#also grading papers together on a tight deadline is the new protecting your barn from a rainstorm together everyone knows that

[firstelevens]

#42, sambucky!

42. "Hollow in the Ferns" by Craig Armstrong, from Far from the Madding Crowd

The siren of a passing firetruck jolts Sam out of what definitely wasn’t a power nap behind his desk. He shakes his head and blinks a few times until his vision clears, waiting until he can focus on the title at the top of Kamala’s essay. It’s fully dark outside now, and the fluorescents feel particularly bright in contrast.

The last thing he can remember clearly is marking a mistake in her introduction, but the paper in his hands is almost fully graded, comments in the margins and proofreading marks dotted throughout. He’s probably graded hundreds of these essays over the past few years, but it’s still mildly concerning that he could get through one on autopilot and not remember a thing.

He puts Kamala’s paper on the graded stack, scrawling her score into his gradebook before he turns back to the ungraded essays. He could swear that the pile has actually gotten bigger since he started, but before he has time to think too hard about that, his classroom door swings open and he almost jumps out of his chair.

With a scowl, Sam turns to the doorway to find an entirely-too-entertained Bucky Barnes looking back at him.

“How’s that grading going, Sammy?” he drawls, and the only reason Sam hasn’t hucked a rubber band ball at him yet is that he’s carrying two coffee cups and one of them might be for Sam.

“It’s going fine,” says Sam, as breezily as he can. “But if you’re in here keeping me from my work, one of those drinks had better be mine.”

Bucky holds out the bigger cup, and Sam takes it with an automatic thank-you. It warms his hands as he takes the first sip, and then it takes nearly all his restraint not to spit it out.

“What is this?” he rasps, holding the cup away from him and wrinkling his nose at it.

“Mint tea,” says Bucky. “You don’t need any more caffeine in you, Sam; you’re twitching.”

A week ago, Sam might have received this gesture with a sheepish smile and butterflies in his stomach. Today, it feels a little like an act of war: this motherfucker walked in with decaf one hour before the deadline for end of quarter grades.

Sam’s gaze moves to the cup in Bucky’s hand–black coffee, medium roast, like always–and for half a second, he contemplates snatching it.

Like he can read Sam’s mind, Bucky clutches the cup a little closer to his chest, which has the side effect of drawing the eye to his regrettably impressive pecs, and- and Sam does not need this kind of distraction right now.

“Thanks for this, Buck,” he says, because his mother raised him to be polite. “I should probably get back to these essays, though, so-”

“You can take five minutes, Sam,” Bucky says, and pulls up a chair in front of Sam’s desk like he’s planning to stay a while. “The essays will wait.”

Sam opens his mouth to tell Bucky that no, they very much will not, but his jaw drops a little bit as he watches Bucky pull the stack of essays towards himself and pluck a red pen from the mug in front of him.

“I- what are you doing?” asks Sam, eyes wide.

“Grading papers,” says Bucky. He only glances up from the essay for a moment. “Drink your tea before it goes cold.”

“Bucky.”

“Sam.”

“Barnes, put the papers down.”

Bucky sighs, but sets the stack of essays on the desk and looks up at him. “Sam, there’s an hour until your deadline and there are like, fifty papers here. What are you going to do, grade an essay a minute?”

Sam scrubs a hand down his face. He’s bone tired, running on caffeine and fumes, and he’d be lying if there wasn’t a part of him silently raging over the fact that all the teachers who pulled him away from his grading and planning periods are nowhere to be found when he needs help.

“Don’t you have your own grades to turn in?” he asks.

“I copped out and gave them a multiple choice test for this unit.” Bucky shrugs. “Took all of half an hour to grade. So can I help or not?”

“How do I know your grading will be up to my standards?” asks Sam, but he’s fighting the beginnings of a smile as he says it. “Have you even read the book?”

“Junior year, Industrial England in the Literary Imagination. We did Oliver Twist, too, but I’m pretty sure I just watched the movie for that one,” Bucky says, grinning. “And don’t pretend you don’t have a ridiculously detailed rubric tailored to this exact assignment; I don’t think I could mess it up if I tried.”

Sam takes a moment to wonder whether he’s really become that predictable, then hands over some blank rubrics. “No editorializing in the margins,” he says, “and highlight at least one area of strength in every paper, even if it’s got a failing grade.”

“Yes, sir,” says Bucky, saluting him with the pen, and if Sam spends the rest of the hour stealing glances at him between grading essays, that’s nobody’s business but his own.