Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fourteen Months Ago

Bucky had not been lying when he told Alexei that he doesn’t get tired.

It just hadn’t been entirely true, either. Somewhere in between, perhaps.

He doesn’t get tired in that incremental way, feeling himself slow and get sleepy in the way that most people do. Or rather, when he does feel like that he usually just powers through until whatever the task or mission or whatever it is has been completed and then exhaustion slams into him. Not the best approach, he is aware, but it’s been his for a long time. Longer even than HYDRA, even from before the war. Burning the candle at both ends had been a necessary condition of living if he and his sisters wanted to cling onto the few hard-won luxuries that their parents had been able to get for them.

Being a soldier had actually made that last part a little easier: more regular hours and a sergeant’s pay. Until he’d shipped out, of course.

So yeah, after chasing down the Thunderbolts - seriously, what even was that name? - and then hightailing it to New York with the aforementioned unfortunately-named squad of weirdoes, followed by a battle with things that he had worked really hard on leaving behind, Bucky is not feeling tired. He’s fucking exhausted, his head staticky and his emotions running too close to the surface, thrumming behind his ribs and squeezing around his throat like a hand. Like his own hands had around throats and-

He slams his eyes shut.

No. No going back there. Not again.

He wants, in no particular order, a red-hot shower, sleep and food. He wants to go home. His apartment in Brooklyn is not all that far away, but he really wants to go home. He wants to go to DC, to that unnecessarily fancy place he shares with Sam. He wants to go home to Sam-

Shit. Sam…

Bucky pats himself down, remembers that his phone is in his jacket and his jacket - he sighs - his jacket is somewhere up on the somethingth floor of Val’s dumb tower. Watchtower. Stupid name. Their tower now, apparently. And he definitely can’t think about that now.

There’s too much press, too many people, too much noise. It’s really, really loud at the moment and he can feel everything inside himself shiver. Just the adrenaline wearing off, he tells himself. 

Alexei is enumerating all of the ways in which the New Avengers - fuck his life - can be of service, be adored (as though they are somehow the same thing), to Yelena, who is listening with weary patience or maybe just indulgence. She still has her arm through Bob’s and they sort of sag together. Even so, her head turns when Bucky slides past them, picking his way past the rubble and dust and the van they had left smashed into the new drywall. Yelena raises an eyebrow.

‘Gotta get my phone,’ he says and steps onto the elevator before she can say anything else. It’s a nice elevator, as far as elevators go. Roomy. He could easily curl up on the floor and take a little nap in here. He’s slept in worse places, God knows. Hey, it’s still got some of his blood smeared on the wall! His stomach flips. 

Yeah, no, definitely no naps in here.

The elevator pings and he steps off.

A lot of rubble, a lot of broken glass. The place reeks of paint, burnt gunpowder and alcohol. All of those shattered bottles. Good stuff, too. There’s an intact bottle of Chivas Regal that looks awfully tempting. 

His jacket is a sad dusty crumple on the floor. He dusts it off. Yup, stripping it off in a fit of pique was definitely going to tilt the fight in his favour. Moron. He finds his phone and holy shit that’s a lot of missed calls and texts. Sam. Sarah. Cass and AJ both. Bafflingly, Scott Lang. Shuri. Yori. Ayo. Leah. Sam. Sam. Sam-

‘Just tell me you’re okay.’ Sam answers on the first ring and the worried tension in his voice is so fierce that Bucky feels a whole different wave crash through him and he sits suddenly on a bit of rubble. Or a ruined bit of furniture. Or maybe it’s a bit of furniture that’s supposed to look like that, fuck if he knows. Bucky digs his thumb into the socket of one eye, lets out a long shaky breath.

‘Buck? Bucky!’

‘Yeah.’ It comes out on another rush of air. ‘Yeah, I’m- I’m okay.’

He is. For certain values of okay. He’s held it together pretty well so far and that’s not nothing. 

Sam hums dubiously. ‘You don’t sound okay.’

Bucky gestures vaguely with one hand and then remembers that Sam can’t see that. Words are needed. He manages to peel them up from somewhere, forcing them past his lips. ‘It’s been a long day. Couple days. Fuck.’ Thumb in the other eye socket. His cheeks are wet. Double fuck.

‘I get it. I’m sorry.’ He can hear Sam breathing on the other end of the line. It sounds shakier than it should. ‘Reports started coming in- It looked like being Blipped again and I thought…. What even was that?’

It’s hysteria, Bucky thinks tardily: that shivery feeling sliding between his ribs and stealing the air from his lungs. Making the world slip sideways and his vision white out at the edges. He grits his teeth against it, concentrates on the gritty feeling between the plates in his arm. It’s not a pleasant feeling but it’s weirdly grounding, normal. He’ll have to spend some time doing a proper service on it. 

‘I- I can’t, Sam. I can’t. Not now. I need-’

‘Okay. Okay.’ Soothing. Bucky can still hear that quiet, deliberate breathing, tries to match his own to it. Maybe it works - he can feel his heart rate slowly tick down anyway.

‘Just tell me one thing: that what I saw on the news feed is not what it looked like?’

Bucky works a tiny piece of New York masonry out from one of his knuckle joints. ‘That depends on what it looked like.’

An annoyed huff. ‘It looked like you deliberately walked into … whatever the fuck that was.’

Oh. That.

‘Oh. That.’

Silence.

‘For fuck’s sake, Bucky..!’

‘Look, it- It was a choice. It was all we had and - and it worked. It worked. It could have been so much worse. It’s not like anyone even died today! I mean, someone somewhere in the world died, obviously, that’s just what happens-’

‘Bucky.’

‘I don’t mean to downplay it, but it is a normal thing that happens every day-’

‘Buck.’

‘But there were no casualties because of this today. Not one! No-one… No-one died, Sam. We- I- No-one died.’ His throat is too tight, scalded, words coming too high and too fast. He scrubs at his face.

There’s another long pause.

‘That’s amazing, man.’ Sam’s voice is achingly gentle. ‘Probably a first for major superhero stuff.’

Bucky pulls in a breath, straightens up from staring at the dusty toecaps of his boots and out at the Manhattan skyline, sinking into evening and lights starting to blink against the hazy purple sky. ‘I dunno, you seem to manage it all the time.’

‘Once or twice, maybe,’ Sam agrees. ‘But on that scale? No. But, you… You did so good today, Buck.’

‘Wasn’t alone,’ he mutters.

There’s another slight pause.

‘Yeah. You all did good. Gonna explain to me how that came about?’

Bucky nods at the skyline. ‘Yeah, of course. Just…’

‘Not yet.’

‘Not yet,’ Bucky agrees. ‘You still in Vienna?’

‘Uh, no. Azerbaijan.’ There’s a wince in Sam’s voice. ‘It’s become a whole thing.’

‘Shit, I’m sorry.’ Bucky scrubs at his eyes one final time and almost manages a grin. ‘Hey, you need some backup?’

‘Nah. No. We got it covered.’ Maybe it’s the distance and the not-great line but there’s something distant in Sam’s voice. Weird. ‘Hey, you better call Sarah, she’s been going out of her mind. The boys, too.’

Bucky grimaces. ‘Yeah, I will. There’s a bunch of missed calls and stuff.’

Muffled voices in the background, even more muffled thuds. He hears Sam sigh, frustration in the sound.

‘Okay. Look, I gotta go. We’ll talk soon, right?’

‘Yeah. I love you, buddy.’

That little huff of breath and the smile back in Sam’s voice, warm and welcoming and lovely. ‘Love you too, man.’

He sits on his bit of rubble/furniture/whatever. Still exhaustion but the hysteria has drained away and he remembers another feeling. Exhilaration. It had felt good, on the bike, using skills he had tried to avoid for so long for an actively good purpose. For a mission that he had effectively given himself. Feeling more like himself, in a really, really good way, than he had for a long time. Definitely more settled and certain than the endless fizzing frustration that was working in Congress. Jesus. Why had he ever thought that that was the answer? That he could be good at it, make a difference that way? Maybe in the President’s office everyone burned the midnight oil to work out problems, find solutions, save the world. They sure as shit didn’t in Congress. Hell, they probably only did that in the President’s office on The West Wing. Should’ve just bought the box-set.

So, somewhere in between that run and the return to New York was the thought that maybe when this was over he should call Sam, offer to be partners again and it’s still an incredibly appealing thought, more than appealing, but then-

Then they had walked into the Void. And they had done it together. And … and it’s different now.

The elevator pings again. He sort of expects it to be Yelena but when the doors roll open it’s Ava Starr. Hood back and her helmet retracted. Her hair is a mess, dirt marks still streaking her face but at least the grazes have been cleaned.

‘We’re getting pizza, apparently,’ she tells him. Hovering some feet away, half-angled back towards to the elevator.

‘Okay,’ he says.

They look at each other.

‘Yelena made it sound like we’re all expected to be there.’ Her head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing. ‘Alexei really wants you to be there.’

Bucky huffs out a laugh. ‘Oh, great.’ Although, it is sort of endearing, the big man’s whole-hearted and entirely sincere … fanboying? He’s pretty sure that’s the term. Like, 90% sure. He’ll have to ask Cass. On paper it should be wildly annoying and definitely inappropriate given the whole history of murder but-

Alexei takes people as he finds them. Sees the good in them, or the possibility of good. Like Steve did and Sam does and maybe that’s what it is under the boisterousness and the grandstanding. Alexei has a good heart. He looks after the little people, the ones no-one else gives a shit about.

And Bucky, God help him, has always taken one look at big-hearted idealists like that and made it his mission to keep them whole and safe.

And here he is again. Self-knowledge is a good thing. Probably.

‘Bob wants you there, too,’ Ava adds when no-one has said anything for at least a minute. Bucky squints at her.

‘Why?’

She rolls her eyes, shoulders sagging and her patience clearly wearing thin. ‘How the bloody hell should I know?’

Maybe it is just the accent, or maybe it is the exasperation in her face and the way she looks at him with a slight air of primness, but for a second she is so like Peggy Carter that Bucky feels a rush of complicated bittersweet affection for her.

This woman he barely knows, whom he had been ready to haul in front of Congress less than twenty-four hours ago, and then leave her to her fate. This woman who had been prepared to follow another woman whom she also barely knows into what looked like the literal shadow of death because, for some reason, she had trusted Yelena’s judgement without question.

Beneath the lines of exhaustion written deep into her face, there is something else. A cautious hope, almost wonder, and he knows that look, had seen it looking back at him when he had imposed himself on Sam’s mission against the Flag Smashers and somehow had started to believe that he could be more. Be better.

Ava is still waiting, a frown starting to build across her face as she watches him. ‘I thought you, being a New York native, would know the good places.’

And Ava could have delivered her message and left, Bucky thinks. But she’s still here. Expectant. A little hopeful.

Shit.

He’d told them he knew how it felt, that he’d been where they had been. Where they still are, really, because it takes more than twenty-four hours. But still. He had pointed towards something better. Least he can do is try to actually take them there.

‘Walker said something about Ace’s Pizza?’

Bucky shoves up from his piece of whatever. ‘Oh no. Chicago pizza? In New York? No. No fuckin’ way!’

Amusement twitches at the corners of Ava’s mouth, satisfaction settling over her features. And-

And Bucky finds himself smiling at her. And it feels like it’s something small and infinitely fragile in the palm of his hand, but also infinitely hopeful.

They get on the elevator. Bucky rolls out his shoulders, the weight of exhaustion lifting off him and it’s a sort of peaceable tiredness that rolls in in its place. Which is fine. It’s good. He can live with that.

'Wait, hold on.' Bucky strides across the the room, broken glass and bits of masonry scrunching under his feet. He grabs the bottle of Chivas Regal, jogs back to the elevator. Ava's puzzled expression turns into a wide and truly lovely grin when she sees his pilfered bounty.

The doors roll shut and they make the descent.

Chapter Text

Eleven Months Ago

Despite the apparent bemusement at the formation of this New Avengers team and some extremely unpleasant commentary across media platforms both old and new, their services are in demand almost immediately.

Bucky immediately takes oversight and, face it, control of the many requests. Alexei seems quite happy to suit up and throw himself at any and every mission that comes their way. Walker seems resigned to being the muscle in the inevitable wet work. Ava, too. But Bucky is determined to steer all of them away from all of that. If they are to be the New Avengers, then he is going to make good on both aspects of the name. This is a new start for all of them and they are going to take the missions that fall within their own defined parameters. And they are going to honour the legacy of their predecessors. Of Steve and Natasha. Of Tony Stark.

Yelena, not entirely unexpectedly, quietly sets about helping him sift through the deluge. He had never really known Natasha but he knows enough about her, has heard enough from Sam, to know that she held herself accountable, that she tried to do what was right, that the work she set for herself was about helping people more than anything else. It’s an enormous legacy. Not as complicated as the shield’s, perhaps, but still weighty and it’s one that Yelena has chosen to bear. If he can help her with that-

Well. He’s had practice, after all.

Valentina had, naturally, tried to pull strings from the start, but without any leverage anymore it had not got her very far. 

Their first mission isn’t about saving the world, just shoring up a little patch of it and it gets them out of New York and keeps them there for the best part of a month.

Op sec means that Bucky swaps out SIM cards and, judging by the erratic but discernible patterns in their attempts at communication, Sam is doing the same. Good to know that Sam has finally got op sec best practice drummed into his head, but it’s also frustrating. It means that when they go live again, there’s a flood of messages, voicemails and missed calls, many of them out of order. By the time Bucky has sifted through and made sense of it, one or the other or both of them are on missions again.

Occasionally, something lucid makes it through:

‘Do you think you have a vibranium head?’ The hologram shivered, her voice loud. ‘I have seen you on that bike, idiot boy. And when you break every bone in your body, I am the one who will have to put you back together. Do you think I like seeing these news reports? "Oh, let me go punch a truck while wearing a t-shirt because I am the most stupid man alive who doesn’t care about how much his friends worry". You don’t even wear body armour!’

It was manipulative, he knew. There was no way that Shuri suffered over him nearly as much as she made out, but still. He would not willingly cause her so much as a second’s disquiet if he could help it.

‘Okay, fine, I will wear body armour.’

‘Oh, thank Bast! Finally!’

He had been instructed to deliver himself to the Wakandan Outreach Centre in Harlem that same day and far from this being for fittings, Bucky found a full suit of armoured tactical gear waiting for him. It still feels a little strange wearing it, but he makes himself remember every time the team gets ready. And if he does forget Ava or Yelena or sometimes Bob will remind him.

Sam’s reaction is immediate and characteristic:

He sees Sam on the news, the suit, the wings, the shield, all looking as natural and firm and righteous as ever. Still grounded in compassion, still steely and unflinching in the face of an injustice, uncompromising over anything he doesn’t believe in. It does Bucky good seeing him, feeling pride and pleasure in his friend; even if that pleasure is tempered by wistfulness, an ache of longing that is more than just missing Sam, it’s a longing for what Bucky had, tentatively, started to hope they were building themselves towards. Their shared living space had felt a little like a confirmation of that. Yes, it was a practical and pragmatic solution to their respective requirements, but it had felt far more … intimate … than that. The bickering over paint swatches, over the expensive martini glasses that Sam swore that they needed and had never once, in fact, used. The large squashy couch with the excessive amount of throw pillows and the large blanket Bucky had brought back from Wakanda one time and that they both ended up snuggled under, close together, shoulders touching and sometimes even an arm around each other while they watched a movie or Sam got huffy about some baking show he was weirdly invested in.

Sam is asked, naturally, about the New Avengers, reporters shoving microphones in his face wanting his opinion, usually when he is trying to talk earnestly about the issue he has just been tackling or the people he has just saved. Usually he diffuses it, not really engaging. This time Bucky doesn’t hear the question, only catches the tail-end of Sam’s response.

‘-think it’s a little early to be deciding definitively on the name and legacy of the Avengers.’

Huh.

‘The fuck does that mean?’ Walker, as un-aggressively as ever. Jesus. Maybe some anger management classes weren’t such a bad idea for that asshole.

‘He didn’t say anything bad about us,’ Bucky says, flat.

‘He didn’t say anything good, either,’ Yelena points out. ‘I thought he’d be, like, supportive.’

‘Yes, I thought you two were bezzie mates.’ Ava’s contribution. Bucky squints at her.

‘We’re what?’

She huffs out an irritated sigh. ‘Best friends.’

‘Yeah, we are. That- That doesn’t have anything to do with this.’

Or does it? Uncertainty slinks down Bucky’s spine, a spike of anxiety in his stomach. Sam hasn’t been unsupportive. Not very forthcoming whenever the New Avengers get mentioned in their fleeting moments of connection, true, but-

There had been that conversation all those months ago, when Torres had been injured, all of Sam’s self-doubt threatening to overwhelm him and Bucky doing what little he could to hold his friend up. Ross asked me to restart the Avengers. And then half of Washington got smashed up, there were elections, and Torres’ recovery and a handful of world-saving missions, and surely, Sam would have said something? Or at least more than:

‘Ah, I dunno.’ With an easy smile and shrug and then gone on to drop his line in the water and trash-talk Bucky into a who-can-catch-more-fish competition which was one hundred percent a Sam thing to do and also, in retrospect, just possibly, one hundred percent a Sam deflection.

Fuck. Fuckedy fuck.

So, all in all, it’s three months before there’s a little space to breathe and they finally connect through on a call. Bucky is in the small bedroom of a safe house in the suburbs of Johannesburg, just finished with the initial debrief over secure satellite comms and finally able to switch over to his own number again. He spends a little time sifting through the messages, lets Sarah know that he is indeed still alive, watches with a tender, goofy smile the video AJ sent of the Rube Goldberg machine he and Cass built to water the plants on the porch. When he phones Sam and hears the other man’s voice, the missing him is a physical thing. Bucky breathes through it. If he closes his eyes, it’s almost like Sam is right there, his voice low and soft like it is on those nights on the couch and Bucky can let himself think of a thousand improbable maybes.

It’s easy chat, familiar rhythms and gripes, despite the distance: Bucky in Johannesburg, Sam in a car on the way back to DC.

‘Saw your new look,’ Sam says, the grin evident in his voice. ‘You rockin’ some Disney Prince-level hair there, my man.’

The bedroom may be small, but the bed is a queen. Bucky splays across it, stares up at the ceiling. Everything in the room is in tasteful shades of cream and sage. Parquet flooring that feels cool underfoot and thick woven rugs at strategic places. 

Yelena had nagged him into letting her do his hair and he had given in, in the end, partly to stop her whining but also to give her something to focus on while they had been waiting for reports on a situation they were monitoring to come in. And he hadn’t hated the result. He still runs a hand through it, though, a little self-conscious.

‘Yeah, well, I live part of the time with girls now.’

‘Right.’ A little flatter. 

For a moment, Bucky entertains the (probably insane) thought that Sam might be jealous. He pushes that thought back where it came from.

‘Saw you on the news, too. You and the kid were looking pretty good in Manila.’

‘Yeah, that was a good one. Tough, but good.’

Bucky nods.

It’s cold now that the sun’s gone, a wind picking up from the mountains and pouring in through the open window. Bars on the window. On all of the windows. Panic alarms in every room. Security alarms and cameras. It doesn’t even make their safe house an outlier in this neighbourhood, just standard equipment in this affluent South African suburb.

‘Hey, listen, I, uh, I have to ask: what exactly did you mean when you were talking about the Avengers? The name and legacy not being definitive?’

He hears a breath pulled in. ‘Shit. I was hoping we’d have this conversation face-to-face.’

Bucky feels his own breath stutter with the inevitability of it all and then heaves a sigh. ‘Don’t tell me…’

‘I’ve been trying to rebuild the Avengers.’

There is a hairline crack in the cream-painted ceiling. Bucky pulls in another breath. ‘You mentioned it once. Last year. And nothing since then.’

‘I know.’

He swings himself up, plants feet on the cool wooden flooring. It’s a small motion but it leaves his head spinning, a vertiginously sickening feeling. Maybe that’s nothing to do with the motion. ‘In fact, when I did ask you about it, you just shrugged it off. Why didn’t you tell me?’

Sam’s breath blows heavy down the line. ‘Because I figured that if I told you you’d feel, I dunno, like, obliged to join or something. I was respecting your I don’t want to fight anymore stance - or was that just all bullshit?’

Bucky feels coldness sweep across his cheeks, hand gripping the phone tighter. Another rush of breath comes before Bucky can say anything.

‘Shit, Buck, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I know- I know it wasn’t bullshit.’

‘It wasn’t,’ he says, throat still tight. He can see Sam, the way his face would be screwed up, pinching the bridge of his nose.

‘So, would you? Have joined?’

From this point now, looking back, the answer is yes, without a thought. But that’s from now. Back at the time … he had truly thought, or maybe just tried to convince himself, that he could be happy, or at the very least content, being of service in the midst of political manoeuvring. Bucky isn’t an idiot or naïve. He is all too aware of just how questionable and downright corrupt politics can be. But there are also people who manage to do an awful lot of good. Some goddam how. And maybe once he would have had the temperament or the patience to be one of them but now… Now he’s not sure.

No, now he is sure. And he doesn’t.

‘I don’t know, Sam,’ he says. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

Silence for a moment. Somewhere in the house is the rumbling boom of Alexei’s voice, interspersed with Walker’s harsher tones. Arguing over the TV, probably. 

‘Irony, huh?’ Sam says.

And ain’t that the truth.

‘Who’ve you got on the roster?’

‘It’s slow. Torres, definitely. He’s more than earned his spot.’

Bucky grunts, approving. ‘Kid’s come a long way.’

‘I’ve spoken to Lang. He’s willing, but he doesn’t really want to leave the West coast unless it’s something pretty major.’ A frustrated sigh. ‘There aren’t a lot of people around anymore.’

Some in well-deserved retirement. Others somewhere in space and how do you even contact them? And then so many dead.

‘But, hey, now you don’t have to worry about it so much - there’s a team right here. Ta-dah.’ Complete with sweeping hand gesture that he is one hundred percent grateful that Sam didn’t see but still cringes. Oh, Bucky Barnes, why are you like this?

Another of those long silences. Bucky feels a little queasy. ‘Yeah… Maybe you’re happy working for Valentina but I can’t do that.’

Queasiness sharpens into something else. ‘We’re not working for her. If anything, it’s the other way around.’

‘Right. One day impeachment, next day she’s announcing y’all as Avengers. Got it.’

Bucky swallows down the annoyance he feels sparking under the surface. Don’t make this a fight, he tells himself. ‘We weren’t expecting that, okay? She took us by surprise. Not much we could do with a bunch of cameras there and terrified civilians looking to us to tell them that everything was gonna be okay.’

‘But you still went along with it after.’

There’s a car alarm going off a few blocks away, the noise unbearably shrill to Bucky’s overclocked senses. He pads across to the window, closes it, shuts out the noise and the cold. ’Yes, Sam, I went along with it. Because I thought I- We could do some good.’

‘And you’re happy working with Walker?’ And Bucky can’t really blame Sam for the incredulity in his voice.

‘Not the word I’d use. He’s an asshole - that’s just his personality. But…’ Bucky chews on his lip for a moment. ‘He has the serum. And that- That means a heap of messed-up stuff goes along with it.’

‘I understand that-’

‘No, you don’t.’ Bucky carried on, barrelling over Sam’s objecting noises.  ‘I’m not saying you don’t sympathise; you do. Of course you do. But that’s not the same, Sam. You don’t know what it’s like. Having a body that … that can do so much. It changes you. And trying to come to terms with that is- It’s hard.’ 

He had never wanted it, had lived in a terrified sort of denial all across Europe with the Howlies, knowing that something about himself wasn’t right and not wanting to know what it was. But he had it and all he could do now was decide how to use it, once and for all. 

‘I know Walker made really shitty choices and that’s on him. But it was still government-sanctioned work, however deniable, and he thought it was a way back; a way back to doing something better. And yes, he’s still an asshole blowhard, but that doesn’t mean he deserved being sent on black ops so black he should be incinerated. And I do mean that literally.’

Sam sucks in a breath. ‘Sounds like a whole-ass story there.’

‘Yeah. It’s like that dumb movie you made me watch.’

It almost sounds like a faint laugh. ‘Man, you gotta narrow that down,’ Sam complains. ‘Unless there’s hobbits in it, you think every movie made after about nineteen-seventy-five is dumb. How many times is it you’ve watched The Godfather now?’

‘That is a great movie,’ Bucky argues and Sam really does laugh this time. The sound of it makes Bucky’s own face ease into a smile. ‘Anyway. I mean the one with the rubber masks. The guy who’d been, uh, what was it … disavowed.’

Sam’s ire comes down the line before his words do. ‘Aw, hell no! Ain’t no way Walker is like Ethan Hunt.'

‘Still got disavowed.’

‘Stop. Saying. That. Do not make him cool.’

‘No power on earth is strong enough for that,’ Bucky says, solemn, and then grins when Sam snorts. ‘Yelena wants to meet you.’

‘What?’ Surprise sharpening the word. ‘Why?’

Bucky shrugs, one-shouldered, sitting back on the bed. ‘She didn’t get to spend all that much time with Natasha and… She wants to know about her sister. Alexei, too. She was his daughter, after all. It would be really good for them. And for you too, I think. I-I know you miss her.’

Sam rarely talks about her but whenever Natasha’s name gets mentioned, or there’s something that clearly reminds Sam of her, the pain behind Sam’s eyes is tangible. 

‘Yeah… I. Shit. Yeah, I wanna meet her. Both of them.’

Bucky lets out a shaky breath. ‘We’re heading back stateside tomorrow. Thursday is pizza and game night, if you wanna join that.’

‘Pizza and game night?’ Incredulity warring with amusement in Sam’s tone. 

‘It’s a thing we’re trying,’ Bucky says, trying not to sound defensive. It’s new, just like them, really. But it’s nice and after the first impromptu session, it’s become a regular thing. Even in safe houses, even when everyone is feeling kinda shitty, once a week they share food, play games. Last time it had been packets of ramen and charades in a rundown motel on the outskirts of Bloemfontein, which at that time of year did definitely not live up to its name.  

‘Isn’t Monopoly kinda risky? People get real competitive with that shit; and you can put a hole in the wall with your pinky.’

Which is an exaggeration. Just.

‘We only play Monopoly with Soviet rules. Much more equitable. No-one has money.'

Sam laughs again. Bucky sinks against the pillows, soaking up the sound. ‘It’s collaborative games, so everyone has to work together.’ That part had been Sarah’s suggestion, which Bucky does not say. Under the circumstances.

Another breath out and layered behind that, a car engine slowing, and rustling of fabric against leather. Sounds of the city, faint, sweep in. ‘Yeah, okay. Sounds fun.’

‘It’s a date!’ And Bucky cringes again. Why? Why would he say that? What is wrong with him? And, yeah, he knows the (horrifying number of) things wrong with him but is not going to delve into that now. ‘So, you back at the apartment, huh?’ For a deflection, it will just have to do.

‘Yes.’ Suspicious. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re, like, tracking me through Redwing. You cannot keep hacking my drones, man.’

Bucky can too keep hacking them, no matter what Sam says. But in this case: unnecessary. ‘No, I could hear it.’

‘Jesus.’ Followed by a low muttered complaint about super-soldiers and super-soldier senses that takes most of the elevator ride.

‘Reason I asked is ‘cos last time I was home there was a bottle of milk in the fridge that had turned to cheese, so I threw it out.’

Sam sighs, irritable. ‘So, what you’re saying is there’s no milk. Great. Thanks.’

‘No, what I’m saying, Samuel, is that if there’s leftover milk you should stick it in the freezer instead of leaving it out as a science experiment. What I am saying is that there’s milk in the freezer, you’ll have to take it out to defrost if you want it on your Cap’n Crunch in the morning.’

‘I do not eat Cap’n Crunch.’ A blatant lie. Then, softer: ‘Thanks, man.’

Bucky hums.

‘So, I guess I’ll see you Thursday?’

‘Yeah. Thursday.’

Ten Months Ago

Pizza and game night is barely over before they’re called out again. And then it’s training that Bucky insisted they should all get: best procedures for search and rescue, evacuation drills, first aid. Using their skills in concert, how they can complement each other. Ava’s phasing ability, an enormous tactical advantage in combat, gains new levels of meaning during SAR. Seeing her face, the cautious joy, when she can put her powers - also something she never asked for - to such use, help people without having to hurt anyone… Well. It leaves Bucky feeling tender in unexpected ways, proud for her, proud of her.

Sam and Torres on the other side of the world, also a rescue mission, two figures wheeling in the sky on the evening news. Pride and pleasure there, too.

He gets used to the body armour. More of a uniform, really. And maybe it’s dumb, but there’s a thrill to seeing that ‘A’ insignia on the chest plate. When he sees that same patch on any of their uniforms. A legacy to live up to and he wants to: wants to do it justice, do it right. All different looks and styles, but that’s the one thing that they have in common. 

‘Have you just moved out now?’ Sam demands, the next time they can make a call that doesn’t drop after approximately seven seconds.

Bucky frowns at the panoramic New York view afforded by the floor-to-ceiling windows in the Tower. ‘No, of course not.’

‘Oh yeah? I got back and all your stuff’s gone.’

Bucky feels the corner of his mouth tug upwards. ‘It is not all my stuff. It’s not even half my stuff. It’s just the regular things I need when I’m in New York. Anything important is still at home.’

And it is still home, that apartment with the stupid fancy glasses and the squashy couch. He even left his Wakandan blanket folded across the back of that couch, a not-so-subconscious message to Sam saying, I’m still here. We’re still here. This is still us.

Maybe not the us he had allowed himself to hope for in those golden moments slumped against each other or navigating around each other in the kitchen in the mornings. He still holds it all though, close and precious, a bulwark against bad times.

They Tower is big enough that they all have, in effect, their own floors; and for the most part they respect each other’s privacy - even Alexei, which took some convincing. He still has a communal mentality that is as endearing as it is frustrating. The exception to all of it is Fanny: she has the run of the place and goes where she wants, seeking company from whichever of them she decides to favour. Tonight is Bucky’s turn; she jumps up next to him on his plush couch, presses a cold nose into his palm. He scratches her behind her ears.

‘Is there something you’re not telling me?’ Sam demands suddenly.

Bucky frowns. Fanny paws at his free hand until he tickles her under her chin and she melts, head going heavy. ‘Like what?’

‘Look, if she’s holding some HYDRA bullshit over your head, just tell me. We can do something about it - you have a pardon, no-one can make you do anything anymore.’

‘I- No, Sam, no-one is forcing me.’

A long pause.

‘I don’t get it. You were fighting to impeach her. Why don’t you just do it?’

Bucky can hear the frustration in Sam’s voice, the confusion layered under it. 

‘That pretty much went away before that damn press conference was over.’

And Bucky had experienced a roaring mixture of rage and resignation that had left him oddly numb afterwards.

‘It’s not the solution I had in mind, Bucky, but in some ways this is probably better.’

It took Bucky a few moments for his brain to fully catch up with what Congressman Gary, leaning back behind his desk all at ease and actually looking pretty sanguine about it all, was saying.

‘What?’ Bucky said, intelligently.

‘Look. In all honesty, Valentina has enough pull and backing that even with impeachment, she probably would have avoided jail time. Slunk off into some corporate slime-pit and made things a whole lot worse. This way, the world gets its protectors and Valentina’s in the spotlight, under scrutiny.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Under our thumb. You have our backing, Bucky; Congress will make sure your team is protected if and when Valentina steps out of line. And she will, and we’ll get her. In the meantime, do what you do best: be the hero.’

The silence that follows is so long that Bucky thinks the call has dropped, pulls the phone away from his ear to examine the screen. They are still connected.

‘Jesus, that’s fucked up,’ Sam breaths in the end. 

‘Yeah.’

‘So,’ he continues, ‘you’re caught between Valentina and all this government shenanigan bullshit. How could you let yourself be manipulated like this?!’

Bucky rears back a fraction. Fanny lifts her head and whines softly. He pets her until she settles again, chin plonked sulkily on her paws. ‘Wow. You’ve been holding that in all this time, huh?’ Bucky heaves a sigh, feels the beginnings of a tension headache band across the back of his skull. ‘I wasn’t manipulated, Sam, I chose to stay.’

‘Then just choose to go. You don’t need all that stuff to do good, you can do this without all of that.'

He sinks his hand into the thick ruff at the back of Fanny’s neck; she sighs happily. ‘Well, thanks to the new mayor, that would make us all vigilantes.’ 

‘Okay, so come to DC.’ Sam: ever the optimist. ‘You wanna be Avengers? Fine - come be Avengers with me.’

‘You got funding for that yet?’ Bucky asks.

‘No.’ Annoyed. ‘You know I don’t, but I’m working on it. But we could work something out until then.'

Bucky raises sceptical eyebrows. ‘What, you think we’d all be offered nice government contracts?’

‘Why not?’

‘Trust me, Sam, the only jobs offered would be wet work.’

‘You can’t be sure of that,’ Sam offers, but even he sounds as though he can’t quite convince himself of that one.

Bucky feels bitterness edging the tug at the corners of his mouth. ‘It’s the work I got offered. Mandated therapy to make sure I didn’t hurt anyone else, a pardon for the people I killed when I had no choice, but if I killed people the government wanted me to, then that was just fine.’

‘I didn’t know,’ Sam says, soft and sad, after a beat.

Bucky sighs, scrubbing at tired eyes. ‘I know. And there was no way I was going back to that.’ Sitting in his bare apartment, feeling all of the worst things he’d ever thought about himself pressing in from every side, being reminded he was a weapon at every turn- The one thing he’d had was that tiny, pathetic scrap of consolation, was that he got to choose that. He got to choose not to be anyone’s killing machine ever again. ‘But I also didn’t need the money,’ he adds, trying to make it sound light. ‘If I’d been desperate enough, who knows?’

‘You wouldn’t have done it.’ Firm.

‘You sure of that?

‘I know you.’

His throat goes tight, his head hot and set adrift. He misses Sam, a deep longing ache that he manages to ignore most of the time. 

‘So,’ he says around the tightness that he manages to push down, ‘shitty black ops for everyone. Probably the Raft for Bob and there’s no way in hell that’s happening.’

‘Why would Bob be sent to the Raft?’

Bucky blinks. ‘Because he- The Void, that whole terrifying shadow deal. That-that’s him.’

‘Bob?’

‘Bob,’ Bucky confirms, with a slightly hysterical feeling of déjà vu.

‘Twitchy Bob is the Void?’

‘Yes. Was that not clear when you met him?’

Sam makes an exasperated sound. ‘No, Buck, literally none of you made that clear.’

‘Oh.’

Everyone had been on their best behaviour, really, when Bucky thought about it. Even Walker had been less abrasive, more conciliatory. All wanting to impress Sam, not wanting to upset Bob-

And, yeah, okay, in retrospect, the oblique way they had described that nightmare of a day had probably not been so much discreet as just plain impenetrable.

‘He’s another science experiment,’ Bucky says with a sigh.

He can almost hear Sam picking his next words with care. ‘That sounds like a lot to deal with. A lot of … safeguarding issues.’

Bucky can’t help the fond smile at Sam getting his counsellor on. ‘I talked to my therapist. She’s agreed to come on board full time for everyone. And she’s a trauma specialist, dealt with all kinds of complex PTSD. So. That’s been really helping.’

Dr Hakim had looked a little wild around the eyes when he had first floated the idea - that had lasted for all of three seconds, to be replaced by a fiery determination. She was good people. For a therapist.

‘Sounds like you’re doing it the right way.’ And there’s fondness in Sam’s voice, too.

‘I’m trying.’

The soft sound of Sam pulling in a steadying breath, releasing it. ‘That’s why you won’t leave them. Right?’

And that’s the thing that Bucky knows, has known, but hasn’t quite admitted, even to himself. ‘I can’t leave them. They- They need me, I think. It’s crazy, I was ready to haul them all into Congress, make ‘em testify and that probably would’ve landed all of ‘em in jail. And I didn’t really care about that, but I should’ve. And now… It would be pretty hypocritical of me to say you don’t get a second chance when I’ve had one. More than one.’

‘Hey, no, wait, Buck, that is not the same! You are not-’

‘You can’t have it both ways, Sam!’ Fondness, blooming to affection, blooming to a desperate kind of love. ‘It can’t be one way for them and then an exception for me. I am like them, and that’s nothing to do with good or bad choices, or about not having any choices at all. I know what it’s like to live with the weight of the things you’ve done that you can’t change. Feeling like you can’t find a way out or-or maybe don’t deserve one. I’ve been there. I know what it’s like. And that’s where they are now, all of them. And- Yes, people can be manipulated like that. Used. And they have been. And now they’re trying to do something more, be something more. And-and I can’t say you don’t get to have that.’ He swallows, hard. ‘I think I can help them get there.’

There’s another long silence. City sounds floating up from far below the Tower. Fanny’s snuffly canine snores.

‘Oh, goddammit, Buck.’ Sam says and he sounds like he’s caught somewhere between fury and tenderness. ‘You just had to go all noble on me, huh? Think I preferred it when you just pretended to be a grumpy asshole all the time.’

‘Who says I was pretending?’

That wins a laugh, at least, even if it does sound a little soggy around the edges. ‘Look, I get it. Okay? I do. But I just… I just don’t feel happy about the idea of the Avengers being tied into all that government plotting-’

Bucky groans. ‘We’re not!’

‘Maybe not now! And I know you don’t wanna be, but… Can you guarantee, even just for yourself, that it will never happen?’

‘I won’t let it. Isn’t that enough?’

‘I trust you, you know I do. I know you’ll do the right thing. But I also know what I don’t want and I don’t want to be part of a bigger mechanism that I don’t trust, always waiting for the other shoe to drop.’

He keeps his fingers in the warm comfort of Fanny’s soft fur. ‘So where does that leave us?’

‘I don’t know, man. I don’t know.’

Seven Months Ago

‘All I’m saying is there’s nothing stopping you from forming a team if that’s what you want! I just don’t see why you’re so hung up on the name.’

‘Because it means something! It means something to me.’

‘It means something to me, too.’ Which had come as something of a surprise, if he was honest.

‘The name has a legacy!’

‘Yeah, I fucking know it does, Sam!’

The DC apartment is too still, silence lying heavily upon it. Bucky yanks open the fridge, stares with terrible fury at the carton of milk, long since expired, sitting on the shelf. Solid enough it could probably stand up on its own without the carton. He closes the door carefully.

‘I’m Captain America and you know how hard that’s been. And this - this doesn’t make it any easier. If I have a team and we’re not the Avengers, then who are we?’

‘I wasn’t aware that being an Avenger was a Cap exclusive,’ Bucky says, trying to keep the iciness out of his voice and failing. He gets Sam’s point; of course he does. 

‘The mantle, the shield, the Avengers, they’re all tied together. It’s-’

‘Do not say legacy, I swear to God! And it was tied to Natasha’s, too, right? But please, do come and tell Yelena and Alexei how your investment in the name is worth more than theirs.’

‘That is not what I’m saying.’ Through ground teeth. ‘Didn’t you have some other name to start with anyhow? Why can’t you go back to that?’

Bucky pulls his phone away from his ear for the express purpose of glaring at it. ‘What, the Thunderbolts?’

‘It’s a cool name.’

‘Then you use it.’

‘It doesn’t mean anything to me!’

‘It was a joke about Yelena’s soccer team when she was a kid or something - it doesn’t mean anything to me, either!’

He opens the fridge again. There’s beer, at least. Bucky pulls out a bottle, flicks off the lid with a metal thumb, digs around in one of the kitchen drawers until he finds a coaster because the last thing he needs is being nagged about rings on the coffee table. ‘Wasn’t Ross’ nickname Thunderbolt?’

‘…Yes?’

He twitches the blanket off the back of the couch, sighing faintly with relief as the soft warmth settles over him. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but he’s pretty certain he can catch traces of Sam’s cologne on it. 

‘Well, there you go. Nickname of the guy who asked you to form the team. Much more of a link right there.’

‘You did not just say that. I cannot believe you just fucking said that.’ The call cuts off.

Bucky drops his head back, a growl of frustration aimed at the ceiling. His phone chirrups at him as a message comes in.

Four Months Ago

As always, it’s a peaceful time in Delacroix, most of it spent tinkering with the boat, fishing on the boat, playing with the boys, running errands for Sarah and Bucky putting his super-soldier strength towards every low-level neighbourhood chore that he’s asked to help out on.

He and Sam shoot the shit, bicker about Sam’s (non-existent) boat maintenance skills and just generally decompress.

They called a truce on the whole Avengers naming rights thing before they even got there, but if he’s completely honest, one sight of Sam’s bright, gap-toothed smile and the fierce affection of his embrace when he picked up Bucky from the airport were enough to make Bucky concede everything.

But it isn’t just about him and it isn’t really his call to make.

They get stuffed full of pie and cobbler at every turn by every little old lady in the parish and Bucky enjoys himself immensely by dredging up the tattered remnants of his Forties persona and flirting with all of them until they blush and giggle. It drives Sam up the wall, which is more than half the fun.

Just before they hit the two-week mark, Sam is called away. Bucky stays on, doing runs to the food drive, playing Scrabble with Sarah in the evenings. Gets a bit teary over the drawing that AJ proudly presents to him: Bucky and the rest of the New Avengers in bright crayon. He’s used glitter to make the seams in Bucky’s arm extra shiny. He’s caught the exact curves of Walker’s stupid taco-shield (Bucky is one hundred percent sure he could get that sorted out for Walker at an Outreach Centre. He is one hundred percent not going to do that).

It’s the addition to the drawing that makes Bucky’s eyes sting: the winged figure in the sky above them, star on his chest, shield at the ready.

What could have been. Or, maybe, a glimpse of what can be, if they can find their way through this. He catches Sarah watching him, her beautiful eyes warm and sympathetic. If she has opinions on this - of course she does, she’s a Wilson - she keeps them to herself.

Before Sam can make it back down, Bucky is recalled: an emergency scramble to a situation in Myanmar and by the time Sam arrives, Bucky is gone.

And it’s back to the pattern of backlogged texts and missed calls.

Captain America is called in for something going down in Arizona and then they get called in for the same thing. The briefing comes through in bursts while they prep and scramble the jets. But it boils down to: illegal alien tech, a cult and a potential siege situation that is on the knife-edge of going south real fast, with a distressing number of potential dead if it does. 

It doesn’t, in the end.

Sam takes point, something that Bucky had made clear was the deal before they’d even got off the jet, and whatever had been going on with his face meant that even Walker’s complaints were reduced to silent glowering.

That had been on the jet. In the field, they work well and efficiently, bouncing off each other with an ease that comes when people know each other, trust each other. Bucky is proud of them.

There is a slightly awkward reunion between Ava and Scott Lang, although the awkwardness seems to be entirely on Ava’s part, unsure how to take Scott’s genuine delight in seeing her again, how well she’s doing. Followed by his sincere apologies for getting stuck in the quantum realm during the Blip and whatever repercussions that had had for her. 

‘Come and visit!’ He finishes enthusiastically. ‘Janet will be so happy to see you.’ And he gives her the thumbs up that Ava returns weakly, before he jogs back to the makeshift ready room.

And then they all move out so that EMTs and FBI and God knows who else can roll in and do their thing.

Too many competing agencies and individuals wanting and needing statements and debriefs; and by the time it even just begins to calm down, Team Cap and the New Avengers are on their respective flights back out. But there’s still enough bandwidth, of all kinds, to get in a quick call. 

Bucky squeezes into the tiny toilet, which always seems even smaller when he has his body armour, no matter how sleek it is. Maybe he can persuade Shuri to make it one of those nifty nanotech affairs next time. He gets Sam on FaceTime and takes a few seconds to appreciate the lovely line of Sam’s cheekbones and the curl of his eyelashes over his eyes, deep and dark and sparkling.

‘Thanks for the backup today, man.’

‘Just like old times,’ Bucky says, smiling helplessly.

‘Yeah.’ And Sam’s voice is achingly soft. He looks tired, a bruise already darkening along his jaw and the set of his uniform is askew. But he still looks so good, so beautiful. And so very far away. And Bucky looks at him and aches with a want so deep that it’s become an embedded part of him, something that has simply become a condition of his being.

‘We couldn’t have done it without you guys today, not gonna lie. You were amazing. All of you.’

‘We could all be a team. All of us,’ Bucky says, and if he sounds a little breathless, it’s because he feels it, his head giddy at the sudden sweeping prospect that he might, just this once, get what he wants. A thought so monumental he can barely look at it. 

Sam presses his lips together. ‘I’ll think about it.’ And then he frowns. ‘Barnes, are you calling me from the bathroom?’

And Bucky laughs.

One Month Ago

Bucky does not get what he wants.

The Arizona mission was a success by anyone’s standards. The only fatalities were the cult leader and his wife/even more insane cultist. Injuries minimal. Well, physical ones at any rate. The mental wounds never get counted in these situations.

But: a success.

But also: unforeseen implications.

And maybe ones that should have been foreseen. Not due to any official channels, but just due to vast swathes of media commentators and internet users being complete and utter assholes.

Or arseholes, as Ava says it.

Which is also how Peggy said it.

Somehow it sounds worse in British-speak, and Bucky is fine with that. Arseholes it is.

There are roughly two camps. One thinks that the recent team-up shows that the New Avengers are directionless losers who should either stand aside for the real heroes or just give up the Avengers mantle for good and only come out to play when under the direct control of Captain America. The other camp argues that it shows that Sam Wilson is incapable of bearing the name and legacy of Captain America unless he has the unsung support of a group of real superheroes, further proof that he should never have been allowed to keep the shield in the first place.

Yelena may have confiscated all of Bucky’s devices after that and placed a ban on any newsfeeds, of any kind, being shown on the Tower’s media feeds.

‘I thought about it,’ Sam says and Bucky can already hear the tension in his voice.

‘Oh?’ As though he doesn’t already know how this will play out. 

‘I can’t, Buck. I’m sorry, but I just-’ A blown out huff of a breath. He can picture Sam scrubbing at the back of his head while he paces. He sounds beyond exhausted, worn down to the last nerve. ‘I got asked by the president to do this.’

‘You hated Ross,’ Bucky objects. Fruitless. He already knows he’s lost.

‘That doesn’t come into it. Not now. But he also owned his mistakes, was accountable and that’s not nothing. And he wasn’t wrong about needing the Avengers. But I need to build it my own way. Work out just what that name and what that legacy stands for. That’s important to me, to a lot of people, and I can’t do it as part of Valentina’s and the government’s schemes.’

‘Unlike the group of degenerates currently holding the name.’

‘Don’t put words in my mouth.’ Sharp. It cuts against Bucky’s own worn-down nerves. ‘That is not what I said and not what I meant.’

‘Sure as hell sounds like it.’ Because it feels personal, even if it isn’t. Because they were supposed to be better than this. Because Bucky had felt so close to having a future that had seemed unimaginable even just a few years ago. So close he had fooled himself that he could see it, touch it. That if he just reached out a little further, he could have it. Sam. He could have Sam in his arms and nothing mattered outside of that. 

‘Oh, fuck you. If that’s what you want to believe, I can’t stop you.’

The call ends. Bucky throws his phone across the room, mad at himself and aware of a bone-deep fizzing frustration. In its frame on his desk, AJ’s cheerful drawing feels like a taunt. Bucky closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

Now

Sam closes the door, leans his back against it heavily, bag dropping to the floor with a thud. Eyes closed, he stands for a few moments, ears ringing with the blissful silence.

It’s been-

Not terrible. Nothing awful. Nothing world-ending.

There’s just been an awful lot of week in this week. Meetings ranging from the mind-numbing to the soul-destroying, far too much time spent juggling various alphabet agencies who are all supposed to be on the same side and yet who also manage to have their own conflicting agendas. Sam feels a throb behind his eyes, massages his temples.

He peels himself away from the door when he has determined that possibly a little too much time has been spent using it to prop himself up. Sam flicks on the lights, the apartment illumined in warm pools from wall-mounted up-lighters and strategically placed lamps. Dark wood against pale walls, polished floors, bright splashes of colour in the throw pillows and blankets, the squashy chairs and framed artwork. All familiar and welcoming.

Or, should feel that way, at any rate. There’s a coldness on the air, an unnatural stillness. The apartment is starting to feel un-lived-in, all the warmth that comes from human habitation, from shared laughter and dumb arguments over the dishwasher, missing.

Sam pads around the space and he is not, absolutely not, checking the apartment to see if any more of Bucky’s things have vanished. Or all of them. That he hasn’t just gone, packed up and moved out entirely, leaving Sam behind.

Which is a stupid thought to have, it’s not as though they were ever-

Sam blinks rapidly. Shit. Must be more tired than he had thought. He heads into the kitchen, for the fridge, and stops again. A vertical line of Post-it notes in a particularly shrieking shade of pink and with neatly printed block capitals.

MILK IS IN THE FREEZER.

FOR

FUCK’S

SAKE!!

Sam reads them, smiling a little helplessly. Maybe a little tearily. A very little. Because it’s late and he’s tired and absolutely not because Bucky Barnes made a point of using four different Post-it notes just so he could complain about the fucking milk. Sam pulls the carton out of the freezer, places it in the sink while it defrosts. There’s an intact pack of beer in the fridge. Someone has been restocking since the last time Sam was here. He takes one of the beers.

The neatly stacked piles of Congressional packets are still on a side table. The dishwasher has been left slightly open. Bucky’s pretty big on letting the thing air out after wash cycles, even if he’s haphazard about stacking it, cheerfully cramming in as much as will fit. Sam likes to maintain a proportionate balance that will ensure that everything gets effectively cleaned.

‘It’s dishes, Sam, you’re not aiming for a spot in Architectural Digest,’ Bucky always complains, rolling his eyes at Sam’s carefully calibrated arrangements because he is a menace and an asshole.

Fuck, Sam misses him.

He’d missed him out in the field when Bucky had started on his campaign and there had been plenty of times when they had gone for weeks without crossing paths, when Sam had been on missions and Bucky had been busy in Brooklyn with his (as they were then) potential future constituents.

But it had only ever been a few weeks and then they would always find each other again here, in DC, in this apartment that they had worked on together, made decisions about furniture and paint colours together and made it a home. Together.

And then the New Avengers had happened.

Torres keeps cheerfully proposing names for their own new team which is endearing in his attempts to be supportive but also comically missing the point. The latest offering: Sam’s Angels.

Sam slumps onto the couch, turns on the TV, scrolling through channels without really seeing any of it.

With all the difficulties of being Cap, and all too often it felt as though each time one issue got wrestled to the ground, each time he proved himself, jumped through another of the endless hoops, something else would blindside him. It would make it easier, having a team. Sam has no issue with the people themselves who are currently called the New Avengers (he still has some reservations about John Walker, admittedly, but Bucky had been right - the man deserved a chance to pull himself out of the hell he’d been in. One that was largely of his own making, but still. Bucky had had a point about the second chances, too. It is really, really annoying when Bucky is right).

Sam’s issue, the thing that he can’t get past, that he wrestles with in those all-too-frequent moments when it is just him and Joaquín and their best efforts don’t seem like enough, when giving in and simply accepting being part of a team who know what they are doing and actually work together seem like the easiest thing to do: how that team had come together. The slipperiness of the people in the shadows no doubt waiting for the chance to use this new team of heroes in ways they certainly did not want to be any part of, but may have no choice about in the end.

Valentina had sidled up to him at a party in DC a couple of months ago, sly and insinuating with that shark’s smile of hers that didn’t reach her eyes.

‘They’re expendable.’ A cooing voice. She hadn’t stopped smiling the entire time. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they implode or fuck up so spectacularly that they’re shut down for good. But you - you’re a real superhero, Sam. I can help you get a team of real Avengers together, with all of the support you need.’

He had told her what to do with her offer; told Bucky about it who had just barked out a laugh over the phone, and then said, ‘Yeah, that tracks.’

He hadn’t even sounded particularly mad about it and Sam had found that, in itself, infuriating.

That constant sense of unease, of second-guessing everything and all of it is exactly what Sam doesn’t want. He wants the image that had started to form vaguely, of a network of heroes spread across the world but rooted in their communities. Preventative, rather than sweeping in at a crisis point, always acting when the threat was already present and active - or sometimes only after the event, clearing up the mess and sometimes creating an even bigger one. Sam had wanted something different and wanted it as free from government intervention and all of the attendant uses and abuses that inevitably went with that as possible.

Admittedly, so far Bucky’s team has managed to avoid that but Sam can’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time.

The endless hoops he has to jump through as Captain America would be infinitely worse if Cap was part of a government-sponsored Avengers. The inescapable thought that he’d be on the end of a very short leash. God - Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes screwing shut - that sounds like something Isaiah would say.

Actually, Isaiah had said exactly that during a particularly and, Sam thought, unnecessarily punishing sparring session at Isaiah’s gym. The older man’s eyes had held a grim sort of glint in them. Sam can’t blame him for that, given all of the horrific givens.

Sam turns off the TV that he hasn’t been watching, heads for the bathroom and a hot shower. He turns the water red-hot, standing under it and letting it pound against his shoulders, against the spot between his shoulder blades that always stiffens up under the weight of the wings. When there’s so much steam the visibility has become practically zero, he turns off the water, steps out, heads for the bedroom.

And he stares at the pile of clothes on the end of the bed. Folded like they’re going to boot camp, or just come from boot camp. Or something. Military precision; Bucky still makes beds the same way, sheets pulled and tucked so tight you could bounce a quarter off them. Sam had the same training and while he’s far from messy, he likes the indulgence of not having regulations about how to fold a shirt or tuck a goddam sheet. Maybe the precision of it all, the routine and repetition, is grounding and soothing for Bucky. Or maybe it’s those innate organisational skills that made him such a good XO and Sergeant, he had risen through the ranks pretty quickly back in the day, after all.

Of course, heaven forbid that Bucky extend all of this fucking precision to the dishwasher…

Sam pulls out sweatpants and a faded hoodie from the pile. Tries to ignore the ache that grips around his heart and fails. Because Bucky Barnes is absolutely the sort of passive-aggressive asshole who can argue with a man over the phone and then go behind his back to do the laundry and restock the fridge. He may as well have left a note out saying See, I still fucking care, dipshit.

Because it is caring. After that disastrous phone call a few weeks back, they have exchanged terse text messages and not much else.

In between then and now, Bucky had been home. He hadn’t told Sam he would be there. Maybe he was hoping Sam would be there; maybe he had been counting on him not being there. Whatever it was, he had put milk in the freezer and beer in the fridge, had done laundry and folded Sam’s clothes and left them on the bed.

See, I still care.

Sam sits next to his tidy pile of regulation-folded clothes and feels his eyes sting and a weary sort of defeat.

Because here is the other thing:

If, after his first term, Bucky had decided that he had found his calling, that he was happy and fulfilled working in politics, then Sam was going to support that absolutely, without hesitation. He had had his doubts, though. Even before Bucky had even taken up office, he was starting to chafe against the restrictions of the system, the slowness of the processes, the endless compromises and Bucky Barnes was one of the most uncompromising people Sam had ever known. Ironic, really, because compromise was one of the things that Sam was most wary of when it came to the New Avengers.

‘Compromise isn’t always a bad thing.’ Ruth, playing thoughtfully with the stem of her wine glass. A rich Malbec that Sam was quite happy to join her in. They were grabbing a quick drink, catching up before she headed off to meet Isaiah for … something. Again. Were they just friends? Were they dating now?  Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to know either way. ‘It doesn’t automatically equate to corruption,’ she continued, her head tilting, lips pushing out. ‘Doesn’t all teamwork need compromise?’

Sam sighed. ‘I know. But I can’t shake the feeling that these might be compromises that I couldn’t live with in the end. Worst case scenario, I end up  a fugitive again and been there, done that, no interest in a return visit.’

‘I could do some digging,’ Ruth said, eyes big and innocent over her wineglass, ‘find out more about the exact command structure, exactly who is involved at what level.’

And she could do it too, probably before finishing her wine. Jesus. She was slightly terrifying.

For a second, he thought about it. But it felt a little too much like investigating Bucky, spying on him, a sign that Sam had no trust in his judgement; and given their somewhat prickly respective stances around the whole notion of the Avengers, Sam didn’t want to start something that could inflict genuine damage on a friendship, a relationship, that was infinitely precious to him. If you wanna know something, Sam, just ask! He could hear Bucky’s voice so clearly he may as well be sitting in the booth with them.

‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’

Ruth shrugged, then drained her glass.

‘Say hello to Yelena for me,’ she said as they parted outside of the bougie wine bar in Georgetown. She smiled faintly in response to Sam’s puzzled frown. ‘I was a Widow, too, remember?’ Sadness behind her smile, in the depths of her eyes. ‘Yelena set me free.’

Yelena is a good person. Kind. They are all good people, Bucky’s team (the usual Walker-related caveats notwithstanding), even if they are a bunch of screwed-up misfits.

But then, so too had the original Avengers been, in all honesty. Ex-assassins, an ex-arms manufacturer, a rage monster, a kinda flaky space-prince… Maybe being a screwed-up misfit was a prerequisite of being a hero. Steve had probably been the most stable one and he had been a time-displaced World War Two veteran with PTSD.

No similarities there whatsoever.

So yes, Sam had been determined to respect Bucky’s exploration of this new path at the Capitol. But there had been a bigger part of him that had hoped that when Bucky had got that out of his system, when he saw what Sam had built, he would choose to be part of it; and not because he felt obligated to do it out of loyalty or friendship, but because he wanted to. Because he wanted to fight alongside Sam, just like they used to. Partners.

And then Bucky ended up with a team all of his own and no matter how much they talked about it, argued about it, Sam just can't see his way to making it work, not with the constant possibility he would end up sacrificing the principles that he has already fought so hard to maintain.

The team are doing good work, though, is the thing. Really good. Watching them in the field, it is obvious how tightly-knit they are. They look out for each other, have each other’s backs. And Bucky is looking good on it (not just the new uniform and the hair, which are each impressive in their own right but when taken together… Yeah, they may have given Sam some fairly intense alone-time thoughts). There is a quiet confidence and assurance in how Bucky handles himself, something that had always been evident in the field, or when he was at his most relaxed in Delacroix, but now seems to have developed into a general way of being.

Yelena is clearly the heart of the (ugh) New Avengers/Thunderbolts/whatever, but they all defer to Bucky. Look to him for confirmation, assurance.

And in all honesty, it is probably healthy for Bucky and his ongoing recovery that he have something of his own, his own network and people, that isn’t all about Sam and his family (however much they are also Bucky's by this point), or the Wakandans who are so important to him and he to them, but also so far away.

For that, at least, Sam is- Maybe not happy, exactly, but glad for him. 

But it still sets an ache in Sam’s heart, seeing him with this group. Because it goes beyond their competence in the field: Sam has seen enough of them by now during their downtime to see that they have clearly found something, all of them together. The in-jokes and teasing. Petty bickering that is obviously part of a larger cycle that none of them pay much mind to. And Bucky is central to all of it, which is fine. It is good. And yet there is that part of Sam that howls but he was supposed to be mine.

Which is childish and selfish.

Bucky isn’t his, had never been his, even if Sam had nursed private, secret hopes that their working together, living together, would lead to the inevitable. At least, it had felt inevitable when Bucky was a warm solid presence beside him on the couch, a solid unfailing presence at his side on countless missions.

Sam picks himself off the end of the bed, pads back into the living room. The soft, jewel-hued blanket that Bucky had brought back from Wakanda is still folded over the back of the couch and Sam had taken it as a silent promise. It had been a comfort, initially, it seemed to hold the memory of shared warmth. Now it just seems to hit Sam right in the face with all that he has lost - not that it had been his to lose.

The random, unfounded jealousies do not help on that score. Bucky and Yelena have clearly adopted one another as siblings, and there is something sweetly touching about the way Bucky steers her quietly but firmly, nudging her towards command decisions and supporting her. Seeing them together, Sam can only ever think how proud Nat would have been of her baby sister. Of how impossible this would have seemed all those years ago when the Winter Soldier had been an unstoppable, terrifying force and Sam had been convinced that the only way to end it was to put him in the ground.

Bucky, with his horizon-blue eyes, unexpectedly sweet sunny smiles and even more unexpectedly generous heart.

Seeing him with Ava Starr is another matter. She is so strikingly beautiful that on meeting her in person for the first time, Sam had forgotten how to speak for a good ten seconds. And then on one of those evenings when he had been invited over to the Tower, he had watched the way she had curled herself against Bucky, tucking in like she belonged there, while they worked on a clue from one of those overly-complicated board games which always seemed like something from a fever dream to Sam. The way they had grinned at each other when they had puzzled it out, heads close together. And they had looked good together, really good. Both loose and soft, Ava’s long legs tucked up, dark hair falling around her shoulders, Bucky in an old wash-worn t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, and Sam couldn’t stop staring at him, at them.

And it is a hell of a leap to assume that there even is a ‘them’. Anyone else would just be happy that their deeply traumatised, miraculously healing, best friend and (ex-, still, future, fuck!) partner had found more people in his life whom he cared for and who cared for him. Who would play silly games and share dumb jokes with him.

All those evenings spent cooped up in each other’s faces in safe houses and the languid, content ones on the couch in their apartment, sharing Bucky’s blanket and a tub of popcorn watching a movie-

It had been increasingly hard to take himself to his own bedroom, alone, instead of taking Bucky’s hand and pulling him in, or following Bucky to his, or something. It had felt so inevitable that Sam had stopped even questioning it, he realised. Until it had passed. And now Sam can’t shake the feeling that Bucky is leaving him behind in more ways than one. That it’s Sam who will be left standing in the remnants of their once-shared life while Bucky grows and blooms with happiness with a new team and a new love.

Sam sits on the couch, stares sightlessly at the beer bottle, rolling it between his hands.

It is all too entangled: the past and the present; their professional and personal lives; legacy and dreams of the future.

Take the personal out of it, his lawyer had said briskly. Just a copyright issue, let the courts decide. A legal matter, not a personal one. Sam had felt the knot in his chest give way slightly with relief when he had heard it. Take a step (or a few) back and let the process work itself out.

Although, it would probably not seem like that to Bucky. Shit. Sam scrubs a hand across the back of his head. He should have given Bucky a head’s up, talked through the ‘taking the personal out of it’ approach. And while he was about it, also say the thing he really wants to, the thing that has been dancing on the edges of everything ever since Bucky had deliberately walked into blackness and disappeared. It was only seeing Bucky’s name come up as an incoming caller later that evening, even after seeing the news reports because until Sam had proof of life that he could really believe would he be satisfied, that Sam had realised that his heart had been beating to an irregular rhythm. Only settling when he heard Bucky’s voice. And with every call and message and even face-to-face conversation, what he has truly meant to say is, Come home. Come home to me.

Sam’s phone rings, shrill and loud in the still silence. Sam stares at the screen and this manifesting shit really works, he thinks a little hysterically. He made this happen. He wanted it so badly that Bucky heard him, reached out to him, like one of those Gothic romance things that Sarah likes so much.

Sam takes a breath, punches the green accept icon.

‘Look, if you’re gonna yell at me about the copyright-’

‘It’s not that.’

Something so tense in those three words that Sam falls silent, feels his stomach swoop sickeningly. ‘What’s happened?’

He can hear Bucky’s soft breathing. ‘Remember you told me what Sterns said? On the Raft?’

The sickening feeling flexes its claws. ‘Yeah.’

‘Well, it’s here. And it’s bad, Sam. Like, Thanos-bad. It’s gonna take all of us, everyone. And-’ An impatient breath blown out. ‘Look, we can go back to arguing over naming rights after but right here, right now, this is-’

‘Is more important.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Of course. I’ll be there. I’ll call Joaquin, anyone else. Guessing your fancy-ass Tower is the best place to meet, huh? You just better give everyone free wi-fi or we’re gonna have words.’

A fraction of a pause and then a faint laugh and it’s the best thing that Sam has heard in weeks. He grins in spite of himself.

‘Hey, Buck, listen… This whole Avengers name thing- We’ll figure it out, okay? There’s gotta be a better way, some sort of’ -he takes a breath- ‘some sort of compromise, right?’

‘Yeah. Yes. God, Sam, I never wanted to cause you any-’

‘You didn’t,’ Sam says, fast. He puts his bottle on the coffee table, wincing slightly because that is definitely going to leave a ring and Bucky will never let him hear the end of it. ‘It’s just- We’re too close to all of it. You and me. But we’ll work it out.’

‘Okay.’ Soft, and maybe it’s wishful thinking but Sam thinks that some of the tension has drained out of Bucky’s voice. ‘Thanks, Sam. I know you must be pretty beat after that last mission.’

‘Yeah, well, that’s the gig, right?’

‘Right.’

Wait, how the hell does Bucky know anything about his latest mission? Sam barely knows anything about it and he just finished it. He narrows his eyes. ‘Barnes, did you hack Redwing again?’

‘Have you heard that saying, them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie?’

Sam laughs, shakes his head. ‘You’re an asshole.’

‘And you’re a reckless idiot with no sense of self-preservation. Guess that makes us even.’

Which is such a pot-kettle situation that Sam doesn’t even bother to respond to it. He checks his watch, does some mental math for an ETA. ‘Can probably be there in, like, ninety. Two hours, tops.’

‘I’ll have the welcome mat rolled out.’

Sam snorts and then, because he’s wasted too many opportunities and the last time it was Thanos-bad they lost five whole-ass years and he isn’t losing five more seconds without saying something, if it will make a difference. ‘I love you.’

A slight pause. ‘Love you, too.’ Light.

‘No, Buck… I love you.’

A longer pause then and Sam feels his heart lurch, everything swimming sideways until Bucky’s voice comes back to him, faint and wondering.

‘Sammy… Sweetheart! I-I love you, too.’

Sam closes his eyes, swallows against the tightness in his throat, his head as light and dizzy as though he had already strapped on the wings, heading at full speed into the steepest climb before free-falling down to safety. Home. Bucky’s arms.

‘Good. So, when this is over, we come home. Both of us. You and me.’

‘Save the world, come home. Finally got a good plan there, Birdman.’ And Bucky is clearly aiming for their usual bantering tone but he sounds far too tender, too fragile at the edges for it to land like that. Every word has all of his I love yous layered beneath, as audible to Sam now as though he had yelled them.

‘Just know where my priorities are.’ Sam pushes up from the couch. He doesn’t really want to end the call, but the sooner he does, the sooner he’s in the air. The sooner he’s in New York, and-

And he’s home. Wherever Bucky is, Sam will be home.

‘See you in a few, baby,’ he says, the endearment slipping out like the most natural thing in the world. And there’s an answering smile in Bucky’s voice.

‘I’ll be waiting, sweetheart.’