#samwilson

Sam straightened, brushing dust off his pants. The sun caught on the water behind Bucky, casting everything in gold.

“…You picked the boat?”

Bucky shrugged. “There’s worse places to go.”

Sam blinked. Then looked at the boat—warped wood, chipped paint, a motor that coughed like it had bronchitis—and then back at Bucky.

“You serious?”

“Dead.”

Sam sighed, already sensing the headache forming. “I got a perfectly good house two miles that way.”

Bucky dropped his bag on the deck with a thud. “Yeah, but the boat’s got you on it.”

Sam rolled his eyes, moved over on the bench, and patted the empty space beside him. Bucky took it without hesitation, settling in like this was normal. Like it was something they always did.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

The next morning came slow and quiet, all filtered sunlight and creaking wood. The boat swayed gently, just enough to remind Bucky he wasn’t on solid ground—but he didn’t mind. The rocking had lulled him to sleep, and now, curled beneath a too-small blanket, it kept him there, still and heavy-eyed.

He barely stirred when Sam knocked once on the doorframe and leaned in.

“Mornin’,” Sam said, voice low like he didn’t want to break the peace. “You decent?”

Bucky grunted, burying half his face into the pillow. “Unfortunately.”

Sam chuckled and stepped inside, a coffee mug in one hand, toolbox in the other.

“I’m headin’ out tomorrow,” he said casually, like it didn’t mean anything. “Supply run in town. Then, a little meeting with Joaquin. I'll be gone for a while.”

That got Bucky’s eyes open.

“Gone?”

“Mmhm. Gotta see about parts for the motor and, you know… wood that doesn’t crumble when I look at it.”

Bucky sat up, blanket falling around his waist. “You’re leaving me here?”

Sam check out his boyfriend. How could he not. He was in his bed, shirtless. Underwear handing just low enough to show his V-line perfectly. Sam would have jumped his bones there, but he figure Bucky wanted to take things slow like the last few months. Instead, Sam raised an eyebrow. “What, you need a babysitter now?”

“No,” Bucky muttered. “Just didn’t want to be alone.”

Sam sipped his coffee, watching him over the rim. “Thought you came out here to be alone.”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the worn blanket, at the narrow bed, at the little sliver of light creeping through the porthole window.

“I did.” Bucky muttered, a little annoyed. “Don’t worry.” He flopped back against the bed and sighed, arm draped over his face like the conversation had physically exhausted him.

Sam watched him with a squinted eye, coffee cooling in his hand. There was something about the way Bucky said it—like he was trying too hard to sound unaffected, like he wanted Sam to hear the lie underneath it.

Sam narrowed his eyes. Something was off. Bucky had been... clingy lately. Showing up out of nowhere. Drunk calls. Helping with the boat when he barely knew what a wrench looked like. And now, crashing here?

“Didn’t say I was worried,” Sam said, even though he kind of was.

“Good,” came Bucky’s muffled reply from under his arm.

The boat creaked again, gentle and rhythmic, like it was breathing with them. Sam stayed rooted in the doorway, staring at the ridiculous man sprawled across his bed, shirtless and stubborn and radiating that wounded-dog energy that always made Sam want to fix things.

He sighed and left.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Sam didn't return for five whole days.

Bucky told himself it was fine. That he didn’t care. That he liked the quiet, the space, the time to think. That sleeping in Sam’s bed, wrapped in Sam’s scent, wasn’t messing him up just a little more each night.

He cleaned the boat—or tried. Ended up breaking a drawer. Got a splinter. Fixed the latch on the door just to prove he could. Burned rice. Ate cereal for dinner. Watched the sun set from the deck every evening and pretended he wasn’t looking for a familiar silhouette walking down the dock.

The duffel by the bed stayed zipped. Like if he didn’t unpack, it meant he wasn’t really staying. Like if he didn’t get too comfortable, this wouldn’t feel like rejection.

On the fifth night, he sat on the edge of the bed, elbow on his knee, thumb rubbing circles into his palm like it might ground him.

“Should’ve picked a worse place,” he muttered to himself, voice low and tired.

Then—footsteps on wood. Slow. Familiar.

The door creaked open.

Sam stood there in the doorway, hoodie damp from the rain, expression unreadable.

Bucky blinked. “You said one day.”

Sam didn’t look guilty. He just looked at Bucky like he’d been expecting the question.

“Yeah,” he said. “And you stayed.”

Bucky rubbed his forehead, eyes narrowing. “One day, Sam. You said one day. Not five. I’m starting to think your ‘plans changed’ is code for ‘I forgot you existed.’”

Sam shrugged, peeling off his damp hoodie like it was a get-out-of-jail-free card. “Hey, I’m not a calendar you can schedule.”

“I'm here,” Bucky shot back. “I'm here instead of some five star hotel or your house. I knew you were here, and I came for you! But you're too oblivious to see that!”

Sam stood there, watching Bucky fidget on the creaky bed, and suddenly it hit him like a ton of rusty boat parts.

This wasn’t just about hiding out. Or a broken-down boat.

Bucky was trying to get under his skin. Like, literally camping out in his life.

And those weird vibes? The late-night “I’m fine” with obvious panic, the way Bucky insisted on “helping” with the boat that was basically falling apart…

Sam squinted. “Wait a minute. You're being extra weird. Late-night phone calls, drunk messages. Now this? Are you in danger, Buck?”

Bucky blinked, then stammered, “What? No! I mean, yes? But not like... officially? Like my heart's in danger. I just—”

Sam held up a hand. “Are you dying?”

Bucky groaned, rubbing his face like he was trying to erase the words before they even came out. He glanced up at Sam, who was watching him with that mix of concern and confusion that made Bucky’s throat tighten.

For a moment, he just stared at the floor, willing himself to say something else—anything else. But he knew. He knew this was it. If he didn’t say it now, he might never get another chance.

Taking a deep breath, Bucky finally looked Sam in the eyes, voice low but steady.

“No, man. Not dying. Just… in love with you.”

Sam’s expression softened, worry melting into something quieter, something hopeful. The air between them shifted, charged and fragile all at once.

“Oh.” Sam whispered, eyes widening like he’d just been hit by a surprise wave. "Oh!"

He blinked a few times, as if hearing it again might make it sink in better.

"Oh?" Bucky asks. "I just confessed my love to you, and I get an 'oh'."

Sam stared like Bucky had just grown a second metal arm. “Well, I—Bucky. It’s kinda known that I love you too. You’re my boyfriend.”

Sam laughed, “I thought we were already together!”

Bucky recoiled. “What?!”

Sam threw both arms up. “You’ve been calling me every night! Not just ‘checking in’ calls—full-on midnight conversations about your dreams and which bread is superior!”

Bucky opened his mouth. Closed it.

“You helped me paint the damn boat,” Sam continued, voice climbing, “even though you don’t know a single thing about paint—or boats!”

“I was being supportive!”

“You brought me soup when I had a cold!”

“You sounded like you were dying!”

Sam pointed dramatically. “You slept over for three months and folded my laundry, Bucky. You folded my underwear. That’s not just friendship. That’s domestic.”

“I was being a good friend!” Bucky argued, eyes wide, clearly panicking. “What kind of couple doesn’t even kiss?!”

“I thought you wanted to take it slow!” Sam shouted, equally flustered.

Bucky stared at him like he had just spoken in binary code. “Sam. I haven’t kissed anyone in like... eighty years." He threw his hands up. “You think I’d be subtle about it?! I would’ve brought a banner! A speech! Maybe fireworks!”

There was a long pause. Both of them just breathing, blinking at each other.

"So, you're not dying?" Sam asked holding back laugher.

"Oh my fucking-" Bucky was across the room in 3 steps, taking Sam's face in his hands and pulling him into the inevitable.

Sam’s laugh barely had time to escape before Bucky’s mouth was on his.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t slow.

It was years of near-misses, of unsaid things and sidelong looks, crashing into one kiss that tasted like frustration, rain, and something finally, finally falling into place.

Bucky held Sam’s face like it was the only thing anchoring him, and Sam didn’t hesitate—hands curling into Bucky’s shirt, grounding them both.

When they finally pulled apart, just barely, Sam’s forehead rested against Bucky’s.

“So… we’re doing this now?” Sam asked, breathless, grinning.

Bucky nodded, equally out of breath. “We’ve been doing this. I’m just catching up.”

Sam snorted. “Next time you show up on my boat with a duffel bag and emotional whiplash, maybe lead with the kiss.”

Bucky grinned. “Next time I’ll bring fireworks.”

Sam kissed him again, smiling into it. “Damn right you will.”