Sam rarely receives any packages in the mail. When he does, they’re mostly care packages from his sister back in Louisiana, filled with snacks from home and a few letters and gifts from her and his nephews. He always appreciates the gesture, and is always excited to receive whatever they send his way. So, when he hears his doorbell ring, and sees the mailman there with a package for him, Sam can’t help but expect it to be another one of Sarah’s care packs. But once he gets back inside and looks at the sender’s name and address carefully, he notices that it isn’t from his sister, but from Bucky.
Sam furrows his eyebrows and walks to his kitchen, setting the box on the counter. He grabs the box cutter from a drawer and open the package, revealing a letter sitting atop a piece of tissue paper. The letter reads:
I’m not really good at this sort of thing, so this might suck. Anyway, I took your advice and decided to pick up a hobby that might help me with all the negative shit that goes on in my head. I went kind of overboard, though, and didn’t know what to do with it, so here you go. I hope you like the new sweaters. There’s a scarf in there, too. Let me know if you got them.
Sam’s eyebrows rose in amusement and a small smile played on his lips as he took off the tissue paper and uncovered a neatly folded sweater underneath it. “So, he took up knitting, huh?” Sam chuckled, taking out the sweater from the box, glancing over at the rest in amazement. “He made quite a lot...” He turned his attention back to the sweater in his hands—it was cornflower blue, stitched neatly and with little room for mistakes. Sam tugged it on, and smiled. It was the perfect fit, made just for him.
Bucky had obviously made the clothes for him on purpose, but decided to keep that little detail to himself, to save himself from some form of embarrassment. Sam kept that knowledge to himself and took out the rest of the sweaters from the box. There were three more of them: one colored mustard, another in a purple gradient, and the last one was a forest green color. The scarf was one of those chunky ones you’d see on Pinterest, knitted with an off-white colored yarn. Sam smiled widely at the new gifts. He’d have to one-up Bucky on Christmas now, and get him something even better.
Back in New York, Bucky lay on the couch of his studio apartment, scrolling through his Instagram, something Sam had introduced him to during their time together. It was alright, he guessed. It was definitely more entertaining than staring at the wall for hours out of boredom, though.
He scrolled through his feed, looking at all the pictures his newfound friends from a knitting group he’d joined a few months ago had posted. They were mostly of new projects, like cross-stitching and ideas for mitten designs for the upcoming winter. He took them all into account and made a mental note to ask Rachel, a sweet middle aged woman who had first introduced him to the group and taught him tricks and tips to knitting, to accompany him to the crafts store next week to work on a new project.
Just as he was about to text Rachel, a notification appeared atop the screen. It was Sam.
Bucky’s heart jumped to his throat as he clicked on the notification and almost skipped ten beats when he saw Sam’s message.
Sam had sent him a picture of himself wearing the blue sweater he’d sent him, smiling widely and giving him a thumbs up. The message read: Wanted to let you know, I got your package. Thanks for the sweaters and the scarf! To be fair, I didn’t have that many to begin with, so I’ll make good use of them. Thanks, again, man, and I promise not to tell anyone that you made these specially for me ;).
Bucky groaned and covered his face with his hand, blushing with embarrassment. He really should’ve made the sizes differ a bit from each other just to make it less suspicious. God, he really wanted to be mad at Sam for teasing him. But he looks so cute in this picture, and he’s wearing the sweater I made him!
Bucky saved the image, praying no one would ever enter his camera roll, and put his phone down to stare at the ceiling, and contemplate his stupid schoolgirl crush on the new Captain America.
“I have it really bad,” he groaned. He did. He was absolutely whipped.