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firstelevens · 2 months

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No. 20 from the eras tour prompt list for sambucky ? ?

did I hear someone ask for a Sweet Home Alabama Louisiana AU? no? well I wrote the start of one anyway, so here it is

20. all your dirtiest jokes

Pebbles go flying as Bucky pulls his rental up in front of Sam’s house. He kind of wishes there was the satisfying screech of tires on asphalt to emphasize his mood, but he slams the car door twice as hard to make up for it, and feels just a little bit better afterwards.

Back when they were kids, the Wilsons’ place had been close enough to the neighbors’ houses to wave at them from the porch. The house that Sam bought when he came home from his first tour is set back a lot further than that, wooded where it doesn’t back up onto the water, so Bucky has no compunctions about getting a little shouty.

“Sam Wilson, I know you’re in there!” he calls out, walking up to the front door. “You can dodge my calls as long as you want, but I’m not going anywhere until you open up.”

It’s not a big house, and there’s at least three open windows, so there’s no question that Bucky’s voice is carrying through loud and clear, but there’s no response. Bucky raps sharply on the doorframe.

“You can’t avoid me forever, Sam. I know this town just as well as you do, and I will follow you everywhere.”

It takes another five minutes, but finally, Bucky sees a figure approaching through the frosted glass pane on the front door. When it swings open, he’s met with a bare-chested Sam Wilson, breathing heavy from a workout as he pulls his earbuds out of his ears.

For all that he was yelling a second ago, Bucky suddenly can’t seem to make words come out of his mouth. To add insult to injury, Sam seems perfectly unaffected by the sight of him, leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms over his chest.

“Bucky Barnes,” he drawls, and Bucky hates how comforting that voice still is after all this time. “What can I do for you?”

In a second, the ire comes flickering back to life. The nerve of Sam, to ask that question when he knows perfectly well the only thing that Bucky’s been asking him for for the past year.

He holds up the envelope that’s the whole reason he had to drag his ass back here, a thousand miles and twenty years removed from home.

“You could start by giving me a fucking divorce.”

Bucky spent so long working himself up over this, back in New York and on the plane here and on the almost-two-hour drive from New Orleans. He’d written and rewritten a hundred different speeches, rehearsed so many arguments with the Sam in his head that he was sure he’d know exactly what to say.

But now he was here, and he’d gone and delivered what should’ve been the last line of his scathing speech way too early, and what more was there to do except stand there on Sam’s porch and glare at him expectantly?

Sam, for his part, looks at Bucky consideringly for a moment, then peers around him to look out towards the yard. “You should come inside,” he says, and then steps away, leaving the door open.

The petty part of Bucky wants to refuse, wants to make a nuisance of himself right here on the porch so Sam can’t ignore him, but then he stops to take in his surroundings for longer than a second. The air is thick, the heat more sluggish than it was when his flight touched down. Beyond the trees, the sky has gotten darker. It’s been a while since Bucky lived on the bayou, but the signs of an oncoming storm haven’t changed.

He huffs and steps into Sam’s house, closing the door behind him just as thunder rumbles in the distance. It’s cooler inside, at least, and as Sam moves further into the house, Bucky figures he’s supposed to follow. He’s still not completely over his need to be a nuisance—or so he tells himself—so he goes slowly, glancing around at the house that Sam bought long after Bucky wasn’t a part of his life anymore.

Bucky knows it’s a completely different building, but part of him still expects that it’ll be the house that Sam grew up in, all warm wood and quiet chaos. Somewhere in his head, he thinks that if he just went up that staircase in front of him, he’d end up in Sam’s childhood bedroom, sixteen years old and laid out on the floor with the boombox between them, laughing at the dirty jokes that Sam heard in senior calc or trying to figure out just what the deal was between their grade’s latest on-again, off-again couple.

But this isn’t that house, Bucky reminds himself, and this isn’t back then. He’s not looking to go back in time; he just wants to go forwards, and he could if Sam would just cooperate.

“What happened, you get lost in that hallway?” asks Sam, when Bucky finally makes it to the kitchen. He doesn’t bother answering, but Sam’s back is to him, so there’s no way to tell whether he’s even noticed. “Hey, cream and no sugar, right?”

“What?”

Sam turns around with a mug of coffee in his hand, and Bucky’s pretty sure he can’t hide how he immediately perks up when the cup is set in front of him. For a second, he thinks about telling Sam that he does take sugar now, just to be contrarian, but then he remembers he’d actually have to drink it and throws that plan out the window.

“This is fine, thanks,” he eventually says, setting the envelope on the island and picking up the coffee. He hasn’t had caffeine since before his flight this morning, and he can feel the first sip right down to his toes. His eyes actually close for a second, and when he opens them, Sam is back on the other side of the counter, looking amused. There’s no mug in his hands.

“You’re not having any?” Bucky asks. “What’d you do, poison it?”

Even if he did, Bucky’s not convinced he’d be able to put it down. It’s really good coffee.

“I will,” says Sam. “But my Mama would kill me if I entertained company like this, so I’ll be right back. Make yourself at home; the view’s nice from the family room if you missed the water.”

He breezes out before Bucky can argue, his footsteps thudding up the stairs between one sip of coffee and the next.

After a moment of looking around incredulously, waiting to see if maybe he’s being pranked, Bucky decides this is just Sam trying to annoy him into leaving, and he won’t let it work. He marches into the family room just as the rain starts in earnest, and just to spite Sam, he turns his back to the French doors and surveys the rest of the room. There’s art hanging up, intermingled with family photos. Lumpy ceramics that are definitely grade school art projects sit beside beautiful crystalline sculptures, tall and spiky and somehow familiar.

Along one of the walls is the credenza that Bucky recognizes from Sam’s parents’ house, the one that Mr. Wilson had hauled home from an estate sale and refinished just because Sam’s mother had lingered beside it for a few seconds longer than anything else. It’s a different color now than it was before, but Bucky would recognize it anywhere. Sitting on top of it are what Bucky guesses are the important photos: Sarah’s wedding, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson on the boat together, Sam with a toddler beside him and a baby in his arms.

Furthest to the left is a picture of the dock behind the Wilson house. Two figures sit at the end of it, leaning into each other in the sunshine. One of them wears a t-shirt, gangly arms braced behind them. The other has a letterman jacket on, and that’s what tips Bucky off when he picks up the frame to look at it more closely: that’s him and Sam, sitting out where they did almost every day after school. Sam had gotten his varsity jacket for the baseball team when they were sophomores, and Bucky was pretty sure he’d worn it more often than Sam had. He’d always liked the way it felt on his shoulders, and when fall rolled around and the wind blew in a little cooler off the water, Sam always passed it over to him without needing to be asked.

They’d gotten a little more refined, once driver’s licenses were acquired and curfews were lengthened. Sam would drive the Wilsons’ old pickup truck a little ways out of town, to an empty plot of land flanked by trees on one side and water on the other, and they would sit and soak up the wind off the water until they could both breathe a little easier. Bucky had started thinking of it as their piece of the island, the safest place he could ever remember being.

When the future had barreled towards them with no signs of stopping, it was where Sam had driven them, nothing around but the birds in the trees when he quietly suggested his plan for getting out of Delacroix and taking Bucky with him. Nobody else had been around to see Bucky fling his arms around Sam’s neck and whisper a muffled yes into his shoulder, either: both of them a little bit scared of the future but determined to make it better for each other.

Maybe they can be reasonable about this. Maybe he and Sam can look at each other and see exactly what the other person needs, the way they did when they were younger. Maybe there don’t have to be questions and discussions and the kind of passive aggressive emails they’ve been exchanging through lawyers for the past year.

The rain is still coming down hard, lulling Bucky into a daze, so he can’t be blamed for the way he startles when Sam’s voice sounds from behind him. He scrambles to grab the picture frame before it falls out of his hands, setting it down and taking a beat before he turns around.

Sam is holding the envelope with the divorce papers in his hands, but Bucky has seen his ‘I give up’ face and that definitely isn’t it.

“The entire year that we’ve been going over this, I’ve asked you the same question, over and over, and you’ve never answered,” Sam says.

“Fuck,” says Bucky, scrubbing a hand down his face. “This? Again?”

“Yeah, again,” says Sam. “Because if I’m getting a divorce, I at least deserve to know why. I deserve to know what changed.”

“I have told you every single time you asked, Sam. Nothing changed. Nothing changed, because this was never a real marriage, and you know that. We got married so we could both get the fuck out of this town, and so I could stop being so terrified all the time, and we did that, and now we’re done.”

Sam crosses his arms, setting his jaw, and it occurs to Bucky that this is the first battle of a long war. “We did all that fifteen years ago, easy. That’s not what this is about. What changed, Buck?”

But Bucky can’t answer Sam any more now than he could the first time he asked that question a year ago. He can’t remind Sam of all the things he missed out on because he was tied to Bucky, he can’t bring up Riley or Sam’s parents or all the little ways that Bucky managed to steal things from him without even trying, because Sam would never see it. Even now, squaring off against each other with no possible middle ground, Sam would never see it, so Bucky can’t say it.

“Just sign the damn papers, Sam,” is what Bucky says instead.

It’s the first time he’s ever evaded the question in person. Somehow when he pictured Sam reading all those emails and messages he’d sent, Bucky had never imagined a flicker of disappointment on his face, gone as soon as it appeared.

Sam turns to set the envelope on an end table and picks up a wristwatch from beside it, doing up the strap before he turns around again. When he does, he’s got a determinedly cheerful smile on his face, the kind that Bucky has always known meant trouble.

“Gee, Buck, I wish I could, but as it happens, I’m running late for something,” he says, with an exaggerated look at his watch. “Maybe later?”

He’s already heading for the door, leaving Bucky to hurry after him. “What do you mean you’re late for something? Where the fuck are you going in a hurricane?”

Sam snorts. “You’ve been away too long. This is barely even a storm.”

An enormous crack of lightning punctuates his words, and Bucky raises his eyebrows.

“It’s a drizzle,” says Sam, pulling on a jacket. “And I have a date.”

Bucky is not entirely prepared for the feelings that those words stoke in his chest, but worse still is what Sam calls out before the door swings shut behind him.

“Guest bedroom’s upstairs, second door on the left. Don’t wait up.”

He’s not entirely sure how much time he loses, fuming in the foyer of Sam’s house, but eventually, that rage sharpens into something else entirely as he remembers what he yelled out standing on Sam’s porch half an hour ago.

He knows this town just as well as Sam does.

He knows this town just as well as Sam does, and unless fifty years of corporate development hit Delacroix in the last fifteen, there’s only one place to take a date if you’re an adult who doesn’t want to get accosted by the entire senior population of the island over the course of your evening.

Bucky pulls his keys from his pocket and and umbrella from Sam’s coat closet. If Sam means to drag this out, Bucky’s going to make sure he feels every single second, until he decides for himself that this marriage is more trouble than it’s worth.

(And if, before he leaves, he swaps his comfortable traveling clothes for a short sleeved button down that’s a size too small and not buttoned enough, well, nobody ever said Bucky was perfect.)

#sambucky #ok admittedly i lied emma did in fact cheerlead the writing of this and encourage me the whole way but what's new #this is truly just like. the opening half a chapter of this au but I have THOUGHTS #to be clear the rest of it is never getting written unless a miracle occurs #but here have this nonsense on the occasion of bonky's birthday #zainab does ask meme things #taylor swift prompt fics

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bisamwilson · 10 months

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hey honey! 💖 sambucky and 25. things you said in front of other people!

thanks for the ask, sweetheart <3 does something over 1k words count as a snippet oops (from this list)

"I just wasn't really feelin' it, y'know?" Sam laments to the circle of older ladies around him, sighing while they all nod along knowingly.

It's the first Thursday of the month, which means the local older women's book club is meeting in a small room off the church building where Sam's daddy had preached for twenty years, and, just like every first Thursday of the month that Sam's been in Delacroix since he was fourteen years old, Sam came by to help them set up tables and chairs for all the potluck food they bring with them.

And just like every first Thursday of the last six months since Sam and Bucky had rented a little house down here for when the world isn't on fire--last month excluded, given New York City, at least, was actually on fire--the first fifteen minutes of the local older women's book club is spent lightly interrogating Sam about his love life.

"How many of these dating app first dates have you been on, Sam?" Ms. Sheryl asks from beside him, her arms crossed over her chest.

Sam looks up at the ceiling and counts them in his head, each disappointing match after disappointing match. "Twelve in the last two months, Ms. Sheryl. Thirteen if you count the woman from NOLA I met at a jazz bar and had to leave after five minutes because an emergency mission came up. She unmatched me after that."

Ms. Sheryl nods, her lips pursed, and Sam thinks he might've accidentally just proved a point he didn't know she was making yet. "And how many of those got second dates?"

Sam's saved from having to answer that disheartening, kind-of-a-rhetorical question from the late arrival of Ms. Josephine, newcomer to both the book club and to Delacroix.

She'd moved here about a month and a half ago, about half a year after her husband had passed away, looking for a new start. Every interaction Sam's had with her thus far has been honestly lovely, and he already knows she's got a soft spot for Bucky given how much of her house he'd come over to help fix since she'd moved in. Sam's had his fair share of her "thank you" cooking, and knows full well she's as wonderful a cook as she is a lady.

"Evenin', ladies," she says, holding some kind of dish in her hand that smells downright heavenly. "And Sam," she adds with a wink, smiling when Sam takes the dish from her and sets it over on the table with the rest of the food. "What'd I miss?"

"Sam was just lamenting to us about his dating woes," Ms. Jackie replies, with a tone full of sympathy but a playful twinkle in her eye, taking Sam's hand and patting it soothingly when he comes to stand next to her, leaving his previous seat open for Ms. Josephine.

Sam laughs and squeezes Ms. Jackie's hand. "You've got a son about my age, right, Ms. Josephine? Is he single?"

All the other ladies in the room chuckle along at Sam's joke, but Ms. Josephine just looks confused. "Did something happen with you and Bucky?" she asks, concerned. "He didn't mention it when he came by to fix one of my hinges this morning."

Sam's eyebrows furrow this time around. "Not that I know of? Not unless something has happened in the last thirty minutes since I checked my phone, anyway, but he's not generally the type to call in any case."

Ms. Josephine's face morphs from confusion to contemplation, and she crosses her legs at her ankles and crosses her hands over her lap. "So are y'all in one of those relationships where you can date other people then? I saw some article about that a few weeks ago. Must have some real good communication between the two of you to make both that and all your superheroing work."

She sounds almost impressed, but Sam doesn't really have the mental capacity to acknowledge that right now, not when his brain got stuck on the word "relationships" applied to Bucky and himself.

He looks around the rest of the group to see if any of them are gonna correct her while he's still stuck in his state of shock, but finds all of them just looking vaguely amused.

He shakes his head minutely. "Ms. Josephine, Bucky and I aren't dating."

Her eyes go more than a little wide. "Wait, so you did call it off?"

Sam shakes his head again, a little more vigorously. "No, ma'am. We weren't ever dating in the first place. Did Bucky tell you we were?"

Ms. Josephine shakes her head right back. "Never explicitly, Sam, but it ain't exactly hard to tell when somebody's head over heels. He talks about you like you went and hung the moon for him. Just yesterday he came by and asked if I'd seen one of the recent news segments about you, gushing about how amazin' you look flyin' up there. 'He's so fast, and nimble, Ms. Josephine,' he said to me, all moony eyed. 'It's like nothing you've ever seen before. Sometimes I swear he looks like an angel when he's got his wings spread out.'

"And that's not even countin' the things he says about you when you've been home for a bit. He's always talkin' about whatever fishin' you've done recently, or charity work you've been doin' around here or in NOLA, or how excited you were to buy new cat toys the week before. Every time I ask him if he's got any special requests for thank you meals, he always asks for something with a spice level I'm still not sure he can handle, tellin' me all about how it's been one of your favorites since you were a kid. Bucky's spent at least four days a week at my house pretty much since I've moved in, Sam, and I'm pretty sure I know more about you than I do about him, given how much he talks about you."

Sam's world is starting to tilt on an axis, but he's saved from having to speak up by Ms. Jackie throwing in her two cents. "You know he hates the smell of the flowers he buys from me for y'all's table every week," she says, tone full of faux nonchalance. "Says they're a little too fragrant for his nose because of the serum, but he buys 'em anyway because you always smile when you see he's brought home fresh ones."

Ms. Sheryl's lips quirk up. "You know he replaced damn near every faucet in my house as payment for me helping him with some of the most complicated bits of that sweater he knit you for Christmas. Said it had to be perfect because he knew how cold you always get any time you have to go north of here."

Ms. Maybelle comes in with the final blow, and it hits Sam like the steel chair in all the WWE shows AJ insists on watching every week. "And it ain't like you don't do the same things neither, Sam. Every time I see you it's, 'Hey, Ms. Maybelle, how you been? You wanna see this cute picture I got of Bucky and the cats earlier? They fell asleep on the porch swing he built for us.' You spent the first five minutes of the book club session two months ago debating whether or not Bucky should grow his hair out because he wanted new opinions that weren't yours, and at least half of that was you trying to explain how nice he looked before with the long hair even though it was greasy, but how you like the way the short hair feels when he has his head in your lap on movie night."

Sam doesn't really know how he can defend himself here, but he's got some argument on the tip of his tongue about how their couch was just a little too small for the both of them and their cats, so the head in the lap was the obvious solution. He doesn't think it'll do much damage control, but he thinks he should at least make the attempt.

Instead, he turns back to Ms. Josephine kind of on autopilot. "He called me an angel?" he asks, his heart a little fluttery, and Ms. Josephine just smiles.

"I'll, uh, see you all here same time next month?" he asks as a kind of permission to leave. "I think I might need to go see what my roommate is up to."

"Bring your boy with you next time, Sam," Ms. Sheryl replies, nodding him towards the door. "It's much more fun to tease you both together."

#hello it is once again time for 'mak loves nothing more than to write the older delacroix ladies who love sam and bucky'#shout out to ms maybelle for taking no prisoners #thanks for the ask a!!!! this was fun!!#sambucky #onlysambucky #only sambucky #buckysam #sam wilson x bucky barnes #bucky barnes x sam wilson #sambucky fic #otp: i’m coming with you #sam wilson #mak writes #livingincolorsagain #ask meme #writer meme #ask game #ask #marvel

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