t have its own entry in her contact list. Everyone she could’ve possibly wanted to talk to, and quite a few people she might one day have to talk to, but prayed she’d never actually need to talk to, were already safely saved in her phone’s memory.
Sarah had zero reason to answer a call from an unknown number, so she wouldn’t do it.
Or, well, at least she wouldn’t normally do it. However, these weren’t exactly normal times: her brother had just fought a newer redder Hulk, who just so happened to be the President of the United States, on live tv; her other brother seemed seconds away from embarking on a crusade against all super-powered peoples, which had put him on the radar of some of the more radical of those super-powered peoples, and practically drawn a target on his back; and, while not exactly dangerous, her oldest son was at his first school dance, because apparently that was something sixth graders did now, and her youngest son was at a sleepover, and both of those things were worrying in their own right.
Actually, considering all that, Sarah didn’t really think she was in any position to not answer her phone, so she did.
“Hello,” she said, tentatively, internally bracing herself.
But there was just static, and the sound of… gunfire.
Gunfire? Sarah’s grip on her phone tightened to the point she was afraid she might break it, and she slowly lowered herself down onto the couch.
“Oh God. Sam?” She guessed. “Sam is that you?”
“No,” a voice finally spoke up, but they immediately paused as more shots rang out in the background.
There was a tense little moment of silence that followed where Sarah feared the worst for her mystery caller, but then they spoke again:
“It’s Bucky.”
“Bucky? What—
“Is Sam there?” He cut in.
“What?” Sarah repeated, her dismay momentarily replaced with confusion. “No. You know Sam’s at that new compound.”
Or, at least, she had assumed he would know where Sam was. Knowing where her brother was and what he was up to seemed to be one of Bucky’s favorite pastimes, maybe his only favorite pastime. So…
“Bucky, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” he said, over the sound of more gunfire.
“Right.” She scoffed. “Well, —
“Are you sure he’s at the compound?” He interrupted her again. “Because none of my—” He cut himself off abruptly, and cleared his throat, before continuing, “I, um, I really just don’t think he’s there.”
“Okay…” She said, slowly. “Have you tried asking him where he is?”
“He won’t pick up the phone. Not for me anyway,” he said, muttering the last part under his breath.
Sarah almost laughed in response, but suddenly she heard what sounded like a literal cannon, and her amusement dried up real quick. She even jumped a little in her seat.
“Bucky, what in the world are you doing?”
“Nothing. Just,” he blew out a breath, “one sec, Sarah,” he said, then the phone went dead.
Or, not dead, exactly. Sarah pulled her phone away to glance at the screen, and the line was still open. But when she put it back to her ear, she still couldn’t hear anything: no breathing, no gunfire, no cannons. Nothing.
The silence became so heavy, and was making her so uneasy, that she wondered if maybe she should click over and try to contact Sam herself. Yeah, he and Bucky were on the outs, and Bucky supposedly had his own motley crew watching his back these days, but… They were criminals, and even though Sarah hadn’t ever met any of them, she knew enough about them from Sam’s random complaints that she didn’t trust any of them as far as she could throw them, so…
What if Bucky was in trouble? On the outs or not, resting after getting rid of a Hulk-sized problem or not, Sarah knew her brother well enough to know that he’d want to know if Bucky was in trouble.
Realistically, more than a couple of minutes couldn’t have passed since Bucky had essentially put her on hold, but Sarah had worked herself up good and proper. She was just about to bite the bullet, click over, and get Sam on the line, when Bucky reappeared.
“Sarah?”
“I’m still here,” she confirmed.
“Good. So, other than the DC house and the compound, is there—
“Uh uh.” She cut him off this time. “Nope. We’re not gonna just breeze past…” She gestured vaguely, and somewhat wildly, in front of herself with her left hand. “… all that. What on earth were you doing?”
“That’s classified,” he said, gruffly.
“Classified?” She huffed. “Bucky, where are you?”
“Also classified.”
“Well, are you okay?”
“No,” he said, an unfamiliar attitude evident in his voice. Well, the attitude being aimed at her was the unfamiliar part; it was just the type of pert tone usually reserved solely for Sam. “That’s why I called.”
“You’re hurt?” She asked, instantly forgetting to be annoyed by his tone. “Oh my goodness. Bucky, do you need—
“What? No. I’m fine. Well, physically.”
Sarah frowned. “You just said you weren’t okay,” she said, slowly. “And since you seem to have called me in the middle of a firefight…” She trailed off, huffing in frustration. “Look, maybe just try using your words, Bucky. What exactly do you want?”
“To know where Sam is,” he answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
She sighed. “I already told you he’s at the compound, so…”
“And I already told you he’s not, so…”
Sarah rolled her eyes at his sassy tone. Boy did she miss the days when he was too busy trying to make a good impression on her to act like one of her smart-aleck brothers.
“How do you know he isn’t there, if he’s not even answering your calls?” Sarah wanted to know. See, she could be annoying too.
“Because I have that whole dumb compound wired to let me know the second Sam takes one step inside, so I’ll always know when he’s made it back from a mission safely.”
“You what?” She exclaimed, sitting up straighter in her seat.
“You heard me,” he replied, readily, not sounding the least bit repentant about it. “I would’ve received an alert as soon as Sam got home, but I was never notified that he made it there,” he continued. “And now Sam won’t answer the phone, and neither will Joaquin, and I can’t get anyone else in that stupid place to pick up either. And, look, I know I’m not even really supposed to be talking to anyone out there or anywhere else, hence the burner I’m calling you from, but I just… I need to know Sam’s okay. I mean, I saw him walk away from the fight like everyone else, but he’s walked away from stuff before, and still been stabbed, or shot, or—
“What?!”
Bucky winced. Okay, so Sam definitely didn’t want Sarah knowing any of that, and he really hadn’t meant to share it, but all of his intel said that Sam should’ve been home hours ago. He couldn’t get a read on Sam at the compound though, or his apartment, or anywhere else for that matter. So Sam was just going to have to excuse the hell out of Bucky if he let something slip, because he was freaking the fuck out.
“Forget I said any of that, please,” he said, just so he could say he tried, but she scoffed.
“Yeah, sure. That’s gonna happen.”
“Whatever.” He sighed. “None of that matters right now anyway. The only thing that matters is finding Sam. Is there any other place you can think of where he—
“The compound, Bucky.” She cut him off before he could even finish his question. “He’s at the compound. Safe and sound in his apartment there.”
Bucky practically groaned, and if she wasn’t so irritated, she might have laughed.
“Sarah—
“Bucky,” she whined, mocking his tone perfectly. “Can that burner of yours get pictures?”
“Yeah; why?”
“One sec,” she said, then sent him the same picture she’d finally received at about two that morning, apparently, to put her mind at ease. “Did you get it?”
He didn’t immediately answer, but yeah, he’d gotten it alright. Staring back at him from the tiny screen of his rinkydink burner phone, was a picture of Sam. He was bandaged in a few places and bruised in others, but basically, yeah, he appeared safe and sound, wrapped up in that old quilt that his grandmother had made, and laying in the California king that was sitting smack dab in the middle of his bedroom at the compound. And that, well, it just didn’t make any sense. Because there was also a camera sitting, not smack dab in Sam’s bedroom, but more like expertly hidden above Sam’s door. It had a perfect view of the entrance, and none of Bucky’s footage showed Sam coming in through it that day.
“How is this possible?” Bucky said, more to himself than to Sarah, but she smugly answered anyway, feeling a little burst of pride for her brother.
Even a super soldier couldn’t get anything over on a Wilson.
“I don’t know exactly, but I’d wager Sam must’ve found your spy gear at some point.”
“It isn’t spy gear.”
“Right.”
“It isn’t,” he insisted. “It’s… peace of mind gear,” he said, lamely.
“Funny, I doubt it brought Sam any peace of mind when he found it.”
“Sarah, I just—
“No, no.” She cut him off. “I’m not the one who needs an explanation,” she said. “This whole thing seems like a conversation the two of you should be having.”
“Yeah, well, that’s kinda hard to do when he’s not picking up the phone.”
“Maybe for a regular person,” she conceded. “But not for a super spy—
“Super soldier,” he corrected, under his breath, but she heard him and laughed.
“Okay, well, it shouldn’t be that hard for a big bad super soldier. I mean, Bucky, really, you just called me in the middle of a battle—
“It was barely a fight—
“Because the bugs—
“Security measures,” he corrected, but she continued unfazed.
“The bugs,” she repeated, “that you managed to sneak into the new Avengers compound, of all places, aren’t working. If you can trade pleasantries in the middle of a firefight, and manage to infiltrate a place as secure as the compound, then I think you should be able to find a way to contact your…” She trailed off, frowning. Really, she didn’t know what the hell they were to each other at this point. “Sam,” she eventually said. “You should be able to contact Sam, or go see Sam, or whatever. I mean, who’s stopping you, Bucky?”
“Him,” he said, flatly. “He doesn’t want to see me, Sarah.”
“He didn’t want to see you not all that long ago when you showed up berating him in an airplane hangar either, but that didn’t stop you from doing it, now did it?”
Bucky had the good grace to blush at that, and the good luck that Sarah couldn’t see it.
“No,” he admitted, even though it was obvious from his tone that he didn’t want to. “But—
“So go see him,” she suggested, “Drop in on him unannounced. We both know you don’t have any problems doing that,” she said, trying not to laugh at the sputtering he did in response. “But,” she continued, refusing to let him get a word in edgewise. “Maybe this time you should show up with flowers instead of an attitude. I mean, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day after all, so your timing probably won’t get any better.”
“Wait - what? What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked, hotly.
And, look, for a split second, Sarah really considered telling Bucky about himself, about how obvious he’d been just now on the phone and during all that time he’d spent dancing around Sam in Delacroix before the CIA came a calling and basically broke them up. But, why should she? Bucky was a smart guy. He could figure it out. So, in the end, all she said was:
“What do you think?”
Then she hung up without so much as a goodbye.
Bucky stared down at his dead phone, his lips parted in surprise, for maybe a full minute. But he couldn’t be mad at Sarah for hanging up. Honestly, he’d probably have to call her back later and apologize; that entire call had been a bit much, to put it mildly, even for him and his Sam-obsessed specific brand of crazy.
And, if he was being really honest, the uncomfortable kind of honest, he couldn’t really be mad at her for being the person to finally lend voice to the one thing he’d never wanted to acknowledge either: his feelings for Sam. Maybe Sarah hadn’t explicitly called him out, but she’d said enough to let him know that she definitely knew what he’d always tried so hard to hide.
That night as he laid in bed, all he did was think about everything she’d said (and hadn’t said) during their conversation, and all things he’d said and hadn’t had the nerve to say to Sam since damn near the very first time they’d met, really met.
All the things he wanted — no, needed to say to Sam now.
Actually, it wasn’t much, but it was a lot. The kind of things you didn’t say over the phone, even if Sam had been inclined to answer his calls. No, it was the kind of stuff you said in person.
So, really, there was only one thing Bucky could do.
♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️♥️
Someone was in Sam’s apartment.
More specifically, someone was in the kitchen in Sam’s rarely used Avengers Compound apartment cooking… some kind of seafood? Maybe? Either that, or Sam was having, quite possibly, the most vivid dream he’d ever had in his life.
And, it was possible. His eyes were still closed, and he definitely felt more asleep than awake, but…
“Shit.”
Sam heard the curse and the banging that happened afterwards, and sighed. Nope. This, whatever it was, was really happening, and he was really awake. Too bad. He would have happily slept for a month after this most recent mission.
But, clearly, it was over for that, because clearly someone was in Sam’s private kitchen moving around with all the grace of a bull in a china shop. However, since he wasn’t being killed, or even attacked, he figured it was safe to get out of bed and see just what the hell was going on.
Well, okay, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on. Or, rather, he had a pretty good idea of who he was hearing. Realistically, it could only be one of three people: his sister, his partner, or his former partner. His sister was concerned, sure, but he’d sent her enough pictures of his relatively minor injuries, and even a couple of screenshots of his not-so-worrying charts, so he was fairly certain she wouldn’t drop everything, including his nephew’s first school dance, to show up to tend to him and his almost nonexistent wounds. Joaquin didn’t have any kids or any other pressing familial commitments keeping him away; he would’ve been more than happy to tend to Sam. But, Sam had made him promise not to come over and play nursemaid. And Joaquin, unlike some people he knew and used to partner with, was actually good at keeping his promises, so Sam doubted it was his wingman in the other room breaking dishes.
That could only mean… Bucky.
His one time partner.
His all the time pain in the ass.
Jesus. Only Bucky would have the gall to show up in his private apartments unannounced, start cooking, and not even bother to greet him.
Before he even climbed out of bed, Sam’s eyes were rolling and that vein in his forehead was throbbing. By the time he’d started making his way down the hallway, and into the kitchen, he’d worked himself up pretty good.
Of course, just as he had suspected, there was Bucky, practically destroying his kitchen, and looking as grumpy as ever while he did it. Two pots and his tea kettle were going on the stove, the floor was gritty and sticky from God only knew what, and the counter was littered with a slew of food, most of which Sam knew for a fact he hadn’t had sent up from the main kitchen.
Lord. He wasn’t in the mood for this. And he really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Bucky. And, frankly, he wasn’t anywhere close to being in the mood to even pretend to be polite about it.
Sam took one pointedly long look around his typically pristine kitchen, before setting the full weight of his disapproving frown upon Bucky.
“Get out.”
If Bucky was surprised, he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned and sent Sam a frown of his.
“No.”
Bucky’s reply was brusque and tinged with annoyance, which Sam thought was pretty rich considering Bucky was invading his space.
Hmm. Maybe “gall” didn’t even really begin to cover it. This was more like pure entitlement. Bucky truly must’ve felt entitled to Sam’s life and space. It was the only explanation for his behavior now, and, really, since the moment they’d met. And, honestly, it was high time Sam nipped that kind of thinking in the bud.
“Yes,” he argued, eyes narrowing. “You need to leave.”
“No.” Bucky sighed. “I need to stay.”
He turned back towards the stove then and started stirring whatever the hell it was he was making in Sam’s good pot. But Sam still heard when he mumbled a second later:
“Obviously.”
Sam just gaped at him for a moment. Then said, through clenched teeth, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
The question was barely out of Sam’s mouth though, before a noise he could only describe as “strangled” left Bucky’s throat, and he practically threw down the spoon he was holding and rounded on Sam, his eyes blazing with anger.
“You’re hurt,” he practically spat. “You’re hurt and you didn’t call me.”
Sam huffed, but Bucky kept going before Sam could respond to the obvious accusation in his words.
“You flew off to fight The Hulk—
“The Red Hulk,” he corrected, dryly. “And I didn’t exactly—
“— and you didn’t call me,” Bucky bit out, undeterred by Sam’s interruption, and incredibly unamused. “Sam, you’ve been doing all this reckless shit lately—
“My job, you mean?” Sam asked, blandly, as he leaned back against the doorway and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m Captain America, I fight bad guys, sometimes even bad Hulks, and—
“And you’re supposed to call me when you do,” Bucky snapped, moving closer to Sam and getting right up in his face.
Sam’s nonchalant attitude wasn’t doing anything to improve Bucky’s own. In fact, it was just making him angrier.
“You’re supposed to loop me in when things get crazy, Sam. That’s how this works!”
“This what?” Sam asked, mildly.
Though, to be honest, at this point it was taking an almost Herculean effort to maintain his unaffected front. Bucky had some nerve. Seriously. Coming into Sam’s home (of sorts) and yelling at him, because Sam hadn’t bothered to call him for a fight he’d handled perfectly fine without Bucky? Where did he get off?
Sure, it would’ve been nice if Bucky could have been there to have his back. It would’ve been wonderful if they were still like that, but they weren’t. Not even close. And Bucky didn’t have anybody to blame for the new and ever growing distance in their friendship except himself and his new pals at the CIA.
So, yeah, Bucky had a hell of a lot of nerve acting all hurt - acting like there was still even a this between them.
That didn’t stop him from doing it though.
“Excuse me?”
He sounded (and looked) all offended, but Sam wasn’t fazed.
“You said that’s not how this works,” he explained, faux confusion dripping from his words. “This what? To what were you referring, Bucky?” He asked, and he sounded so mocking, so… detached.
And Bucky hated it. That wasn’t Sam, not his Sam, not how Sam acted with him. Not for a long time anyway. Even the last time they’d talked, really talked, and it had been more of an argument than any kind of a productive discussion, Sam hadn’t been aloof. He hadn’t been looking at Bucky as if he was looking through him.
But that’s how Sam was looking at him now, and Bucky couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t stand the thought that he’d ruined things between them before they had really even had a chance to get started.
“Go on, Buck,” Sam said, goading him, like he was almost daring Bucky to answer. “This. What.”
And maybe Sam was. Maybe he didn’t even mean to be doing it, but maybe he was daring Bucky. Intentionally challenging him.
Maybe Sam was standing there giving Bucky one last opportunity to put up or shut up forever.
Or , Bucky thought, frowning down at the floor, as every doubt he’d ever felt suddenly came creeping in, maybe I’m just wishful thinking.
He rubbed a hand over his face, and tried to shake it off, then tentatively lifted his gaze from the tile and chanced a glance at Sam.
Well, he certainly didn’t look aloof anymore.
Maybe I can actually do this, Bucky thought, and the tea kettle picked that exact moment to start whistling in the background.
Christ. Okay, maybe I should’ve bought flowers like Sarah suggested, because this is a disaster.
“Are you gonna get that, or—
“Yeah,” Bucky interrupted. But he wasn’t really looking at Sam again, and he wasn’t making any moves towards the stove either, when he continued. “I definitely should have stopped at a florist and got you a bouquet of flowers.”
Sam blinked. “What?”
“Roses maybe. Everybody likes roses.” He paused for a few seconds, and bit his bottom lip. “I think.”
“Bucky, what are you—
“But everybody gets roses,” he said, cutting Sam’s question short. It still seemed like he was talking more to himself than to Sam though. “It’s like… a cliche or something — roses for Valentine’s Day. And, I don’t know,” he shrugged, “I wanted to do something more special. Besides, I don’t even know what color you’d prefer, so…”
“Buck?” Sam questioned.
And, God, the way he said his name, all soft and kind of sweet — the way Bucky hadn’t heard Sam say it, or anything else, for months — shot straight to his heart like a rocket.
Suddenly, he could stand a little taller, speak a little stronger.
Suddenly, he could look at Sam again.
“So,” he repeated, this time staring straight into Sam’s eyes. “So I went to the market instead, because maybe I don’t know if you like red roses or pink roses, or, hell, lilies, but I do know that your favorite breakfast is shrimp and grits, and I wanted to make it for you today. I mean, I’d make it for you everyday if you wanted me to, if you’d let me. But, Sam, I wanted to come here and make it today, because I needed to see that you were okay. And I needed you to know — I need you to know that…that…”
He trailed off, fumbling for the right words, the words that would be enough to make Sam—
“Need me to know what?” Sam asked, impatience, and, God help him, even some excitement instantly coursing through him. “Bucky, what is it?”
Christ. Sam was so close, and he still smelled like that frou-frou soap he loved so much, probably from the shower he’d presumably taken before he’d gone to bed the previous night, and he just looked so sleep rumpled and adorable, and like he really might be receptive to the confession Bucky desperately still needed to make, and it had Bucky all tongue tied and stupid, and…
“Buck—
“This,” he said, and then, before he could think better of it, before he could remind himself that he was an adult who needed to use his words, he threw all caution to the wind and leaned in and kissed Sam.
It didn’t last long, but it was long enough for Sam to get the message.
He pulled back, looking just a bit dazed, and Bucky couldn’t help feeling a little pride at having rendered Sam Wilson speechless.
In fact, it gave him just the extra boost of confidence he needed to say what he should’ve said a very long time ago.
“I love you, Sam.”
Sam’s eyes flew open wide. He didn’t look dazed anymore, more like stupefied. He wasn’t interrupting though — probably because he’d been shocked into silence — but he wasn’t running for the hills or gagging either, so Bucky kept going.
“I love you, and I want you. I want to be around you, to be with you for all of it, Sam. The fights, and the fun, and the Hulks, and everything in between. I just,” he reached out, tentatively clasping Sam’s left hand with his right, and laced their fingers together, “I just love you, and I want to be in your life again, really in it, in every way that counts, for as long as you’ll let me.”
And, okay, yeah. Honestly, that all sounded great to Sam. But it would’ve sounded even better, and a whole hell of a lot more possible, just a few short months ago. Because, really…
“What about your new team?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Bucky replied, simply.
“You live on the other side of the country.”
“And you live in three different states.” He shrugged. “We’ll figure that out too.”
“I hate your boss.”
“So do I.” He laughed. “And we both hate your boss too, so…”
“I don’t have a boss,” Sam said, tartly. “Besides, what about—
“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, and Sam popped his lips.
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Were you going to say you don’t love me too?” He asked, and even though his voice sounded flip, his heart was in his throat as he waited for Sam’s answer.
It took a moment. Sam looked caught out at being asked in such a direct way, but after a few seconds, even though it looked like it cost him something to admit it, something Bucky would gratefully spend the rest of his life keeping safe in his heart, Sam said:
“No.” Then huffed. “Christ, Bucky, you know I love you too.”
“Like, in love with me?” Bucky asked. Sue him; he had to be sure. Because while he’d absolutely hoped, and maybe even suspected, no, he definitely hadn’t known.
Sam rolled his eyes, but answered, “Yes, Bucky, I’m in love with you.”
Bucky sighed in relief. “Just making sure, because I’m head over heels in love with you.”
“Yeah, I gathered,” he said, but he couldn’t quite hide his smile. “But that still doesn’t change the fact—
“I don’t know,” Bucky cut in, grinning. “It changes everything, if you ask me.”
“Bucky—
“Sweetheart,” he said, because he could say that now, because Sam was in love with him too. “Whatever you’re worried about, we’ll figure it out. I promise.” He let go of Sam’s hand, and wrapped both of his arms around Sam’s neck instead. “But, right now, can we just enjoy our first Valentine’s Day together? Please?”
He looked so damn happy, happier than Sam had ever seen him. As happy as Sam felt himself, and it had Sam nodding.
“Okay,” he agreed, and finally gave in and smiled.
And Bucky couldn’t stop himself from pressing another quick kiss onto his lips. Then hugged him close, and whispered in his ear, “Happy Valentine’s Day, Sam.”