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“So, what’s your wish gonna be?”
Sam leans back on his folded arms. The deck of the Paul and Darlene is set up nicely with layers of blankets and pillows. The gentle movement of the boat lulls him into a dazed, peaceful mood. The water below gentle, the night above dark as ink.
Next to him, Bucky turns slightly. “My wish?”
All lights on the boat are turned off, with the faint starlight, Sam can only make out the mist from Bucky’s breath. He also turns, shuffling under the jacket draped across his chest—Bucky’s jacket. It’s warm and worn and smells like the freshly-shorn grass behind Sarah’s house.
“You know, shooting stars,” Sam explains. “You make a wish when you see them. It’s what we’re here for.”
“I thought we were here to admire the meteor shower of the century, and to take a break from the job.”
“And when you see them, you make a wish. I don’t know about you, but mine is gonna be no more zombie attacks for at least a year. They give me the creeps.” He shudders thinking about the vacant stares from the army of the dead. Sam is a grown man, and he’s scared of undead people walking around. Sue him. “Or at least no more evil wizards,” he adds.
A soft rustle, and Sam can feel Bucky lift his head next to him. “Aren’t you supposed to keep your wish to yourself? It doesn’t come true if you say it out loud.”
Sam huffs. “That’s not a thing.”
“Of course it’s a thing. Now you’ve jinxed it. We’ll only get zombie armies now, controlled by evil wizards. And when you give the kids one of your pep talks, you’ll have to tell’em it’s your fault.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” Sam flips over, leaning over Bucky with his elbow on the wooden deck. “Tell me you’re joking! Is that how it works? I can’t be fighting zombies again. They give me nightmares, Bucky. Nightmares!”
Now that his eyes have adjusted to the dark, he can tell the shit-eating grin that’s slowly creeping up on Bucky’s face. Somewhere in Sam’s distress, the jacket has slipped down, now pooling between them. Bucky picks it up and re-wraps it around Sam’s shoulders, tugging at the collar absently.
“Then I’ll hold your hand, just like last time. Can’t let our Cap lose sleep over monsters under his bed.” Bucky’s eyes are shining under the stars, his voice gentle like a whisper. “Besides, are you really believing it?”
Sam plops down against his pillow again, their bodies now pressed together, the warmth from Bucky seeping into his side. “Well, you put it in my head. Now I have to.”
He feels childish like this, arguing about the least important things, but somehow it feels right. Being childish around Bucky, letting down his guard, showing this side of him that’s hidden from the whole world. Sometimes, in between the world-saving and the ass-kicking, Sam is still that kid from Delacroix, chasing shooting stars on his parents’ boat and hoping they can grant him a wish.
Maybe hoping for something else too, something more, out of what’s already right in front of him. The warmth next to him, the easy friendship, the flutter inside his chest—
“I say many things, and you never listen to me,” Bucky grumbles, “but this is what you take seriously?”
“Not my fault.” Sam sighs. “I just find zombies really scary, Buck.”
A huff, and a soft shuffle. “Okay, then how about this? I’ll also make a wish but I won’t tell you what it is. We’ll see which one comes true first. Control group, you know, like an experiment, and we’ll have a definitive answer to the stars’ wish-granting system.”
“Huh.” Sam pauses. “That’s really smart, actually.”
“Smart and reasonable. So that you, a grown adult, can fall asleep by yourself in the dark.”
Sam pokes an elbow into Bucky’s side, rolling his eyes. “Okay, alright. The ‘40s really missed out on a great scientist, huh?”
“My talents were wasted at the docks,” Bucky deadpans. “Now leave me alone. I’ll make you a damn wish.”
Sam watches as Bucky closes his eyes, his chest rising and falling steadily. A slight breeze shifts the hair at his forehead. It’s getting long again, the fringe curving next to his eyes, fanning over where his lashes flutter.
Sam nearly reaches out to brush it away. It won’t be the first time he’s done it, but there’s always been a reason. Just earlier in the day when Bucky was doing Sarah’s dishes, Sam had to help him tie it back so it wouldn't fall into his face. Or a few times in the past, when Bucky was still tense and charged up from a battle, Sam would place a hand at his nape while he grounded himself. It’s for convenience. It’s for comfort. And San knows the softness of those long strands of hair by heart, remembers it in the pads of his fingers.
He doesn’t notice when long lashes flutter open, and those sharp, knowing eyes fall on him intently. “Done,” Bucky whispers.
Sam’s breath is caught. He turns away, fixing his gaze on the sky. The constellations spill across the darkest canvas. All of this beauty above, and he can’t pay much attention to it. He’s scrambling for something to say. “Um,” is what comes out, and Sam has to breathe through his nose to calm his beating heart. His fingers rub against each other, missing the softness he knows too well. “Thank you. For helping me figure this out.”
“Anything for you, darlin’.”
“Just…” Sam clears his throat. “Don’t tell me what you wished for.”
“I won’t. Not until it comes true.”
“Right, then. Good,” Sam declares. “Anyway, we should just focus on waiting for the meteor shower. It shouldn’t be long.”
“Sure,” Bucky agrees, but his body is still turned towards Sam, paying no attention to the sky. “One for the century, right?”
Silence falls over them, but something buzzes in the night air. The weight of Bucky’s gaze is heavy and poignant, and Sam can’t help meeting it from time to time. He feels light, as if ready for a dive into mid-air, the moment of weightlessness right before the wings take over.
They are at the precipice of it, and all Sam needs to do is take a leap of faith. Right here, wrapped up in Bucky’s worn jacket that smells like home, Sam feels loved.
People have called him brave all his life. When he put on the wings for the first time and flew into war zones, when he charged into gunfire aiming for his friends, when he picked up the shield and wielded it day after day. But they don’t know the truth. He doesn’t feel the bravest with a shield on his arm, a jet pack behind his back.
Sam is the bravest when he is loved.
“Hey, Buck.”
He calls out, taking the leap into open air, wingless, weightless. Bucky replies, admiring. Not the stars, just Sam right in front of him. He’s following right behind. “Yeah?”
“Let me try something. Don’t move,” Sam simply asks.
Their eyes meet, and a smile stretches across Sam’s face, one that is mirrored by Bucky. He leans forward to place a quick kiss on Bucky’s lips, breaking away after a second.
The starlight is nothing compared to the quiet happiness on Bucky’s face. He looks so bright and unburdened, it makes something in Sam’s chest ache.
“Not fair,” Bucky almost whines, “I wanted to do that first.”
When they meet each other again, their breaths mist in the cold air, but Sam can barely bring himself to care. He kisses the softness of Bucky’s lips, catching that beautiful smile. Mine, mine, mine. His heart beats with the mantra. That smile is mine. Strong arms guide Sam into a solid embrace, his legs straddling Bucky against the deck, his chest humming with small, contented noises.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Wilson,” Bucky whispers, the tip of his nose cold. His gentle hand is running up and down Sam’s back, his mouth pressing small kisses on Sam’s cheek, along his jaw, breaking every word. “My wish. It’s coming true very quickly.”
“Hmm?” For a second, it doesn’t click, but Sam pulls back, breaths hitched and head swimming. “What?”
“Mine is coming true. Unlucky for you.” A lopsided grin appears on Bucky’s face. “It looks like zombie armies are still in the cards.”
“Ah.” Sam feigns disappointment. “Well, as long as you’re there to protect me.”
“I’ve promised you this, darlin’, I’ll always protect you. As long as I can.”
“I have no doubt. You were really good at holding my hand and waiting for me to sleep last time—Oh!” The thought finally catches up to Sam, and he lets out a laugh. “So you really wished for me to kiss you?”
Sam feels entirely too proud he’s almost lightheaded. It takes a moment for him to realize Bucky’s shaking his head. “No.”
“No?”
“No.” A warm palm cups Sam’s cheek so he meets Bucky’s eyes. “It’s for me to make you happy.”
He looks serious and reverent, and Sam almost has to look away. Almost. Instead, he kisses Bucky again, his time letting heat rise between them. He pushes Bucky until he lies back against the pillows and blankets, their limbs tangling and catching each other. Something stings in Sam’s nose, and he has to deepen the kiss to stop himself from crying.
Yours, he says silently with the kisses. My happiness is yours too.
The press of their lips deepens, and slows, the rhythm changing just like the ocean waves. In the end, Sam is all soft and pliant, burrowed in the crook of Bucky’s neck, half asleep. The smell of leather and grass fills his lungs, soft hair brushing against his nose. Sam can’t help but yawn, his eyes blinking heavily.
“Oh.” Bucky’s voice rumbles against Sam’s chest, where they are pressed together. “The meteor shower. It’s started.”
But Sam feels too comfortable to care, being held by Bucky like this. “Sure.”
“You should look. It’s pretty.”
“Got something prettier right here.” He pats Bucky’s chest lazily, voice slurring. “Don’t need the stars.”
Gentle kisses land on Sam’s forehead, and he nuzzles into Bucky even further. “Come on, you can make another wish. Just don’t tell me this time.”
When Sam finally opens his heavy-lidded eyes, he’s satisfied to find himself correct. Bucky is more beautiful than all of the constellations combined.
“You’ll know it anyway,” he says, a promise. He’s got his wish for the century right here. “You are it, darlin’.”