#marvelau

Sam groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. "We already covered this."

"And lilies are worse," Bucky snapped, looking up just long enough to make his point. "Too fragile. They’ll wilt before the reception even starts. I’m not about to walk into a room of drooping flowers like it’s some kind of sad poetry reading."

Sam arched a brow, his lips twitching. "Since when do you read poetry?"

Bucky froze, then frowned at him. "It was a metaphor."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "Uh-huh. Next thing I know, you’ll be quoting Shakespeare to argue over napkin colors."

Bucky narrowed his eyes, slamming the notebook shut with dramatic finality. "Don’t tempt me, Wilson. I will dig up a sonnet if it proves my point about napkin colors."

Sam snorted, leaning back into the couch cushions. "Man, I’ve fought aliens, robots, and a whole damn galactic warlord, but this? This wedding’s gonna be the death of me."

Bucky jabbed a finger at him. "Don’t be dramatic. You survived Thanos, you can survive buttercream versus fondant."

Sam sat up straight, eyes wide. "Wait—don’t tell me you got opinions about the cake too."

Bucky scoffed like Sam had just insulted his honor. "Of course I do. Fondant tastes like chewing a rubber tire. If anyone puts that on our cake, I’m flipping the whole table."

Sam burst out laughing, throwing his head back until his shoulders shook. "You are not flipping our wedding cake, Buck. That thing costs more than our couch, and you’ll be cleaning buttercream out of the curtains ‘til Christmas."

Bucky crossed his arms, leaning back stiffly. "Then buttercream it is. Non-negotiable."

Sam gave him a look, one hand pressed to his chest. "You hear yourself? You sound like Fury giving a mission briefing."

"I’m being practical," Bucky said flatly. "We can’t afford slip-ups. First impressions matter."

"To who?" Sam demanded, throwing his hands up. "This is our wedding, Buck. Half the folks coming are just here for the free food and to see if I trip walking down the aisle."

Bucky’s mouth tightened. "Then we’ll give them something to remember—flawless execution. No roses, no fondant, no chaos. Just clean lines, buttercream, peonies, and perfect seating charts."

Sam blinked. "Seating charts? Don’t tell me—"

Bucky leaned forward, snatching the notebook again and flipping to a page covered in scribbles. "Strategic placements. Loud relatives far side of the tent. Kids nowhere near the cake table. Old ladies near the dance floor so they don’t complain about not being able to see."

Sam rolled his eyes and prayed. Not for himself. No—he’d already done that the day Bucky hired and fired their third wedding planner. At this point, Sam figured survival was out of his hands and in the hands of a higher power. This time, he prayed for his soon-to-be husband. For his sanity, for his blood pressure, for whatever poor soul had to deal with him next.

"You hear yourself, Buck?" Sam said, dragging a hand down his face. "You’re talking about my Aunt Doris like she’s a sniper you gotta keep out of range."

Bucky didn’t even look up. "She is. Last Thanksgiving, she scolded me for an hour straight because I didn’t carve the turkey fast enough. She’s not sitting within two tables of us. Non-negotiable."

Sam barked out a laugh. "You making tactical calls on who gets the best view of our first dance?"

"Exactly," Bucky said seriously, scribbling something down with enough force to tear the page. "Last thing I need is Doris squinting at us and saying we’re off-beat."

He stood, and Sam watched as he paced their living room, muttering under his breath like he was rehearsing orders for a mission. The notebook flapped in his hand as he gestured to invisible seating charts only he could see.

"Kids stay back here," Bucky said, pointing vaguely toward the kitchen wall. "Loud cousins near the speakers so nobody hears ‘em. Steve can’t sit near Sarah or he’ll talk her ear off about whatever the hell he's into these days, so he goes by the bar. And—" he jabbed the notebook toward Sam like it was proof of divine law, "no Macarena. I don’t care how much Joaquin beg. Not happening."

Sam tilted his head back against the couch, one hand covering his mouth to smother his grin. "You pacing a groove in the floorboards, Buck. Might as well draw the map right here in the living room."

Bucky stopped mid-step, eyes narrowing. "How are you not freaking out about this?"

Sam raised a brow, caught off guard. "Freaking out about what?"

"The big day," Bucky said, gesturing with both hands like it was obvious. "The food, the music, the flowers, the fact that half of Delacroix is gonna be staring at us. You’re just… sitting there. Calm. Like it’s just another Sunday."

Sam shrugged, lips twitching into a lopsided grin. "Maybe ‘cause it’s us. I don’t need to lose sleep over napkin colors to know I’m marrying the right guy." He could see the anxiety soften in Bucky before it disappeared again.

"Oh my god, the napkin colors."

Sam groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "Buck—"

"I’m serious," Bucky pressed, flipping back a few pages in the notebook until he found the swatches the planner had left behind. He slapped them down on the coffee table like evidence in a trial. "Do we go with ivory? Cream? Or this—" he held up one dramatically, "whatever-the-hell ‘eggshell’ is supposed to mean."

Sam peeked through his fingers, deadpan. "Looks white to me."

Bucky glared. "They’re not the same."

"They’re not different either," Sam muttered, leaning back again. "Buck, if someone shows up to our wedding and complains the napkins are the wrong shade of white, they don’t get cake."

Bucky ignored him, lining the swatches up in a neat row. "Ivory sets a warmer tone. Cream feels classic. Eggshell is—" he trailed off, squinting like the paper might reveal its secrets if he stared hard enough.

Sam snorted. "Eggshell is a color, Buck. Not a state secret."

Bucky shot him a look. "Tell that to Doris. She’ll notice."

Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "Pretty sure Doris just cares about the food. You’re stressing over napkins like the fate of our marriage depends on it."

Bucky crossed his arms, lips twitching like he wanted to argue but also knew Sam had a point. "...So you’re saying ivory, then?"

Sam, in all his glory, stared at his fiancé. His love for him swelled in his chest until he frowned. Then, without a word, he stood.

Pointed to the couch.

Bucky blinked, confused. "What—"

"Sit."

Bucky sat down.

Sam slid into his lap, long legs bracketing him with no room for protest, and tucked his head into the crook of Bucky’s neck and shoulder. The notebook slipped from Bucky’s grip and hit the floor with a dull thud, forgotten instantly.

For a moment, Bucky went stiff, like he always did when Sam knocked him off balance. But then his arms found their way around Sam’s waist, holding him tight, like letting go wasn’t an option.

Sam’s voice rumbled low against his skin. "You’re driving yourself nuts, Buck." He pulled back just enough to look into Bucky’s eyes, warm and steady. "I would have never imagined you would get like this for a wedding."

Bucky’s voice was rough, almost swallowed by the weight in his chest. “Not just any wedding. Ours.” He ducked his head, like the admission cost him something, but his grip only tightened around Sam.

"I just… I want it to be special. Not for me—for you. I want you to look back on that day and think it was perfect. That it was everything you deserved. Nothing less than the best, Sam. You deserve that."

His hands tightened at Sam’s waist, like he needed the anchor. "You’ve spent your whole damn life taking care of everyone else. Your family, your community, me. You never stop to ask for anything back. And I know—hell, I know I can’t make up for all the weight you’ve carried. But I can do this. I want you remembering it as the day you knew, without a doubt, that you were loved. That you were chosen. That you had someone who would never let go."

Sam’s chest tightened, a warmth blooming in his ribs that had nothing to do with the summer air in their living room. He tilted his head up, pressing a gentle kiss to Bucky’s jaw, feeling the tension in him soften just a little.

"You’re ridiculous," Sam murmured, voice low but steady. "I don't need a fancy wedding as proof that I'm loved. I only need you." He rested his forehead against Bucky’s temple.

Sam’s hands found Bucky’s face, thumbs brushing along his jaw as he smiled softly. "I can't wait to be Mr. Barnes."

Bucky laid a soft kiss on Sam’s lips, slow and careful, like he was memorizing the taste of the moment. When he pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against Sam’s, his voice was rough, almost breathless.

"There's no way in hell you're taking my last name," he murmured.

Sam blinked, one brow quirking up as a grin spread across his face. "Oh really? You think I’m letting you off that easy?"

Bucky shook his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Nope. You’re stuck being Wilson Barnes—or however the hell we hyphenate it. And don’t think I won’t make sure the officiant gets the memo."

Sam laughed, pressing another soft kiss to Bucky’s temple. "Guess I’ll just have to live with it… as long as I get to be your husband."

Bucky tightened his arms around him, nuzzling into Sam’s neck. "Yeah… that part, at least, you get to keep."

Sam chuckled against him, heart full. "Good."

Sam chuckled against him, heart full. "Good."

The room fell into a comfortable silence, just them and the quiet hum of the house. Just them—and love.

Bucky’s arms tightened around Sam, holding him like he couldn’t let go, and Sam pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart.

No flowers, no napkin colors, no seating charts mattered right now. Nothing but this—just them, together, in their little world.

Bucky whispered, barely audible, "We can tell Doris that her invitation got lost in the mail. I love your aunt, but she will ruin our day."