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Everyone that walks into Starbucks at this time of day is a goddamn hipster.
Sam Wilson - Air Force, former Pararescue Senior Airman - has just had to accept that he’s surrounded by them and there’s nothing he can do but smile and learn to love plaid.
Being the world’s oldest barista doesn’t help his situation at all, but Starbucks has excellent benefits, flexible hours, and makes an extra effort to hire veterans. So yeah. He’s making coffee at 9:00 in the morning for college students that only speak ironically, stay-at-home moms dressed solely in Lululemon, and the Plaid Party.
He’s also the world’s grumpiest barista. It just - it’s been a rough morning. Lotta burns. Lotta frappuccinos. He needs a shot of espresso. Or cognac. Whatever.
So when a pretty white boy with long brown hair, a plaid shirt, and fucking cargo shorts steps up to order, Sam can’t even control himself. He rolls his eyes, then immediately plasters an apologetic smile on his face. Luckily, pretty boy - in, God, Birkenstocks - is too busy staring at the menu board in a state of confusion to notice.
“Welcome to Starbucks,” Sam greets. It’s not fake at all.
“Yeah, thanks, you too,” White Jesus answers, then mutters under his breath, “Fuck. I mean. Thanks.”
“No problem, s’nice to feel welcome here every once in a while.” Sam does smile for real this time, and gets one in return from the flustered customer.
The guy has smile lines around his strikingly light eyes, and a few hints of gray in his two day old scruff. Maybe he’s not a young hipster after all. And he’s actually…really hot. Still doesn’t excuse the cargo shorts, though.
“Um,” the probable former Old Navy model says, pulling his right hand out of his pocket to lay a gift card on the counter. “I have this. And I can speak three languages but apparently none of them are on the menu up there. Help.”
Sam snorts, trying to ignore the line growing restless. “Okay, hot or cold?”
A blank stare.
“The coffee,” Sam says. “Do you want it hot or cold?”
“Oh! Sorry. Hot.”
“Okay.” Sam nods. He’s patting himself on the back for hiding his grumpiness. “What size?”
“Small, let’s start small.”
Sam grabs the smallest size paper cup from a stack and a sharpie. “Okay, so you want a tall.”
Pretty gray eyes blink rapidly. “Small,” he says slowly.
“Tall,” Sam repeats even slower, showing him the cup. “Do you like regular coffee? Breakfast blend, a latte, or the sugary sweet stuff?”
The guy blushes. “Sweet.”
“Do you like dark chocolate or white chocolate?”
“All chocolate is good chocolate.”
The pretty man licks his lips excitedly and wow. Good. Sam shakes his head and calls out behind him, “Tall white mocha, hot!” as he scribbles on the cup and sets it aside.
Sam reaches for the gift card without further comment, much to his customer’s relief. He looks like surviving Starbucks is some sort of Herculean task, but Sam’s not one to judge when it comes to anxiety. Glass houses and stones and all that. He gives the card back with a receipt and a smile. “Looks like you’ve got about four more tries to figure it out for free. I think you’ll like this one, though.”
“Thanks,” he murmurs, quickly shuffling away from the order line.
Then it’s on to the vanilla caramel breve, the chocolate chip frapuccino - do they have a super-venti? no - and all the non-dairy coffees you could throw a cow at. The guy with the long hair is temporarily forgotten until one of the other employees, a girl named Cricket (read: hipster) yells out, “I got a, uh…coffee for White Jesus!”
Shit.
Sandals guy.
White mocha, Sam. Not Jesus, even if he does kinda look like he fell off a window at a Southern Baptist church.
The poor thing is looking around, lost again, until Sam waves awkwardly at him and points to the pickup counter.
He points to himself and mouths, “I’m White Jesus?”
Sam points to him sheepishly and mouths back, “Sorry.”
A laugh, the kind that transforms someone’s whole face, erupts from the Savior as he grabs his cup and thanks Cricket. Sam tries not to stare as the guy takes a cautious sip of the hot beverage, then smiles at it appreciatively.
Another satisfied customer. Why does Sam care? He doesn’t care. Except that he does.
And he should stop staring and pay attention to the kid putting her fingers all over the pastry display case, but if he had, he would have missed the smile turning to his direction.
“My name’s Bucky,” he mouths, and waves goodbye.
Bucky. Sam sighs. Why can’t these folks just stop giving their children ridiculous names?
Sam licks the smudges of caramel from his fingers and crumples up the empty bag of fancy popcorn in his lap. Sea salt and caramel, what genius decided to mix salty and sweet together like that?
Some people like to use food combination descriptions when talking about Sam. Salty but a little sweet. Mostly bitter.
But he says no, he’s not salty or bitter or sweet. You know why? Because he doesn’t have time to be any or all of those things. He’s just himself, trying to survive working two jobs, going to night-school, and sending his teenage daughter off to college.
Who has time to be salty? Not him. He barely has time for a nap.
A flurry of hair and, God, plaid runs by him in a beeline to the door.
“Hey!” he calls out. “What the hell are you wearing?”
Jasmine - the aforementioned blur - retraces her steps and crosses her arms with a scowl. “Clothes.”
Her idea of clothes is jean shorts, tank top, long-sleeved flannel button-up, and Timberlands. Why?
“Smartass.” Sam scowls. “You’re wearing long-sleeves in August. In D.C.! Forgive me for questioning your logic here.”
“Don’t most fathers chastise their children for not wearing enough clothes?” Jasmine cocks her head. “I am comfortable in this.”
Sam cedes defeat with a nod. This is something he’s working on trying break from his generation - the need to conform and to judge others for not doing so. Obviously, working at Starbucks is really fucking up that goal for him. “Where are you going?”
“Kate’s.” Jasmine eyes, ironically, his own choice of flannel - pajama pants. “You got big plans? Going out on your day off?”
His plans? Probably rub one out. Take a nap. Watch television. “Big plans, yeah,” he says.
Jasmine sighs. “You gotta put yourself out there, Dad.”
“I’m out there six days a week, and on the seventh day, I rest.”
“How godly of you,” she replies dryly. “But you know what I mean. You got this hard shell of yourself that you hide behind, but you need to, just…”
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Crack it open?”
“Yeah, something like that.” Leaning her weight on the arm of the couch, she stretches to give her father a kiss on the forehead. “It’s been two years. You deserve a break from this.”
He pulls a pillow to his chest as Jasmine waves goodbye. She means well, he knows. And she’s right to an extent. But mourning doesn’t allow time for breaks. It’s a 24/7 job that just becomes easier to work as time goes on.
Sam lies down, curled around the pillow. It’s not really a day of rest - he has class tonight. It’s hours away but will be here before he knows it.
Maybe just a nap today, he thinks.
Another day, another job. It’s a good thing Sam likes to keep busy.
Today is an evening shift at Academy Sports - another company that loves to hire veterans. When he first started here, he worked the gun and ammo department. But after seeing a few too many suspicious looking white dudes pass their background checks and walk out the door with brand new rifles, he asked to be moved to the sportswear and shoe department.
Which is where he meets a tiny blond man with wide-rimmed glasses, skinny khaki pants, and a freaking cardigan.
Sam approaches the blond from behind. “How can I help you, man?”
The man jumps and takes an immediate defensive stance. Sam quirks his eyebrow in amusement.
“Oh. Sorry.” The little guy pushes his glasses up his nose. Sam notices the simple gold wedding band on his left hand. “I need new shoes.”
Sam looks around. “You’re in luck.”
“You’re a smartass. I like you,” the little guy says with a smile. “I need running shoes. Minimalist style, preferably?”
Sam’s old school, likes motion control. But then again, one of his thighs is probably the same circumference as this man’s entire body.
Still, Sam shows him an array of low impact running shoes, in all colors and prices. He’s admiring a pair of blue Hoka One One’s on his feet when he tilts his head, asking in a surprisingly deep voice for his stature, “You a runner?”
“Yeah.” Sam squats, feeling the sizing of the shoe. “I try to run with my daughter in the mornings a few times a week. The Mall’s nice at sunrise.”
“You have a daughter?”
“Sure do. She’s about to leave me to be a Husky, though,” Sam says with a shake of his head. “You got kids?”
“My wife travels a lot for work,” he answers. A no, Sam guesses. “Maybe one day. Must be nice, having a family.”
This Mr. Rogers lookalike sure does feel comfortable talking to him, Sam thinks. Jasmine said he needed to put himself out there, right? That could mean platonically, too. “Well, I have her. She has her mother, and we’re still friends. My partner…”
Still. He still wants to mention Riley when talking about his family.
Blue eyes look at him curiously at his pause.
He can do this. Be friendly. Talk about himself, even if he doesn’t think people want to hear it.
Sam clears his throat. “He died. Two years ago. But yes. It is nice having a family.”
“Sorry for your loss,” Mr. Rogers says without an ounce of false sympathy. He doesn’t offer any words of wisdom or encouragement, which Sam appreciates, and only looks mildly uncomfortable at the direction of their conversation.
“You liking those shoes?” Sam changes the subject.
Mr. Rogers smiles excitedly at his feet. “I do! I’m finally on a - don’t laugh - asthma medication that works really well. Thought I’d pick up a healthier hobby than World of Warcraft.”
“Well,” Sam laughs. He gathers the shoebox to go ring him up. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah.” Sam smiles. “Maybe.”
“I made a friend,” Sam boasts the next morning.
“Really?” Jasmine smirks. “What’s their name?”
Sam sighs. Shit.
Pretty Bucky doesn’t come into Starbucks every day, or even every week. And it’s not like Sam to remember random customers usually. This one just has a really nice smile, is all. And a ridiculous name that Sam refuses to write on a cup.
It’s late for Bucky when he comes in on the hottest day of the year and orders a Venti Mocha Frappuccino, add caramel - a recommendation from Sam that is now his staple. His face is flushed and tiny beads of sweat dot his hairline.
Sam is thirsty himself all of a sudden.
“You got me hooked on these,” Bucky says as he hands over his gift card.
“I got you hooked, huh?” Sam swipes the card with a wry smile that turns into a frown when he sees the balance on the card. “Uh, you owe $0.79.”
Bucky blinks. “Oh.”
Too many thoughts fly through Sam’s head - Bucky won’t come back for shitty coffee if he actually has to pay for it, maybe he doesn’t have the spare cash for this kind of boujee shit, maybe he has no cash at all, he could be homeless, Sam’s going to have a spare room available in less than a month…
But instead of leaving, Bucky rifles through his pocket for his wallet, mumbling, “Back in my day you could get a latte for $0.79.”
Sam scoffs. “Not the gas station swill.”
“Hell yeah. That frothy shit saved my ass a time or two.”
Whether it’s because Bucky is making an effort to hide his wallet or because Sam has a thing for hands, he finds himself watching the man intently as he pulls out a crumpled dollar bill and lays it on the counter. He sees heavy scarring on Bucky’s left hand - maybe from burns, maybe cuts, or both. The long-sleeved shirts start to make sense now.
Sam freezes up, like he’s seen something he wasn’t meant to see. He tears his eyes from Bucky’s hands and focuses instead on his ridiculous hair that’s not so ridiculous at all, actually. It’s sexy, it’s different. Mostly because he doesn’t wear it in a ponytail. Although maybe he should, because a sweaty curl keeps falling from behind his ear and into his eyes and everything is just really fucking distracting.
“There’s gotta be a story behind your hair,” he says, like an asshole. What the fuck, Sam, mind your business.
Bucky tucks the curl behind his ear again. “Well. It’s about as far from a high and tight as I can get, so yeah. I guess that’s a story.”
“It’s a hell of a story, man,” Sam says gently.
“Although.” Bucky tugs at his hair. Sam quits breathing for 4.25 seconds. “In this heat maybe I should pull it up, I think that’s trendy now.”
“Noooooo,” Sam says far too enthusiastically, then shrugs. “I mean. Nah.” Then he hands Bucky his $0.21 and scribbles something on his clear venti cup.
It’s becoming a thing, the name game. One day Bucky’s name was Bucknasty. Another day it was Bob. Sam’s favorite was “Birkenstocks belong in 1998, not on your nasty feet.” That was a quiet day where Sam could avoid having to announce the owner of the frappucino to the whole store.
Today’s a little busier, so Sam smirks to himself when Cricket calls out for L’Oreal. Bucky pretends to be annoyed but he smiles, slow and sweet, when he thinks of his response to Sam. With a dramatic flip of his hair, he levels a sultry gaze at the checkout counter. “Because I’m worth it.”
Sam groans. Not just at the joke, but because he’s starting to think he could actually really like this Bucky guy.
“You’re not driving to Harlem,” Sam huffs. It’s hot, he’s sweating, and his daughter is kicking his ass. He’s only 34, this should not be happening.
“I want to see Mom for a few days and I need to get my hair done before school starts.” Jasmine barely sounds out of breath.
“Then I will drive you.”
“And how will I get home?”
“I’ll come get you.”
Jasmine slows to a stop - thank God - and places her hands on her hips. “You’re being ridiculous.”
“Let me.” Sam sighs. “Let me be ridiculous one last time before you’re a damn adult.”
“I’m an adult now,” she mutters under her breath but smiles at him. “Fine. You win.”
“About time I won.”
Just as Sam’s about to start jogging, a tiny blur catches his eye behind them. It’s cardigan guy, stomping the hell out of the pavement and running as stiff as a board. “On your left,” he says, running past Sam and Jasmine. Well. Sort of running.
“D’you see that?” Sam asks.
Jasmine makes an unimpressed face. “You think somebody’s chasing him?”
Sam laughs. “Nah, that guy just bought those shoes from me. He’s learning to run. Emphasis on learning.”
“Mr. Rogers is taking up running?” Jasmine asks incredulously.
“Hey, that’s what I call him, too!”
Jasmine rolls her eyes. “That’s because it’s his name.”
Scowling suspiciously, Sam asks, “How do you know him?”
“He was the art teacher at Harlem Academy,” she says, like he should know. Of course he doesn’t know that. “He must be teaching somewhere down here now.”
“Must be,” Sam deadpans.
They run another mile before Sam spots good old Mr. Rogers chugging air against a tree. Well, that didn’t take long.
“You alright, man?” Sam calls out.
“Aces,” he replies, winded. Then he waves his hand awkwardly. “Hey, Jazz, long time,” he coughs, “no see. Still in school?”
“Starting UConn in the fall. Full scholarship,” she answers proudly.
Mr. Rogers smiles. “Hell yeah!”
“Jazz…” Sam mutters. “I forgot they used to call you that.”
What Sam doesn’t say is that he wasn’t really around - or even in the country - when she went by that nickname.
“Wanna run with us?” Jasmine does her best to ask with a straight face.
Mr. Rogers coughs again. “Uh. Maybe next time.”
“Take care of yourself, Mr. Rogers,” Sam jokes as he trots away. “Can’t have an American icon dying on my watch.”
Sam’s pretty sure he hears the little guy yell, “It’s Steve!” as they jog away.
“My new friend’s name is Steve,” Sam says a few minutes later.
Jasmine just rolls her eyes.
The month of August goes by entirely too quickly. Sam’s night class is done (one more semester before his thesis!!!) but the spare time disappears as fast as it comes. He goes to Harlem and back. He helps pack up Jasmine. He goes to Storrs, Connecticut and comes back alone.
And by the end of the month he remembers why he was so grateful when Jasmine came to live with him two years ago. Sure, there were the obvious reasons, like getting to really know his daughter after being absent for far too many important milestones of her life. Plus, she could get more exposure for her basketball skills against the big schools in the DC area.
But his house also felt full. Full of life, full of shit, full of love again.
Now he just has to figure out how to take care of himself so it doesn’t get empty again.
He doesn’t push himself as hard on his morning runs now. They’re more like morning jogs, just enough to break a sweat and get his heart rate up.
As soon as he lets himself get comfortable and lazy, he gets passed one morning. By none other than Steve fucking Rogers.
“On your left,” the little shit announces. He still runs too straight but he’s getting better, Sam’s gotta give him that.
But then he passes him again.
“On your left.”
“Oh, hell no,” Sam grunts. He speeds up to a full run and passes Steve easily, leaving him in a cloud of dust. That’s right, he’s still got it.
But he don’t got it, not for real.
Sam finds himself slumped against a tree after a couple of minutes, a cramp knocking the wind out of him. And soon he has an audience. Embarrassing.
“You alright down there?” Steve asks, hands resting on his delicate hips.
“M’fine,” Sam grunts. “How the hell did you pass me so fast?”
Steve smiles. “Took a shortcut, circled around.”
“You’re a shit.”
“So I’ve been told.” Steve extends a hand down to Sam. “Steve Rogers.”
“Yeah. Art teacher.” Sam accepts the hand and lets Steve help pull him up. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you again.”
Steve nods. “No running partner anymore?”
“And it shows. I’m getting slow.”
“Still faster than me.”
Sam laughs. “Were we racing?”
“I do love a challenge,” Steve says with a shrug.
“Alright then.” Sam crosses his arms over his chest. “Tomorrow, it’s on.”
Sam beats Steve easily the next morning.
But you know who kicks both of their asses? Steve’s fine ass wife, Peggy, who just got home from some sort of super secret mission overseas. She laps them without cheating and barely breaks a sweat.
“Better luck next time, boys,” Peggy boasts, kissing a flushed Steve on the lips. She wiggles her fingers in a little wave. “Duty calls.”
Sam watches Peggy run away, then watches Steve watch Peggy run away. “Dude,” he says. “That’s your wife?”
“I still can’t believe it myself,” Steve sighs. “Hey, you wanna go grab a coffee?”
“Coffee? Nah.” Steve’s face falls slightly so Sam quickly finishes his thought. “But I could eat breakfast.”
An hour later Sam is rubbing a belly full of blueberry pancakes while watching tiny little Steve destroy their last piece of bacon at Pete’s Diner. Witnessing someone so small almost out-eat him is damn impressive.
They’d made small talk over breakfast - they’re both from New York (albeit different boroughs), openly hate Game of Thrones, and secretly love all shows with Housewives.
Sam wants to burp. He won’t. “This is nice,” he says instead.
“Eh.” Steve licks his thumb and forefinger. “It’s not the best in DC but it’s not too bad.”
“I meant the company,” Sam balks. “Been awhile since I just went out for breakfast for the hell of it.”
“You new to the area?”
“Been here for years.” Long enough to buy a home, to make a home, to lose a home.
Steve shrugs. “Nothing wrong with being a homebody.”
“That’s the thing. I’m not,” Sam says. “Some days I just don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I either stay so busy that I don’t have to go home but to eat and sleep, other days I think that putting on real pants is the hardest job I could possibly take on.”
“Well, I’m no counselor-“
“And I will be one soon,” Sam muses. “I might need to figure my own shit out first.”
Steve makes a steeple with his hands. “In my unprofessional opinion, there’s nothing abnormal about you.”
Well. That’s a first.
“You’re military, right?” Steve motions to the Air Force insignia on his shirt and Sam nods. “It’s well documented that our country is shit at taking care of its veterans. They lure you in with free college and toss you on your ass after they get what they want, ignoring PTSD, depression, unemployment, homelessness. I’m proud of you, Sam, for all the days you work yourself to the bone. And I’m proud of you for putting pants on today, that might have made our run a little awkward otherwise.”
Sam laughs. He gets Steve’s point, though, and it feels good to have someone say they’re proud of him. Even if it is just for putting pants on. “You seem awfully impassioned about this subject for an art teacher.”
“I’m impassioned about too many things, probably,” Steve jokes. Sam can believe it. “But I guess this hits home for me. Literally. My best friend just wanted to be a biologist. Somehow he ended up in ISAF.”
Sam remains silent so Steve continues. “He’s home now. Has been living with us for months, but it’s okay. He’s getting better every day. One of these days he might even put real pants on again.”
“The struggle is real,” Sam says. “You’re a good friend, Steve.”
“I try.” Steve pulls out his wallet, throwing enough cash to cover both of their meals plus a generous tip on the table. “Same time and place tomorrow?”
Sam smiles. “Yeah. I might even let you win.”
He won’t.
“Sam. I need you.”
Not that Sam doesn’t like to feel appreciated, he’s just not used to hearing those words during the peak morning rush, when all the suits and Louboutins are snapping their way through the line.
“How can I help,” Sam looks up from his order screen and gulps, “you?”
It’s Bucky. But not normal Bucky, like…Business Bucky. Like his real name is John Buckingham Beaumont or something. He’s wearing a gray suit and a cornflower blue shirt with the top two buttons undone, loafers, and a motherfucking slicked back ponytail. He would exude confidence if it weren’t for a face stricken with panic.
“I have a job interview,” Bucky says like it’s a terrible thing.
“I’m…sorry?”
“It’s a good thing,” Bucky clarifies. “But I’m nervous as hell.”
Sam nods. “So, naturally you have assumed a stimulant in the form of coffee goodness is a smart idea.”
Bucky frowns. “Shit.”
“It’s cool,” Sam laughs. “How about the usual, but decaf?”
“Great.” As he pulls out his wallet, Bucky anxiously smooths his jacket and tugs at his hair. “Do you think-“
“Yes, I think the man-bun is a mistake,” Sam interrupts as he scribbles Bucky’s “name” on his cup.
Bucky tilts his head. “What?”
“What?” Sam echoes innocently.
“Man-bun?” Bucky tugs at his lapel. “I was going to ask if I should put on a tie. The hair is bad?”
“No,” Sam flounders. A blonde in a suit behind Bucky clears her throat loudly. Sam ignores her. “I was just…trying to make you laugh. You said you were nervous.”
“I did. I am.” A sweet, crooked little smile crosses his face. “You always make me laugh, ya know.”
Oh, Sam thinks. His chest flutters in a foreign sort of way, making him feel either happy or nauseated or both. He chunks the cup he’d written “Mr. Beaumont” on in the trash and picks up another, writing a new message on it. “Drink’s on me today. Good luck with your interview.”
“You don’t have to-“
“Bye, Bucky,” Sam interrupts before he changes his mind.
“Thanks.” Bucky’s eyes look extra blue today, and crinkle when he smiles. His cheeks flush pink. It’s all just awful, terrible, the worst/best thing Sam’s ever seen.
The blonde suit lady in line orders a black coffee. Seriously, she could have made that shit at her house. The next few orders after her pass by in a haze. Sam’s too busy listening out for Cricket’s monotone voice.
And glancing at the man-bun.
“I’ve got a, uh, decaf Venti Mocha Frap for,” Cricket recites verbatim, “the guy in the gray suit that is absolutely killing it today, amirite? I’m right.”
The store is too crowded for Sam to catch Bucky’s reaction but his current customer, a severe looking woman with black hair and a widow’s peak, arches her eyebrow. “She’s not wrong,” she says.
No, no she is not.
After evaluating his time during the fall semester, Sam comes to a conclusion - he’s going to have to quit one of his jobs.
Sure, Jasmine being away at college has freed up some of his time, but he’s nearing the end of his Master’s program. This semester requires at least twenty hours hours a week on-site for his internship, and for the first time in years, Sam actually doesn’t want to work himself to death.
The choice should be easy, right? People that are willing to pay seven bucks for a cup of coffee are not his kind of people. Or so he thought, before he really took the time to think about how important it is to treat yourself, even if it is just coffee.
But a sporting goods store is simple. Uncomplicated. Unless he thinks about how many people with concealed carry permits walk in and out of the store every day. And how many of those people would unnecessarily take offense to him as a black, openly gay man in their sports heaven.
Sam grabs for his phone, sending a text to Steve, the friend he didn’t ask for but who’s become a huge part of his life in just a few weeks. “Starbucks or Academy?”
Steve writes back, “Why won’t you accept my friend request?”
With a grumble, Sam pulls up his Facebook app and scrolls through all the friend requests he has no intention of accepting until he finds Steve’s. “Fine. Done,” he types. “Starbucks or Academy?”
“Your birthday is coming up!”
“Goddammit Steve.”
“We’re going out for your birthday. If you don’t have plans.”
Sam doesn’t respond.
Steve manages to focus on the task at hand for a second. “Academy, you use their discount more.”
It’s a valid point. The right choice. Still, Sam is disappointed with the answer.
The day before his birthday, Sam turns in his two week notice at Starbucks. And Jasmine texts him at a halfway decent hour of the day. “What are you doing for your birthday?”
“Missing you” is way too sappy of a response and would just warrant an eyeroll emoji. “Going out with Steve,” he answers.
“On a date?”
“Ugh.” He types back, “He’s married.”
“So. That’s a no?”
Goddamn kids these days.
The bar - a pub, actually, because apparently that’s where 35 year old’s go to drink - is not really Sam’s usually kind of place. This is what he thinks as he steps over the old wooden threshold and into the dark restaurant. But what is his kind of place now? When was the last time he even went out?
In hindsight, agreeing to go out with Steve Rogers on his birthday might not have been his best course of action.
It’s not that bad here, he guesses. There’s a live band, and they’re not playing that country or folksy shit either. It’s a rock band with enough soul and percussion to not seem like they’re faking it. Rusted Root wouldn’t be his first choice, but whatever. They’re good.
Steve’s not here yet, but holy shit. Somebody else is.
Sitting at the bar nursing a pilsner of beer is none other than Mr. Beaumont, thankfully returned to the form of the more casual Bucky. He’s traded in his usual plaid shirt and cargo shorts for a form fitting maroon henley and dark jeans. Instead of Birkenstocks he’s wearing gray Chucks. It’s a good look.
He must have been gawking for too long - Bucky turns and stares straight at him, his eyes widening in surprise. It’s almost like running into your doctor in public, that awkward moment of recognition when you have to decide whether to acknowledge that you know the other person or turn a blind eye.
Bucky watches him like he’s facing the same dilemma, then breaks the ice. He waves.
Acknowledgment: accepted.
Even under duress, Sam knows he looks smooth as hell as he saunters over to the bar. He slides onto the stool next to Bucky, casually resting an arm atop the bar. “Hey.”
Bucky puffs out a breath like he’s trying not to laugh. “Hey.”
Sam quirks an eyebrow. “Surprised you recognize me without the green apron.”
“You wear a green apron?” Bucky teases, his eyes twinkling.
Sam roll his eyes. “Well, not for long, anyway.”
Bucky’s face falls. “What?”
“Yup. Turned in my notice. Moving on to…other pastures.”
Poor Bucky looks like his dog just died for a second, but quickly fixes his face. “That’s a shame. You look good in green.”
“Oh?”
Sam’s calm, he is cool as fuck, until he feels fingers toying with the hem of his black sweater. Bucky’s hand rests on his hip, rubbing softly. “Almost as good as you look in black,” Bucky says.
Teleportation is real, by the way. Sam has no recollection of how he got from the bar to a stall in the bathroom, but here he is, with cold steel against his back and a warm body melting into his front. It’s been so long since he’s felt the stutter of someone’s hips, the warmth of a tongue in his mouth, the goddamn urgency driven by foreign touch. He’s almost dizzy with it.
It becomes quickly clear that Bucky only seems like he’s all shy and sweet. Sam tugs on his belt loops and Bucky pins him tight against the wall, growling into his mouth like a sexy murder kitten ready to fucking devour his ass. In the good kinda way.
It’s been longer than two years since he’s felt like this. It hurts to realize that, but pain is better than feeling nothing at all. With Riley he was happy and comfortable and when that disappeared, he was numb. Now he’s so many things at once that he can’t keep up.
Happy Birthday, Sam. You’re alive.
Birthday. Shit.
It’s tough but Sam manages to disengage. “I can’t do this,” he gasps.
Bucky bites his swollen bottom lip sheepishly, glancing down. “Not to be that guy but it kinda feels like you can.”
“Oh, shut up.” Sam pulls Bucky in for another kiss, just for good measure. Damn, he tastes good and smells good and Sam is just fucked if he doesn’t stop this. He pushes away again with a huff.
“Lemme guess,” Bucky offers. “You can’t do this.”
Sam groans, hitting his head against the stall. “It’s just that…I’m supposed to meet someone here.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow.
“People,” he emphasizes. “I’m meeting some people here. It’s not a date. It’s-“
“It’s not,” Bucky interrupts with a funny look on his face, “your birthday is it?”
“Yeah,” Sam says suspiciously. “How’d you know that?”
“Oh. Well, this’ll be fun.” Bucky grins and grabs Sam’s hand, pulling him out of the stall and back towards the restaurant. “Special provisions can be made for your birthday, by the way.”
“Okay. What makes them so special?”
Bucky shrugs. “Nothing really. They’re the same provisions as always, just thought I’d make you aware.”
How long is this birthday gathering supposed to last? Too long.
Sam spots Steve by the band and waves his right hand. His left is still securely held by Bucky. No, this isn’t awkward. Not at all. “Steve!”
Steve stares at him like he’s grown an extra head. Maybe he has. “Sam. Buck?”
“Buck?” Sam mocks with a country accent. He’s met with an unamused glare.
“You two know each other?” Steve asks, obviously confused.
“Clearly,” Sam answers.
“So, Steve here, good friend that he is,” Bucky explains, “mentioned that he’s going out with a new friend for his birthday tonight. ‘The more the merrier,’ he said, ‘you’ll really like him.’ This way, though, he gets me out of the house and if I had to guess, squirrels a new friend slash possible boyfriend into your life, too.”
Steve scowls. The little shit knows he’s guilty.
“You’re his best friend,” Sam realizes.
“Yes.” Bucky looks pointedly down at Steve. “And you were right, I do like him.”
Sam smiles. It’s funny how something simple like that can sound so sweet to the ears. “You like me?”
Bucky stage-whispers, “I was ready to blow you in the bathroom and yet, me liking you is a surprise?”
“You know, I’m just gonna…” Steve grimaces. “Oh look, Jasmine made it.”
“What?” Sam whirls around, dropping Bucky’s hand just in time to catch his daughter in a leaping bear hug. “Jasmine?”
“Like I would miss your birthday,” she says, squeezing him tight. God, he’s missed her. “I brought Mom.”
“More like, your mother brought you,” an assertive voice interrupts. Both Bucky and Steve take an intimidated step backwards.
“Hey girl.” Sam grins, kissing his high school best friend on the cheek. “You do realize you brought our eighteen year old to a bar, right?”
“It’s a pub,” four voices correct in unison.
Steve is ogling the mother of his child with restrained awe. Bucky looks completely out of his element. Sam rolls his eyes at all of them. “I’m guessing y’all know Steve. This is his best friend, Bucky. Bucky, this is my daughter Jasmine and her mother, Mercedes.”
With wide eyes, Bucky extends a hand first to Jasmine, then her mother. “Uh. Nice to meet you. Jasmine, Merced-”
“Please don’t call me that. It’s Misty.” She grips Bucky’s hand. “Misty Knight.”
“Bucky Barnes.”
“Cute,” Misty says. Sam agrees, shockingly. The name is growing on him.
Steve gently nudges Bucky away from the family and back towards the band. “We’ll let y’all catch up.”
Like there’s not such a thing as cell phones or something these days.
“I’m following them,” Jasmine says. Nosy kid. Sam feels sorry for Bucky already.
“You look good, Sam,” Misty teases, quirking an eyebrow in Bucky’s direction. She always could see right through him. “He’s pretty. Looks like he could kick your ass.”
“What can I say?” Sam shrugs. “I have a type.”
“Hmm.” Misty tilts her head and for a minute Sam sees the girl that used to slaughter him in basketball and that he was foolish enough to mess around with as a kid to try to escape the reality of his sexuality. No regrets, though. And he still loves the hell out of her.
“What?”
“Your Mama used to say you were always chasing something. Chasing birds, girls, boys, the sky. It’s not like you to be still.” She smiles. “I’m glad you’re not anymore.”
Seriously, one make-out session in the bathroom and everybody thinks he’s moved on. But…he sort of has, hasn’t he? He’s out with friends and family. More of Sam’s acquaintances keep showing up, people from school or his jobs. Maybe he’s not completely moved on, but he’s getting there. One of these days he may even fly again.
The opening notes of September starts playing. Sam’s cheesing hard when he walks over to Steve and Bucky. “Man, how the hell did you find all these people that I know?”
“Facebook,” Steve answers. Obviously.
Bucky makes a face. “I hate Facebook.”
“Thank you!” Sam exclaims.
Just then Peggy strolls in. Steve lights up, muttering “match made in hell” as he walks away.
“So. You’re a dad ,” Bucky says, handing him a beer. “That’s kinda hot.”
Sam snorts, “Thanks. I think.” He takes a sip of beer. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me yet.”
“Same here.” Bucky shrugs. “I’m in no rush to find it all out.”
Which means he’s in no rush to share, either. Somehow that makes Sam feel even better. Less pressure. “I know you got a ridiculous name,” Sam says.
“My real name is James. Bucky is a nickname.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“Too late now.”
“I got a list of like, twenty better ones.”
“I’m counting on it.” Bucky clinks their beers together. “Happy birthday, Sam.”
They drink to the toast. Thoughts of special birthday provisions dance in his head again when Bucky licks his lips afterward. Yes, he thinks. He can definitely do this.
“You know what?” Sam looks around the pub contentedly. “It really is.”
