Chapter Text
“Week Thirteen. Baby is the size of a lemon. You’ve reached the end of your first trimester, meaning you’ve grown a fetus with vocal chords, teeth, and fingerprints, as well as a lot else. You should expect a decrease in nausea, an increase in energy, and-oh, Buck, this one’s fun-improved sex drive.”
“Hmm, baby feels like a lemon today,” Bucky hums into the pillow. Sam snorts.
“What the actual hell are you talking about?”
“Don’t question me about it,” Bucky says, half lidded eyes shooting up with a hint of mischief at Sam, “if I say the baby feels like a lemon, it feels like a motherfucking lemon. Get with the program. You’re about to lose out on that improved sex drive.”
“You’re right. It’s such a lemon today. Of course, how could I be so oblivious? I’m gonna get dressed. I love you, crazy pants, and the lemon, too,” Sam grins. Bucky tilts his head up to kiss him, a tiny hint of tongue dancing across his lips before he’s slithering back down into the sheets.
Sam stands and almost leaves. He almost leaves.
But, then, he doesn’t.
“You know what?” Sam says as he spins back around. Bucky’s head rises a bit, “We’re not going to risk it. We’re really not. I’m taking you to see your doctors.”
“Sam,” Bucky groans, pressing his cheek down against his pillow. Sam shrugs and is already moving to pull them out clothes for the day.
“Shut your ass up. I don’t care if they just tell you you’ve got gas and to get over it. I’m not okay with you not being okay,” Sam issues, dipping slightly into his tough guy voice, as he throws a sweater at Bucky’s head. Bucky catches it with a huff. Looking Bucky right in the eye, hands on his hips, he says, “We are going.”
Sam makes some calls; giving Torres a lame excuse and a rain check and asking a receptionist at Bucky’s doctor’s office how soon they can be in. Bucky gripes, but they still leave an hour later.
It ends up being simply round ligament pain, which is common and means the uterus is expanding, as it should. Everything is as it should be, and an ultrasound shows them as much. A squirmy baby who is perfectly fine, broadcasted in black and white.
Sam’s still glad they went. Sometimes, most of the time, he needs reassurance that all of this is really happening.
He keeps checking his apps and Bucky keeps listening.
Week 16: Baby is the size of an avocado. They are growing hair and eyelashes. Backaches and the dreaded ‘pregnancy brain’ often begin this week. However, you should also experience the ‘pregnancy glow’ you’ve been hearing about!
“What the hell?” Sarah asks, holding up the shirt Sam whittled Bucky down into letting him send in advance of the video call, marked with the words ‘TITI: EST. 2025’. They have been on the call for a few minutes, Sarah in her office/Sam’s old bedroom with a now-opened Etsy box in front of her and Bucky and Sam fidgeting on their couch, laptop angled up to keep Bucky’s desperate squeezing of Sam’s hand out of frame. Sarah’s eyes move away from the shirt, fingers clutching firmly into the jersey knit fabric, and stare right at Sam, “Seriously, what the hell? Sam!”
“Yeah?” Sam says, with his best try at a smirk, as if he’s completely oblivious to what has her so bothered. On his left side, he can hear Bucky’s sigh at the same time Sarah rolls her eyes. She lowers the shirt to her lap and tucks her lips in on themselves.
“Sam, this shirt says ‘titi’ on it. You bought me a shirt that says ‘titi’,” she states, as if Sam was unaware what he sent her, as if this is just a mess up in shipping. But, it is not, and they really should have had a better thought-out plan.
“I told you not to do this with a shirt,” Bucky mutters as he scrubs a hand down his face.
“Alright, you can shut up,” Sam shoots right back.
“Okay, anyone gonna explain to me what is going on?” Sarah demands. Sam looks to Bucky, shrugs, pulls a wide smile, and turns back to Sarah.
“Surprise! We’re pregnant!” he announces. Bucky tosses his head forward onto open palms and groans, deep and tired.
“We? Really, we, Sam?”
“Uh,” Sarah starts. Her mouth hangs open and her brows have folded into little wrinkles that look less than joyous. Sam doesn’t know why he had been even hoping for joyous, especially right off the bat, “I don’t-since when have you guys been looking into having kids? And pregnant, do you mean . . . is it a surrogate? When in the hell did you two find the time or the money to get a surrogate? ‘Less this is some weird Captain America thing where ladies just carry babies for y’all for free?”
“Um,” Bucky gulps as pricks of red tingle up on his cheeks. His hand that has kept a firm hold on Sam’s for the duration of the call goes vice-like and Sam winces. Bucky’s eyes widen and he’s muttering apologies as he loosens the grip.
“It’s fine,” Sam mumbles back, even if it did hurt like hell, and gives Sarah a quick glance, “Can you give us a minute?”
“I asked you to keep this short, Samuel. I have a business to run and I-” she rants as Sam’s fingers hover over the mute and camera off buttons. He clicks them with a sheepish smile to Sarah’s glare and the screen goes dark for a moment.
“Hey, you doing okay? Still want to tell her?” Sam checks, both of Bucky’s hands in his. Bucky tugs his hands away and huffs.
“Sarah’s currently waiting not so patiently for our explanation of this. You sent her a goddamn shirt telling her she’s gonna be an aunt. It’s kind of too late to be worrying about what I want.”
“Okay,” Sam frowns, “Okay, yeah, I know. Shit, this is way more intense than I thought it’d be. So, I’ll tilt the camera down, and then, you’ll show her the-”
“Uhuh,” Bucky exhales with a light touch of his fingertips to his stomach. He follows it, as Sam moves to turn the video and sound back on, with a hushed, “oh, Jesus.”
“You sure you’re good?” Sam asks once more, even if Sarah must be getting near irate, maybe-mostly-because he’s not entirely sure he’s good himself. A gruff sound crawls up from the back of Bucky’s throat.
“Turn the fuckin’ camera on, Sam.”
Sam nods and does, as sweat creeps from his hairline to his brows, and Sarah’s still there with that glare that could stop a tank from rolling.
“Samuel Thomas Wilson-”
“Don’t freak out,” Sam says over her chastising. Her face shifts at the words, brows lifting from anger to shock, though, Sam has to admit, the anger has not completely gone.
“What the hell is going on right now?” Sarah questions, anxiety tingling under her words. Sam takes in a swallow of air, counts to three in his head, and finds steady purchase on Bucky’s thigh. On his release of breath, he confesses,
“There’s not a surrogate.”
In one swift move, he tilts the computer screen until Bucky’s bump is centered in their image box. It’s nothing much yet, because Bucky is tall and well-structured and has room for growth without it being obvious. But, when Bucky sits the right way, the way with his legs diagonal and knees knocking against Sam’s as he twists his torso forward, and he pulls his shirt taut, hands tight under his chest and at his hips, the curve leads to one pretty distinct conclusion.
“Oh,” Sarah says, a gasp on her breath, eyes wide and unblinking as they stare solely at Bucky’s stomach, “Oh my-oh my God. Bucky, I-oh my God.”
“It’s a HYDRA thing,” Bucky shoots. His hand has stretched out to tip the webcam away from its focus on him and his stomach. He holds his face tight and unreadable, his only tell of embarrassment in his shifting eyes that won’t meet Sarah’s. He fumbles with the paper he has ready just off screen, the one he’s filled with answers to most of the questions Sarah is bound to have, “I have, uh, some more . . . information on it, if you want-”
“Oh, honey, that’s fine,” Sarah interjects as a concerned softness covers the shock on her face. Sam’s never heard her call a grown man ‘honey’ before, not even her late husband, but, looking at Bucky and how he grips onto his paper of details, near to ripping it, Sam does see how the image can bring up terms of endearment and dripping sweetness.
Sarah’s eyes move from Bucky to Sam, searching and confused. A question sits in them, something like is this for fucking real , something frantic, and Sam answers it without her having to ask out loud.
“I know. But, it’s real.”
It’s real. Sam doesn’t fully trust that himself, despite all the scans they’ve had done and the echoing heartbeat, faster and distinct from Bucky’s, that accompany them. Sarah must see his earnestness, alongside Bucky’s shaky stoicism, because she nods to this, admitting it. This is real.
“How far along are you?” she asks Bucky. Her voice is less than certain, but she puts a smile on. Bucky meets it halfway.
“Uh, sixteen weeks.”
“Wow!” Sarah exclaims, too brightly. Sam stares at her with a quirked brow and she shakes her head, laughing, “Sorry, sorry, I’m . . .this is a lot. But that’s-it’s . . . it’s really great. It is. Congratulations, I think?”
“Yeah,” Sam confirms for her with a hopeful grin. He finds a new hold on Bucky’s hand, who takes his gladly, “Yeah, it’s a congratulations thing, Sarah. A little bit of a ‘oh shit’ thing, too, but mostly congratulations.”
“That’s good,” she replies as she bobs her head in nod, chin jerking up and down quickly and repeatedly, “I . . . wow. Sam. This is . . . and, Jesus, sixteen weeks! Thanks for finally gettin’ ‘round to telling me!”
“I think we are owed our own processing time!” Sam issues back as Bucky grins and nods sheepishly. Sarah laughs at that, full and solid.
“Well,” Sarah sighs, slamming her palms down onto her thighs and tossing a chuckle up to the ceiling, “This was insane. But, I’ll admit; very exciting. Congratulations. Uh, again. I’m really happy to be a titi. But Carlos has a fresh catch of blue crab today and if I’m not there soon, he’ll sell it to that jerk who owns Rocky’s, so . . .”
“Wait. Quick favor,” Sam asks as she’s about to sign off. She stops for a second.
“Hm?” she huffs.
“We were sort of hoping you’d tell the boys for us.”
Sarah smirks as she narrows her eyes at the both of them. Bucky goes a little rigid at it, but Sam, who has long been under her scrutiny, smirks right back to it.
“Fine. But I’m gonna make them save all their questions for when y’all come visit,” she groans. Her eyes scan between the two of them, “and, y’all are comin’ to visit soon, you hear? I need to process this in person. And smack Sam upside the head for telling me this virtually!”
“Yes ma'am,” Bucky nods, the picture of perfect respect even with his flushed cheeks and nerves, and Sam sort of wants to laugh in his face. Sarah, as usual, smiles warmly at it and Sam holds back rolling his eyes.
“Good. And, honey,” she says, with that word she never has called Sam, even after his worst break-ups, “I did the whole baby thing twice, so if you need any advice, just call, okay? I’m not sure how similar it’s gonna be in your situation, but, you know. If you want to bitch about stretch marks and hormones as this goes on, I’m here.”
“Thanks,” Bucky gives back, face going mildly bleak at the mention of stretch marks. Sam pats his back.
“Think you damn near terrified him there, Sarah.”
Sarah’s lip quirks up and she looks bemused by the whole fact of Sam and Bucky, in general.
“Lord. You two with a baby,” she hums, sounding either tender or completely certain they will be a disaster. She excuses herself to barter with Carlos after a customary ‘goodbye, love you’, and leaves Sam staring at his computer screen and feeling slightly astonished that it will actually be, as Sarah said, the two of them, with a baby .
“ We’re pregnant, he says,” Bucky snorts, and Sam breaks from his own head to turn to him. Bucky is smirking up a storm, cheeks a slowly dying red, and promptly gives Sam a firm shove, “Ass. And I told you she wouldn’t like the t-shirt.”
“Oh, shut up. Moody little fuck,” Sam snarks and pushes Bucky back flat to the couch as he laughs, kissing a firm line from Bucky’s ear to his collarbone.
Week 18: Baby is the size of an artichoke. They are yawning, hiccuping, and even rolling around inside you, and you just might be able to feel them doing it! You may notice some swelling of your feet starting this week, as well as some issues sleeping. If you are so inclined, your doctor may be able to tell you the sex of your baby this week!
Sam spends two hours on the day before Bucky’s eighteen week ultrasound explaining the concept of a gender reveal cake.
“Why wouldn’t the doctor just, you know, tell us?” Bucky asks with a perturbed tick up of his lips. He’s stirring up an awful mixture of melty ice cream, hot sauce, and maraschino cherries, while Sam sits himself on the other side of the dining table, his perfectly normal turkey and cheddar sandwich in front of him, and tries to be unbothered by Bucky’s cravings.
“Cause that’s not significant enough! We need some spectacle, baby,” Sam says, an enthusiastic trill to his words.
“Hmph,” Bucky grunts back. He takes in a thick spoonful of ice cream, wiping at the messy dribbles at the corner of his mouth with a considering twist to his lips.
“If you totally hate the idea, I guess we could just do it the boring, no fun, no suspense way,” Sam concedes as he exaggerates the pout of his lip. Bucky gives him a heavy stare, half-lidded and less than amused.
“Jesus Christ, you’re a brat. Fine. Get your stupid cake,” Bucky sighs. Sam doesn’t hide a pleased smile as Bucky shakes his head, “You just want to smash it on my face, huh?”
“Oh, one hundred percent,” Sam admits, because he most definitely does want to smear Bucky’s smirky little expression with pink or blue icing just to see him go red and huffy.
But, he confesses to only himself, the real motivation for this event runs deeper. It’s a touch of normalcy, a touch of celebration, same as the bump photos and same as the shirt he sent Sarah. Sam’s happy about this. It’s not normal, this is obvious, and it’s not guaranteed or safe, either. God, he’s reminded of that at every doctor’s visit, surrounded by a mass of excited, fascinated medical minds who view every step of progress the baby makes as a miracle and every hitch as a crisis. Who can’t tell him conclusively if this baby will have the serum in their blood, or if an epidural will properly numb Bucky for the c-section, or if Bucky’s body can expand in the right ways and places to accommodate a growing fetus. Sometimes, it’s nice to not focus on that part. Sometimes, Sam wants to buy the stupid cake and take the dumb picture and pretend he can be happy about this without feeling guilty.
Maybe Bucky senses that. He’s always been good at reading Sam.
So, they go to the eighteen week scan. They see a perfectly forming nose and fingers and legs and get told their baby is five inches long. They don’t look for any boy or girl bits. They have the ultrasound tech write the sex on a scrap of paper, tuck that paper into an envelope, and take that envelope to an Albertson's bakery. They order the damn miniature cake for two.
The debate over who gets the first, most important bite, starts somewhere around twenty four hours later.
“It was my idea,” Sam points out after Bucky had gone fork first towards the evenly spread white frosting on the top of the cake without so much as a discussion of how they would be going about this. Bucky rolls his eyes.
“Are you carrying the baby around inside you? No, you’re not. I’m the whole reason this thing’s got a sex to reveal. I’m doing the work here. I get the first bite,” Bucky counters back. Sam huffs.
“I’m doing some of the work, too.” Sam thinks specifically of the nearly twenty minute rant he endured from Bucky a few days ago, hormone-fueled and concerning Sam’s apparently annoying habit of being too warm when he sleeps. Bucky shoves at him, getting himself firmly in front of the cake again.
“Yeah. I’m sure your contribution to the making of this baby was just awful for you, Samuel. I pity you, truly,” Bucky replies, snarky and smiley, “Now, give me back my fork.”
“No,” Sam says.
“No?” Bucky checks, his eyes going wide and indignant. Sam quickly tucks the fork behind his back, takes large steps away from Bucky, and grins deviously.
“No. No fork ‘less you let me get that first bite.”
“I’m going to fucking kill you,” Bucky says back with a damn obnoxious smile. And, then, before Sam can quip back, Bucky is trying to actually wrestle the fork out of his grasp. Like, legitimately wrestle it out, full on using combat moves for ownership of the utensil. And, because Bucky is a super soldier, succeeding at that wrestling. Cornered and out of options, Sam grabs for what lies closest to them, which happens to be the cake, and makes good on his word to smash it over Bucky’s face.
It takes Sam a full bout of laughter at Bucky’s coated, furious, growling expression and a long stare at the splatter of cake and icing and creme filling to realize that, shit. That filling is pink.
“You fucker. You-you absolute asshat, I swear to God I’ll… I-Sam?” Bucky’s grumbles stop and his brows are knotting up in confusion, and Sam notices only then that he hasn’t been breathing. That he’s just been staring, speechless and still at Bucky’s face as it is covered in white and screaming pink. Pink. Girl. Baby girl.
Bucky drags his finger through the mess on his face as Sam continues to not be able to speak. His pointer comes back with smears of pink and a shaky, damp choke of a laugh bubbles from him.
“Shit. There’s … Christ, Sam, I got a little girl growin’ in there.”
That’s about too much for Sam, as he finds himself with tears rolling down his cheeks, warm and palpable. It’s Bucky’s words, mostly, and the image they conjure of a tiny daughter just under Bucky’s skin, yawning and twisting like his apps told him she’d be able to start doing this week. It’s more than that, too, that has Sam’s lip shaking wordlessly. It’s that he had known it would be a girl. Not consciously, no, but when Sam holds a palm against the soft curve of Bucky’s stomach, thinking of not only the life it holds but the life they are making every day because of it, in the very back of his mind, he’s been thinking, softly, unsurely, unexplainably, baby girl . And, now, he’s had it confirmed. That’s what she is.
“Sammy,” Bucky whispers, all delicate and touched, and moves over to cup Sam’s crying face, “Hey, what’s wrong? I’m the one who oughta be the crying mess here.”
Sam shakes his head and laughs over his tears, because Bucky’s face being completely coated in cake bits is a million times more hilarious when he tries to pair it with gooey sentimentality. Since when did they become these mushy messes? Is this what parenthood is? Sam guesses he’s okay with that. Pushing forward with his heels, his non-frosting covered hand coming up firm on Bucky’s bump and his lips slotting into his, Sam’s just fine with it.
The kiss, like everything else, is deliriously sweet and leaves Sam teary. He’s constantly overwhelmed by all of this, the good and the bad, and his usual handle on his emotions has gone out the window.
“You are happy about this, right?” Bucky checks when Sam goes to catch his breath, “Cause you’re crying a lot. You’re not disappointed she’s not a mini Cap?”
“No, Buck. I-God, of course I’m happy. It . . . I . . . I can barely speak, I’m so . . .” Sam stops. His breath catches and he coughs it out. Bucky laughs at him. He laughs at himself. He drips tears to the floor.
“I know,” Bucky says, hushed, reverent for just a moment, before he’s huffing at Sam, swinging an arm around his shoulders, and gathering a good glob of pink creme onto his thumb to swipe across Sam’s nose.
“For your picture. So we match.” he explains when Sam riles at the action, “Now, where the hell’s your phone?”
They find Sam’s phone on top of the fridge, of all places, and pose themselves together for the photo, up against the fridge, the most recent ultrasound held up by a magnet of the shield and positioned between their heads. It gets sent to Sarah as soon as it is captured, with the text ‘GIRL!’ under it. After which Sam decides he wants to lick the frosting off Bucky’s face slowly and carefully and Bucky decides he wants to ride Sam on the kitchen floor.
Sweaty and sticky with sugar and come an hour later, Sarah replies:
Thank GOD there will finally be some female energy in this family. I can’t take no more boys
And, a minute later:
I don’t think I want to know why all the icing around Bucky’s mouth is gone . . . smh
Week 20: You’re halfway done with your pregnancy! Baby is the size of a banana. They are falling into sleep patterns, having periods of more activity at certain times of the day. The energy surge of the second trimester should be coming your way, unfortunately coupled with heartburn.
They plan the whole trip in a matter of days.
It’s down to Sam’s schedule, mostly, which can change daily, and the fact that he hasn’t been able to find time for a three-day weekend in months. So, when the chance finally arises, he and Bucky are booking tickets with only a three-day notice and calling Sarah after they already do. Which is how Sam finds himself, on a humid, bright Friday morning in early July, awaiting his sister in a too crowded baggage claim, next to Bucky, who is practically dying in his unseasonal, concealing coat. Once they get the truck loaded up, Sam is happy to give him shotgun and the better access to the A/C.
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, it’s fuckin’ hot!” Bucky exclaims as he gets himself settled in his seat. He directs a steady stream of air at his chest firstly, after which his coat is done away with in one large swipe. Even in the back seat, Sam can see how Sarah clocks the bump the action reveals, staring openly at it in its fully presented glory, stretching boldly against one of Bucky’s now way too tight shirts.
“Wow,” she whispers, but the car isn’t that big, and the radio’s still off, so Sam and Bucky hear it clear as day. A flush creeps from Bucky’s neck to his cheeks as he wraps arms around his middle, and Sam wishes dearly he was sitting up there, too, so he could elbow his sister hard and tell her to stop ogling the damn thing. Eventually, though, Sarah stops herself, shaking her head and slamming her eyes up into embarrassed little slits.
“Good lord, where are my manners? Bucky, I can’t believe I . . . sorry, really, that was so rude,” she stammers, and sounds unsure if she wants to laugh or curl away in mortification. Bucky chooses for her, chuckling like it’s any other minor social weirdness.
“Nah, it’s fine. I mean, I . . . it’s pretty weird, I guess, if you don’t see it all the time like we do.”
“Oh, no,” Sarah hums gently, hand on top of Bucky’s, “no, it’s not weird at all. You look amazing.”
At that, Bucky legitimately laughs, because he’s told Sam, on different days, that he thinks he looks like a bad science experiment, someone’s weird fetish, or just plain fat. He thanks Sarah anyway and she turns on the radio so they don’t have to talk about it anymore. It is weird, Sam knows. It’s weird as all hell and, if someone had told him about this a year ago, he would have called them crazy and told them to fuck off. But, in Sam and Bucky’s bubble, the pregnancy has managed to become, incredibly, not that weird at all, if not sort of wonderful. Leaving that bubble’s an inevitable adjustment.
Sam plays dutiful boyfriend when they get to the house and slings his and Bucky’s duffels on either shoulder to take them upstairs. When he comes back downstairs, it seems some of the floating atmosphere of weirdness has drifted out; Bucky and Sarah are wearing warm grins as he tugs something out of his wallet and hands it over to her.
“They’re scanning my stomach and printing these things up every two weeks, so we’ve got a bunch of them already. I thought maybe you’d want one. I don’t know if these are the type of things you give to people or not, but-”
“Are you crazy? Course I want one!” Sarah says as she takes the ultrasound scan between both hands, grinning madly, “Oh my God, her little hands are perfect! This is the anatomy scan, right?”
Bucky nods in a way Sam would describe as something like proud. Sarah chuckles fondly.
“Cass flipped off the camera in his. I gotta find the printout for you.”
“Yes, please,” Bucky says back with a grin, and the whole scene is so cozy and familial Sam can’t hold himself from entering it any longer.
“When is that deviant bird-flipper getting home today?” Sam asks as he sidles up next to Bucky.
“Him and AJ have Scouts Friday’s. Andrew’s mom should be bringing them back in an hour,” Sarah replies.
“Since when are they doing Scouts?” Sam asks. He presses in closer to Bucky, arm around his shoulders, “You gotta tell me these things! I could’ve come down here with a presentation on, like, self defense or heroism or something for their troop. Would’ve brought the suit and the shield. Whole nine yards!”
Sarah rolls her eyes as Bucky snorts an indignant laugh.
“I’m not exposing those poor children to your ego, Sam. Or letting you bore them to death with whatever the hell a presentation on ‘heroism’ entails,” she smirks and Sam has enough sense to realize he’s better to pout in silence as Sarah and Bucky gang up to make fun of him than try and defend himself.
Cass and AJ, in matching, adorable khaki uniforms, run in the house with Sam and Bucky’s names already on their tongues. AJ gets to them first and tosses himself so heavily onto the couch and into Sam’s lap that Sam barely catches his breath before he can block Cass from doing the same to Bucky.
“Hey,” he huffs, surprising himself with how legitimately stern he sounds, “be careful. Uncle Bucky’s carrying some precious cargo.”
“Oh my God,” Bucky guffaws. But, Cass listens, taking two large steps back as both him and AJ turn their full, wide-eyed attention to Bucky. Bucky readjusts against the couch, discomfort brewing in him under their stares.
“So, Mom wasn’t lying, then? Uncle Sam actually got you pregnant?” Cass asks in a hush. Bucky barks a laugh, probably from the shock of the question alone.
“Cass! Don’t be dirty!” Sarah scolds automatically, shaking her head. She tuts and gives Bucky an amused, apologetic smile, “I am so sorry, Bucky. I guess my whole family woke up and forgot how to be polite, huh?”
“Sorry, Uncle Bucky,” Cass mumbles, after a delay and a glare from Sarah. Bucky shakes his head, shrugs at Sam when he gives a comforting squeeze to his knuckles, and smiles over at him.
“It’s okay. Um. Yes, your mom was telling the truth. I . . . we are having a baby. But,” he says with a teasing smirk, arms already reaching to snatch Cass, “despite what your uncle is saying, I am still perfectly capable of hauling you two lugs around all day.”
He proves this, grabbing up Cass and slinging him onto his shoulder even as he laughs and struggles and Sam chides him to be more careful. After a moment, he does settle him back down, sending him over to give Sam a hug.
“Can we name it?” AJ asks as he slides off Sam’s lap and between him and Bucky. Sam gives him a lazy grin and a shove.
“Oh, definitely not,” he issues to AJ and Cass’s groans, “I give you two control and we’re gonna end up with little baby Goku or something.”
“I don’t even like Dragon Ball anymore,” Cass says, rolling his eyes, as if this should be obvious to Sam, and AJ’s off to the races listing ‘better’ names from the newer, cooler shows they like now.
They’re begging Sam to ‘train’ them soon enough, which basically means Sam making them run laps and do sit ups until they’re exhausted enough to fall asleep with no struggle at night, and Sarah is absconding with Bucky as he gathers the boys up, the start of a question about Bucky’s heartburn leaving her mouth as they head off into the kitchen.
Sarah’s got him cooking when Sam finishes with Cass and AJ. It’s simple stuff, chopping up okra, bell pepper, and celery, while Sarah’s handling the real work of cooking the chicken and managing the rice. The room smells amazing, as it always does when Sarah’s cooking, smells like Momma’s dinner after a long day of school, but, now, with the added bonus visual of Bucky’s knife skills be putting the excellent use of creating perfectly same squares of bell pepper. Sam leans in the door frame as Sarah and Bucky exchange quick words over sizzling oil.
“Thank God you’re teaching him how to cook,” Sam pipes in and Bucky flicks him a smirk over his shoulder, “Bout to be a momma and can barely boil potatoes.”
“You start with that ‘momma’ crap again and I’ll take you out, Wilson,” Bucky spits, gesturing worryingly with the knife. Sam tosses his arms up in surrender, laughing. The ‘momma crap’ Bucky refers to mainly means the bump photo album, which he found, yelled at Sam for, and renamed to ‘Sam’s creepy archive of Bucky’s (who is not a momma) fat’, last week. It’s a bit lengthy, if you ask Sam.
“Why’d you give him a knife?” Sam directs at Sarah, who laughs lightly as she presses the chicken firm against the pan, “He’s, like, the last person you want to have a knife!”
“I will actually cut you, Sam,” Bucky mutters as he pours the okra from the cutting board into the pan with the chicken. Sam gestures to that as his proof.
“See?”
Sarah orders Sam out of her kitchen to set the table and Sam riles at the proud little smirk Bucky gives him as he is allowed to remain. Him and Sarah already work together too well against Sam as is; having them united by having both experienced the trials of pregnancy is dangerous. Though, Sam will admit, also sort of lovely.
He tells Bucky as much as they settle in bed later, after dinner, well-filled glasses of wine for Sam and Sarah, a game of UNO, and the required twenty week bump photos for the (newly retitled) photo album. They’re laid out in the oddest way; Bucky nearly horizontal with his head and back both supported by folded pillows, so he can keep his legs situated in Sam’s lap. He’s been getting the worst leg cramps every night for the past two weeks and it’s become routine for Sam to try his best to rub the tension out as it crops up.
“She did give me this book she got when she was pregnant with Cass. Bunch of tips and explanations of stuff,” Bucky mumbles from where his head lies across from Sam. He nearly whines as Sam presses his fingers into a tight, tender muscle in his calf, Sam mumbling an apology after, “but, I don’t know, she still seems vaguely freaked out by it. Me. The pregnancy. The whole thing. It’s fine, though. I mean, it is freaky, Sam.”
“It’s not,” Sam insists. He takes one hand away from its attention to Bucky’s legs to lay it across Bucky’s stomach, feeling for . . . something. Bucky’s just started to feel little things, like butterflies or a rolling gut, but more. Sam can’t feel anything from the outside. It is irrationally aggravating. His brows furrow, “I’ll talk to her.”
“God, Sam, no. Don’t. Don’t do that,” Bucky groans as he digs his head down into his pillow.
“I . . .” Sam starts, considering disagreeing. But, he’s not particularly in the mood to get into it with his sister, not when he’s only here for the weekend. And, it’s not like she’s been mean or unaccepting or anything he should actually be mad about. Only shocked, which he guesses is her right. From the outside of all of this, Bucky’s right. The only reason this has even been possible is a Nazi-esque evil organization’s wack experimentation on Bucky’s body. But, inside, as deep, deep inside of this Sam is, it has been much easier to forget that reality and be solely consumed by how much he loves Bucky and wants to have beautiful little babies with him. Sam sighs.
“Okay. I won’t say anything.”
Bucky smiles gratefully, collects his legs up, and meets Sam with such wonderfully soft, slow kisses, that Sam doesn’t even fuss when Bucky begs him to go downstairs and bring him something ‘sweet, like, ridiculously sweet, Sammy, please’.
“He wants something sweet. Usually does before he goes to sleep, now,” Sam offers as explanation when he gets down to the kitchen and sees Sarah sat at the island and finishing another glass of wine. He can feel her stare as he scoops out a good-sized amount of Rocky Road and searches the fridge for something syrupy and packed with sugar to top it with. He meets the stare with a quirk of his brow, “what?”
“Sam,” Sarah sighs, perplexed, concerned eyes searching him from under long lashes, “are you okay?”
“Yeah. Why you askin?” Sam snorts, like he doesn’t know what she means. Continues on with drizzling chocolate sauce over the top of the ice cream as if he has no clue that she’s questioning if he is surviving what must look like insanity to her, “I know AJ dealt me two draw 4 cards in a row, but, really, I’m fine.”
“Sam,” she chides, her voice low and tired. Sam’s lips tick down as he leans back against the counter.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I know that it’s crazy, but so is, like, half of my life, right? I’m good with crazy. Crazy’s my safe place. Why do you think I got with Cyborg McMurder up there in the first place? I can handle this,” he reassures, fast and overly smiley, for himself, too. For his own late-night worries that keep him up just like they do Sarah right now. Her brows crinkle at him.
“I love Bucky so much. He’s our family, okay? But, you two haven’t been together that long, not in terms of having a baby together. Did he even want kids before this?”
“He’s happy about this. Now that the shock wore off, we both are,” Sam fires back, wide-chested and defensive. If he had answered Sarah’s question honestly, it would have been a no. But, she has to understand that it’s more complicated than that. That this is not about planning or wanting for ages; it’s about waking up in this unbelievable reality and being given whiplash with how fast the wanting comes on. It’s not something that he can explain.
“Okay,” Sarah concedes, taking a long sip of her wine and a deep breath, “I’m worried. Sorry. You’re not gonna let me worry about you?”
“I’m tellin’ you that there’s nothing to be worrying about,” Sam says, though, of course there is. There’s worries Sarah can’t even realize she needs to have, worries from things the doctors can’t figure out, that he won’t tell her about. But, worrying about him wanting this? Of being sure Bucky is who he wants to do it with? That is truly not a concern.
“You’re fully obsessed already, huh?” Sarah asks and Sam laughs pitifully at himself.
“You know me.”
At that, she smiles, sets down her wine, and comes up to hold him. He blinks his moist eyes and thinks he might lose it. He’s so far gone. Only halfway done and already a damn love sick fool.
“A girl, Sam. A daughter. My niece!” Sarah grins as she pulls back, sounding closer to accepting that than she has before, “I’m gonna spoil her bad. Real bad.”
“Fine by me. As long as you promise to help us with her hair. I don’t . . .that shit’s like magic, and only you and Momma knew how to do it,” Sam begs, already having stress dreams about him and Bucky sending their girl out into the world with a tangled mess of poofy frizz atop her head, no order to it at all. Sarah pats his back with a grin.
“I’ll teach you some of my voodoo hair powers. Not letting my niece go around lookin’ a mess, I promise,” she says, “Now, go deliver your boy his ice cream. It’s melting.”
It is thoroughly sludgy at this point, but that’s luckily how Bucky’s been fond of taking it lately, anyways. He gathers it up, kisses Sarah’s cheek, and brings it up to place it in Bucky’s lap, who eats it in annoying, loud slurps that make Sam want to smack him.
“Are you ever worried about her being a girl?” Sam asks, the one worry that’s tame enough to touch. Bucky shrugs.
“I remember some stuff from Rebecca. Girls aren’t that hard, really. Boys are fuckin’ chaos. Look at our nephews. Look at us.”
Sam nods. They are all chaos. And, truthfully, he’s hardly worried, either. Not seriously, nothing more than passing fears about periods and dating and hair.
“I hope she takes after Sarah,” Sam admits, only knowing its truth once he’s said it. Sarah’s strong. She’s carried on after loss, she’s preserved and still makes the time to stay up and worry over her little brother. He’d be more than lucky to have a daughter like her.
“She will,” Bucky says, hand on his bump, with so much certainty in his knowledge of their child. They do share a body; Bucky probably does know. Sam smiles, eases down against the mattress, and is glad for little certainties.
Week 22: Baby is the size of a coconut. They are more responsive to outside stimuli, such as light, sound, and touch. Trouble catching your breath as the baby crowds your lungs due to a growth spurt of the bump is common this week.
It happens for the first time in an alleyway.
They’re on a walk around their neighborhood, because the weather is hot but for the first time in a while not blisteringly so, and Bucky, since his stomach has, as their apps define it, popped, he has not left their apartment. So, when a day finally arrives where it is even possibly conceivable for Bucky to put on a large t-shirt with a jacket over it, Sam and him make a pilgrimage from their building to the coffee shop on the corner.
Which is why, when it happens, Sam finds himself being tugged by the collar of his shirt into a nearby alley so forcefully that he’s convinced Bucky just spotted someone who was about to kill them.
“What?” he puffs, breath coming fast. Bucky has yanked them securely out of view, next to the dumpster and pressed flat to the side of the laundromat that owns it. Sam doesn’t have much in the way of self-defense on him, because they were literally walking all of three minutes down their block, but Bucky usually keeps his Gerber dagger on his person at all times, “What did you-who's after-”
“Shut up,” Bucky mutters at him and in a flash has Sam’s tense fingers uncurling against his stomach. Sam’s mind is racing, still thinking about defensive strategies, even though it is becoming increasingly obvious from Bucky’s calm that there’s no danger, when something meets his left palm.
Like a bubble coming up and bursting on the surface of a lake, the pressure against his hand rises and stays for only a moment, before it disappears back down into Bucky’s skin. Sam is sad at how quickly it ends, but he can barely dwell in that sadness for half a second before a new movement is cropping at his right thumb, and then again lower, at his wrist.
“This is the hardest she’s kicked yet. It was me walking around, I guess. I haven’t been moving around much lately. Can you feel her? I thought, maybe, you’d be able-”
“I feel her,” Sam whispers back, still feeling her, though smaller now, light taps on his palms, sweet and soft, “Bucky, I-yeah. Baby, she’s actually there.”
“You thought she wasn’t? That I’m just getting fat?” Bucky scoffs, smirking. Sam laughs, pressing against Bucky so as much of himself as possible is in contact with the bump, with where she is saying hello. Sam wants to drop down in front of Bucky, lips to the curve of his abdomen, and say hello back. But they’re in semi-public and he’s sure Bucky would give him hell over the gesture. So, he leans his head into the crook of Bucky’s neck and thinks his hello instead, somehow convinced baby girl will hear him through his contact with Bucky’s skin.
At this moment, with his family all together, kept close, Sam makes the decision that he would give up everything he loves, everything he has, everything and anything and anyone, for the two of them; Bucky and the baby.
It’s terrifying, but isn’t that what parenthood is?