1.

Bucky figured he had a fifty percent chance of this all going sideways. He'd either spill something on his shirt - high probability. Say something stupid - lower probability, since he hardly even talked to most people in the first place. The most likely outcome was him spending the entirety of the cookout awkwardly standing in a corner, holding a beer and sticking out like a sixth toe. In truth, Bucky really had no business leaving his apartment. Ever.

But Steve said he needed to socialize. The book was done and he couldn't hole up in his little hermit's nest forever. After all, what was the point of moving to Louisiana if Bucky only viewed it from his window?

Which was, in Bucky's estimation, an incorrect assessment of his living conditions. Bucky did go out. To eat. He even had a favorite restaurant and everything. Every Tuesday and Friday nights, Bucky would go down to Beaulac's down by the water. Ms. Genie in 2B had put him on to the spot. He'd walk there if the weather was nice. Which it usually was. The heat didn't bother Bucky much. Though when the humidity creeped above seventy percent, it was like getting slapped in the face by a wet towel. Every now and again, he would sit outside to catch a whiff of the salty air. An infrequent breeze would ruffle the pages of his notebook as he poured the contents of his brain onto the paper. But most of the time, Bucky sat at his designated table in the corner.

That was how he had met Sam Wilson. The table thief.

Well… The veterinarian and table thief.

Five Tuesdays ago, Bucky had walked into Beaulac's, as he was known to do, only to find some interloper sitting at his table. As a creature of habit, this transgression just about broke Bucky's brain. And, of course, he could easily take a seat somewhere else. There were plenty of other tables. But that wasn't the point. This dude was sitting at Bucky's table. That was just… rude!

Okay, so maybe he had been focusing his frustrations in the wrong direction. A shitty writing day put a dark cloud over Bucky's otherwise sunny disposition. By the time he finally shut his laptop down in abject disgust, his day shot and his mood in the crapper, all Bucky wanted was to sink his teeth into a bleu cheese burger and drown his sorrows in whiskey lemonade. He was a simple man with simple needs. And those needs included a side of hushpuppies.

The stranger sitting at his table, merrily munching on a platter of soft-shell crab and butterfly shrimp, had been the maraschino cherry atop Bucky's shit sundae.

Marielle, the hostess, had directed Bucky to another nearby table. He kept his eye on the dude that had invaded his territory.

Too close of an eye, perhaps.

Bucky couldn't really help having a resting bitchface when there was some random dude's ass sitting in his chair. He knew it was childish. He knew he was being ridiculous. But when it felt like not a single thing had gone right for him since Bucky got out of the bed that morning, sometimes childish ridiculousness was all a guy had left.

He'd clocked the table thief heading towards the restroom. What Bucky didn't see was the dude take a detour on his way back. Instead of returning to the stolen seat, the dude moseyed right on over to him. The sudden scrape of the chair across the floor alerted Bucky to his presence.

The stranger sat down right across from him. He smiled.

"Hi, I'm Sam. I figured I'd come over and introduce myself, seeing as you've been scowling at me for the last twenty minutes."

That was… not completely true. Such prolonged scowling would have caused an unimaginable ache in Bucky's face.

And Bucky would have told the jerkface that. If not for the mischievous glint in Sam's brown eyes and that gap-toothed grin causing an unsettling and worrisome fluttering in Bucky's stomach. Words were Bucky's livelihood but, at that moment, his vocabulary had abandoned him. That smile was like a brick wall that his brain kept running into. His snark had abandoned him.

In the end Bucky could only weakly mumble, "You were sitting at my table."

Sam chuckled and Bucky wanted to both implode as well as climb into the dude's lap. "Well, I could say I didn't see your name on it… But I don't even know your name."

Oh, that was smooth.

"James." It came out like a caveman grunt. His mother would've been appalled at his lack of manners. He cleared his throat and acted like he had some home training. "James Barnes. Most folks call me Bucky, though."

"Can I call you Bucky?"

Sam could call him Pocahontas, as long as he kept on talking and smiling like he was having the time of his life busting Bucky's balls.

"Yeah…" Some more throat clearing on Bucky's part. "That's fine. And sorry about… about my face."

It really should have been illegal to have cheekbones like that.

"There's nothing wrong with your face," Sam assured him. "It looks pretty nice when you're not trying to set my hair on fire with your mind."

Bucky was going to be the first case in medical history of a human being dying of embarrassment. Please, God… Send the asteroid. He was ready.

Then Sam went and suggested the unthinkable.

"How about you and me go sit at the Bucky Barnes table together?"

What Bucky meant to say: "No, thanks. I'm good here. But thank you for the offer and sorry for trying to shoot lasers out of my eyeballs."

What he actually said: "Okay."

Because somewhere in the previous thirty seconds, his mind had snapped.

That was their first date. Except only Steve called it a date. Bucky called it a dinner with unexpected consequences.

And one of those consequences was Sam inviting him to a cookout. No pressure, though. If Bucky wasn't too busy, he could swing by. Good grub. Good folks. It was a win-win all around. And he had promised Steve that he would go out and meet new people. Be sociable.

Or, at least, as sociable as a man who had once retreated into a closet at his own birthday party could be.

Bucky could be very personable. When he put in the effort. He was charming and witty and funny. And a great listener. All incredibly positive attributes that made him a great guy to be around.

Except when he was around Sam… Bucky forgot what words were.

The two of them had spoken a lot since the first not-a-date. Mostly over text but sometimes Sam called and they spoke on the phone. Though texting was easier for Bucky. It gave him time to think. Which was nigh unto impossible when Sam's voice was in his ear, filling his head and crowding out most coherent thought. Sam was nice, in a Boy Scout kind of way. He cracked wise and had a sarcastic streak a mile wide. He was also kind, which wasn't the same as nice. Niceties could be faked, and often were. But kindness, especially in people like Sam Wilson, had to come from a genuine place. Sam's smile was disarming, his laugh was contagious, and he had the kind of arms that made Bucky wonder what it would feel like to be shoved and held against a wall by him.

Since dating and writing deadlines didn't mix, Bucky often forsook one to fulfill the other. His only love life involved his laptop. But his latest manuscript was now finished. So it stood to reason that Bucky was due for a little wall banging action.

Not that Sam would… They were friends. Mostly. Kinda. Besides, the guy had never even looked at Bucky like…

Okay, so Sam had totally looked at Bucky like he was a fried pork chop sandwich. He'd even offered to take Bucky fishing on his family's boat. A casual invitation that had, nonetheless, left Bucky a little flushed in the face. It was an invitation that he had managed to refuse citing his writing schedule. However, now that Bucky was no longer chained to his computer, he was free to make merry.

Which in this case consisted of eating his weight in hamburgers, ribs, and smoked sausages.

Bucky grabbed his keys and rushed out the door before he could change his mind. He could handle a single afternoon around the guy that smelled like summer rain and whose touch set his skin on fire.

It would be fine.