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Sam hated this job, like fucking hated it, but nothing could make it worse than this asshole who comes in every once in a while. He’s curt, argumentative, and more greasy than Sam's apron at the end of a shift. Worst of all, is that this asshole isn't just some run-of-the-mill fast food snob; he’s Sam’s ex. Bucky.
Honestly, he should've known better than to have dated this guy. They had a rocky start by meeting through their mutual friend who they both liked at the time. They were both ditched by him at the same time as well. Their relationship felt more like an “any port in a storm” kind of situation, if anything. They were a trio of an unrequited love triangle mess that unwillingly became a duo who didn't know what to do with each other. So they just did each other instead. Sam and Bucky aren’t exactly known for their good decision-making skills when it comes to romance.
Sam didn’t even have to look up from the register when he came in. He could feel Bucky Barnes the way you feel a storm coming in. The pressure change, static in the air, and the creeping feeling that something annoying and loud was about to ruin your day.
“Don’t,” Sam said flatly, still punching in an order for the guy in front of him.
“I didn’t say anything,” Bucky replied, voice smug, too close, and absolutely unasked for.
Sam finally looked up. Yep. There he was. Dark hoodie despite the heat, hair tied back, and that stupid expression that felt like something between bored and itching for a fight.
The Del Taco uniform peeked out from under the jacket just above the neckline. Like a hate crime.
“Aren’t you supposed to be working across the street?” Sam said, not really asking.
Bucky shrugged. “I was hungry.”
“You sell food.”
“Yeah, but your food is… different.”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me in years.”
Bucky’s mouth twitched, traitorously close to a smile.
The guy at the counter took his bag and left, looking like he’d intruded on a couple's divorce hearing. Sam braced his hands on the register and looked Bucky dead in the eye.
“What do you want, Barnes?”
“A Crunchwrap.”
Sam punched it in with unnecessary force. “Anything else?”
“Extra sour cream.”
“No.”
Bucky leaned closer. “You always did hate giving people what they wanted.”
Sam laughed, sharp and humorless. “I think you’re confusing what you want with what you deserve.”
The air between them became charged, like it always was. Like it had been since the beginning, back when they were both pretending they weren’t rebounding off the same heartbreak.
Back when things were easier. Or messier. Or both.
Steve was a distant memory Sam wished he could forget. His earnest eyes and dumb moral compass had been the sun they both orbited. Sam met him after college, he helped him move apartments, listened to him pine, and almost kissed him once on a fire escape after way too many beers.
Bucky came later, a childhood friend crashing back into Steve’s life.
Steve, in classic Steve fashion, hadn’t noticed the tension until it snapped.
One minute, Sam thought he had a chance. Next, Steve was gone, took a job overseas, no warning, no explanation. Just a text that said “I’m sorry” and nothing else.
Bucky had been left behind, too. Just standing there, stuck in the same empty space.
Misery loves company. Loneliness loves familiarity. And sometimes two people who want the same thing end up settling for each other instead.
They were good together, at first. Too good. All fire and friction and the kind of sex that feels like you’re arguing with your clothes. They never talked about Steve. They never talked about the future. They just burned hot and fast and pretended that was enough.
Sam slid the tray across the counter. “Crunchwrap. No extra sour cream.”
Bucky stared at it. “You’re abusing your power.”
“You’re free to complain to corporate.”
“I like when you’re petty.”
Sam leaned forward, lowering his voice. “I am two seconds away from throwing you out.”
“Still mad?” Bucky asked.
“Still employed,” Sam shot back. “Which is more than I can say for your decision-making skills.”
“Hey,” Bucky said, affronted. “I make excellent decisions.”
“You work at Del Taco.”
“So do you… basically.”
Sam snorted before he could stop himself.
Bucky picked up the Crunchwrap, feeling rather successful in whatever his current endeavor was. “See you around, Wilson.”
“God, I hope not.”
But Sam watched him go anyway.
~~~
The rivalry started as a joke. Two fast-food joints across the street from each other, both understaffed, underpaid, and running on nothing but spite and caffeine. Joaquin from the night shift made a comment about Taco Bell being superior.
Someone from Del Taco fired back.
Memes were made.
Trash talk escalated.
Bucky and Sam, in the midst of this taco war, started running into each other constantly. Shift changes. Smoke breaks. Late-night supply runs at the same gas station.
Every interaction was a knife fight disguised as banter.
“You still overcook the beef?” Bucky asked one night.
“At least we season ours,” Sam replied.
“You still scared of commitment?” Sam quipped another night.
“Only when it looks like you.” Bucky snapped.
It should’ve been exhausting. Instead, it felt… familiar. Almost comfortable. It was weird.
One night, during a lull, Sam stepped outside and found Bucky sitting on the curb, hoodie off, cigarette unlit between his fingers.
“I don’t get why you bother with that crap,” Sam said.
Bucky shrugged. “Helps me think.”
“That’s new.”
Bucky glanced up. “You ever think about how stupid we were?”
Sam leaned against the wall. “You’ll have to be more specific.”
Bucky smiled, soft and sad. “We never gave ourselves a chance to be anything but angry.”
Sam swallowed. “We were busy.”
“Running away,” Bucky corrected.
Silence stretched between them. Sam wanted to blame the tightening of his chest on the smoke, but the cigarette still remained unlit.
“You still hate me?” Bucky asked.
Sam thought about the way his heart still, stupidly, felt hopeful every time Bucky walked in.
“No,” Sam said finally. “I hate that I don’t.”
Bucky nodded like that was all he needed.
It was a Friday.
Both stores were slammed. Lines out the door. Orders flying.
The internet loves a rivalry, and so their fast-food feud had gone a little viral a couple of times. Today was the worst of it. TikTok and Instagram millennials with nothing better to do, calling themselves influencers, declared this to be the day the war came to its final battle. The restaurants were packed with followers chanting at the workers to give them some form of entertainment.
Someone from Del Taco eventually yelled something about Taco Bell’s tortillas tasting like cardboard. No one was sure if it was an employee or a random bystander; either way, someone from Taco Bell retaliated with a comment about Del Taco’s identity crisis. Whatever the hell that meant.
It devolved quickly.
There was chanting. There was a megaphone. There may have been a mariachi playlist weaponized at full volume.
Sam found himself face-to-face with Bucky in the middle of the street, neon lights flashing, adrenaline buzzing.
“This is insane,” Sam shouted.
“You started it!” Bucky yelled back with a grin.
“You brought a fog machine!”
“You brought an inflatable mascot!”
They stared at each other, breathless, cackling at the insanity of it all.
The noise faded around them. The rivalry, the crowd, and the past all fell away.
“I missed this, you I mean,” Sam said just loud enough for only Bucky to hear.
Bucky reached out, almost nervously. “Sam?”
Sam was done waiting and kissed him. It was familiar and grounding and a little desperate, like coming home after pretending you didn’t know the way. It wasn’t a necessity or settling; it was finally understanding who had stayed and who had cared.
Someone cheered. Someone booed. Management screamed.
Sam pulled back first, grinning. “This doesn’t mean Taco Bell loses.”
Bucky laughed. “We’ll call it a truce.”
“Temporarily.”
“Obviously.”
They went back to their sides of the street, rivalry intact, but they weren’t running anymore.
They were finally enough.