Sam pulled his vibrating phone out of his pocket and smiled. Normally, he wouldn’t have left his phone on at all when he was at the studio, but it wasn’t exactly a normal day. His close friend.. occasional muse… lover… partner? Well, maybe. They hadn’t exactly defined it, clearly, and they certainly hadn’t told more than a couple of people about it, but his… well, his something, his very important something, was having a very important night. And, since Sam couldn’t be there in person, which he kind of still felt like shit about, he’d figured the least he could do was break one of his oldest self-imposed rules and leave his phone on while he was recording just this once.
Sam looked over to where his band was settling back in after a short break, and grimaced. He knew what he was about to say wasn’t going to go over well.
“Hey, guys, let’s take five - again,” he said, sheepishly.
“Wilson,” Rhodey sighed, wearing a frown.
Sam’s bass guitarist was even more of a tight ass than he was, and usually Sam appreciated having some backup when he was trying to get the rest of the guys to focus during some of their longer and more brutal recording sessions, but right now, with his phone still buzzing in his hand, appreciation was about the last thing he was feeling.
“I just need a minute,” he said, and started making his way toward the exit.
“Sam,” an exasperated voice called over the intercom.
He looked up to see his manager, Isaiah, and really, everyone else behind the glass too, staring at him in disbelief. “This deadline for—
“I know,” he bit out, frustration boiling over. His phone had already stopped ringing, and started back all over again, and Sam didn’t want Bucky to think he was ignoring him, on today of all days especially. He didn’t want to let his — he didn’t want to let Bucky down.
Then again, he didn’t want to let his band down either. They were all there because of him, for him, and that meant a lot to Sam, but so did Bucky, and—
His phone vibrated again, loudly, cutting through the silence in the room.
“You gonna get that, Sam?” Joaquin asked, cheekily, grinning over at Sam from his piano bench.
And, just like that, a good deal of tension leaked out of Sam, and the room.
“Yeah.” He huffed a laugh. “Yeah, man.” He blew out a breath, then glanced around at everyone. “Guys, I’ll be back in five.”
There were more than one pair of eyes looking at him sideways, but nobody put up any further arguments as he slipped out of the room.
Not even ten seconds later, Sam was in the nearest conference room with the door locked.
“Hey, Buck—
“I’m gonna lose, Sammy,” Bucky cut him off, and it was clear from the near hysterical tone of his voice, that he’d worked himself up, but good. “I’m up for two different awards, and I’m gonna lose both of ‘em, on live tv. Christ.”
Bucky was so upset that the Brooklyn accent his vocal coach had worked so hard to rid him of, was making an appearance. And, honestly, it was cute as hell.
That was the only thing cute about what was happening though. Bucky had been acting for years, since he was a chubby cheeked teenager taking any role he could get on whatever random procedural would have him. He made his bones on television, before landing a supporting role in a mega franchise, and now that his bills were comfortably and permanently paid, he was in his “I can choose the projects I want” era and had subsequently become an indie darling. His career was long and storied, the films he was nominated for were good, his performances excellent, and there was absolutely no reason for him to be freaking out and doubting himself like this.
“The guy at the Times said—
“That guy is a hack.”
“— he said,” Bucky repeated, undeterred by Sam’s interruption, “I did an ‘okay impression, but gave a lackluster performance.’ Sam, he actually used the word ‘lackluster.’”
“I know Bucky—
“Two stars, Sam,” he cut in, again. “He only gave my last film two stars, and that’s still a better rating than he gave—
“And yet you still got nominated for both movies,” Sam interrupted.
He didn’t need to hear the rest of what Bucky was going to say, he’d already heard this same rant many times before. Besides, he’d read the review — he always kept up with the reviews of Bucky’s work — and it’d taken everything in him not to hire a car, take a ride across town, and put that particular reviewer’s head through a wall. So, yeah, he’d read it, and he also knew it was bullshit, and he told Bucky as much.
“And do you know why you got nominated, baby?” He asked, voice low and intense. “Because you’re incredible.”
Bucky sighed. “Sam—
“You’re so damn good, Bucky, a fucking generational talent.”
Bucky scoffed. “Yeah, says you.”
“You’re damn right,” Sam said, seriously.
But Bucky could hear the smile on his face. Hell, he could almost feel it, and when he closed his eyes and let out a long shaky breath, he could damn near see it.
“I do say it,” Sam agreed, shrugging. “And do you know who else said it? The guy at the Postand the guy at the Tribune,” he said. Sam had printed both of those reviews, and proudly tucked them inside one of his many photo albums. “And the lady at the Globe, what’s her name? Susan something,” he said, trying to recall, before giving up, and continuing. “Well Susan said, ‘not only has Barnes’ star completely risen, but it’s—
“‘outshining every other actor this year,” Bucky recited the words, right along with Sam, but couldn’t keep from sighing again. “That was nice of her to say, but—
“Yeah, it was,” Sam said. “But that’s not why she said it. Susan Something doesn’t get paid to be nice, she gets paid to give her honest opinion, to tell the truth.”
“So does the guy at the Times,” he argued.
“Yeah,” Sam conceded. “But it’s kinda hard to do that with your head up your ass.”
That got a laugh out of Bucky, and Sam took the opportunity to keep talking.
“Look, Buck, you’re good, really fuckin’ good. You deserve both of those nominations.” He paused briefly to let his words sink in, before adding, softly, “You deserve to be there.”
“I know, but—
Sam sighed. “Baby—
“No, I… I do, Sammy, I know, but,” he stopped, and Sam could just imagine that he was running his left hand through his hair like he so often did, when he was frustrated or agitated, “I don’t know, I just… I just wish you could be here too, you know?”
“I know, and I’m sorry—
“No,” Bucky interrupted, sounding dismayed. “That’s not - Jesus, don’t apologize. I’m just,” he huffed, “I was in my head. Still am, I guess,” he laughed, shortly, “and I just… wish you were here. But this helped, hell, talking to you always helps,” he added, softly. Then, “I gotta go though; Yelena is here, breathing down my neck — my hairdresser’s on her way up, apparently it’s gonna take all day to make me presentable.” He laughed. “But uh… can I call you later, sweetheart?”
“Of course, Bucky. You know my phone’s always on for you.”
Bucky snorted. “Not always, not when you’re in the zone and the music’s got you.”
“Well, call away, because you’ve got me today, baby.”
They said their goodbyes, and Bucky hung up a few seconds later, but Sam didn’t move from his spot. He couldn’t. Not when he had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Was it guilt? Disappointment? Regret? More than likely, if he were being honest with himself, it was probably a combination of all three.
But what could Sam do? If he left, if he dropped everything to be with Bucky, he’d still have all of those feelings, only they’d be in relation to his band, instead of his boyfriend… or his… whatever-the-hell Bucky was.
On the other hand, studio time wasn’t a limited engagement, but The Golden Globes were. And while Sam could make this up to his band, he wasn’t sure if he could ever make up missing this night to Bucky, even if Bucky had already sworn, about five seconds after Sam initially told him he wouldn’t be able to attend the ceremony, that there wasn’t a thing to make up, that it was perfectly fine that Sam couldn’t be there to cheer him on.
It wasn’t fine though, and Bucky clearly needed cheering. So, really, there was only one thing to do.
Well, okay, so actually there were many things to do, but he started by calling his driver back to the studio to pick him up.
“Where to, Mr. Wilson?” Red asked, once they’d turned out of the parking lot.
“My penthouse,” he said, then shook his head, a tiny smile playing on his lips — even he was a little bemused at what he was about to do, but damned if he didn’t feel good about it. “Then, the airport.”
******
Sam didn’t pack a suitcase, he wouldn’t be gone that long (or wearing that many clothes during his stay, hopefully). Instead, he grabbed the garment bag that held his best black suit, threw some toiletries and undergarments into a backpack, and got right back into the giant SUV idling outside his building.
One text to his assistant Elijah, and Sam had a (ridiculously priced, but totally worth it) first class seat on a direct flight to LA.
He was cutting it close as hell, and between the landing, traffic, stopping by his own hotel to get dressed, more traffic, and a special trip to a florist for one dozen of his baby’s favorite type of flower, Sam barely made it past security and to Bucky’s room door before it was time for Bucky to walk out of it.
But he did. And it was worth it. Pissing off his band and manager was worth it, getting on Yelena’s shit list for badgering her into getting him onto all of the necessary guestlists was worth it. All of it was worth seeing the look of utter joy take over Bucky’s face when he answered the door to see Sam standing there.
“Sam, sweetheart,” he said, without a care for who might be listening; luckily, everyone on his payroll knew better than to have loose lips anyway. “What are you doing here?”
Sam rolled his eyes as Bucky practically dragged him inside the room.
“What does it look like?” He handed the bouquet he was holding over to Bucky. “Making wishes come true.”
“But what about your all day recording session?”
Sam shrugged. “I rescheduled it.”
“And Rhodey and the band.”
He smiled, impishly. “I rescheduled them too.”
“But what about Isaiah?” Bucky asked, grimacing.
He’d only met the man once, but he practically oozed professionalism and no nonsense — shoot, that was probably why he and Sam got along so well. They both took Sam’s career and commitments incredibly seriously, which is exactly why Bucky couldn’t quite believe Sam was blowing everything off to be with him.
“Isaiah wasn’t happy about it, sure, but he understood.”
“Really?” Bucky asked, skeptically. “And how do you know that?”
“Because he has someone at home he loves just as much as I love you,” Sam said, matter-of-factly, but his heart was in his throat as he watched Bucky’s eyes widen in shock. “And he wouldn’t miss being there for them, any more than I’d miss being here for you.”
He waited expectantly for a few seconds for Bucky to say something, anything, but when no words were forthcoming, Sam clapped his hands together, and sort of shook himself out of the moment. It was Bucky’s night after all. They could deal with the fallout of him letting his feelings explode all over the place when it was over.
“So,” he put a smile on his face, “let’s go see you win some awards. Just between me, you, and your glam squad, my money’s on you getting both of them,” he said, winking, then turned to walk towards the door, but Bucky’s hand shot out, grabbing Sam’s arm and pulling him back.
“I love you too,” he said, fiercely, almost frantically, as he stared into Sam’s somewhat startled eyes. “God, sweetheart,” he slid his right hand up Sam’s arm and over his shoulder, before resting it gently on the back of his neck, “you know that, right? That I love you too, Sammy, so goddamn much.”
Before the last word was out of his mouth, Sam was reaching for him. Or, maybe, it was Bucky’s already full of flowers left hand that was suddenly reaching for Sam, either way, they were chest to chest and kissing in no time, and then for a long time.
And even though Bucky made it to the red carpet later than he planned, he still walked away from the ceremony holding a prize, and an award for Best Actor too.