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Chapter Text

Breaking: The City That Sometimes Sleeps? New York Wakes to New Avengers – Is This The Future Of Superheroes?

 1 hour ago

__________

After the impromptu press conference, Valentina Allegra De Fontaine treats them to afternoon tea. 

Where she pulls the fresh hors d'oeuvres from so soon after near national disaster, Bucky cannot answer. Logically, he assumes they were intended for the Sentry press launch that became, well, null and void along with Bob himself. Although, he can’t ignore the equally likely theory that she’s simply pulled them out of her ass.  

Why they agree to indulge her, however, he can answer.

There are many reasons. The exhaustion-induced hunger is one of them, painted clearly by the slippery fingers of his new teammates as the tiny prosciutto rolls and salmon-topped focaccia quickly dwindle in numbers. There’s an incessant buzzing, and it surrounds them. That’s reason two – compared to remaining in the crowded street after their faces have been blasted worldwide, a debrief and some finger food with their (supposedly) ex-homicidal boss seems far preferential. Plus, it's probably dawned on them all, like it has Bucky; they have nowhere else to go. Reason number three.

The six of them loiter in a conference room on some level of the watchtower. It’s one of the more renovated areas, although still deeply under construction; the furnishing leaves much to be desired, and there’s an empty hole where glass windows should go, that invites a soft breeze around them. When they first entered, it was chaos. The questions (and some choice statements) had been building since they’d walked through that tarp, and in the privacy of the watchtower had bubbled over like a boiling pot left too long on the heat, leaving Valentina to deal with the messy clean up. 

(“Here’s how things are gonna work,” she’d said.

“No, you don’t tell us how things are going to work. We tell you, ” Yelena had replied.

“Okay. How are things going to work?”

They’d all paused at that, and for a god-unwilling moment, had all glanced at Bucky. He dug deep, summoned Congressman Barnes. 

“Here’s what’s going to happen, De Fontaine. You’re going to tell us, right now, what’s going on.”

“That is literally what I was trying to do.”)

Bucky should really be grateful his political career lasted as long as it did. When he’d gotten tired of questions (which didn’t take long), he’d snagged a handful of those little olives filled with cheese and planted his ass on some scaffolding equipment in the back corner. He’s been running out of energy for these charades lately – perhaps not used to talking without his fists – and it’s finally bleeding him dry. 

“Right, so you don’t want security at all?” Valentina stands at the far wall from the glassless windows, arms and brows crossed. 

“We are the security. Why do we need security?” Yelena reasons, hip lodged into the side of the snack-filled trestle table. In one hand, she dangles a tomato wrapped in ham near her mouth, the other hovering over a second on the emptying tray beside her. 

Valentina shrugs. “It’s a dangerous job, being a superhero.”

“Yeah, we are well aware.” John, bracketing the trestle table, rolls his eyes and reaches for the ham-tomato under Yelena’s hovering hand. She slaps him away. 

Ava, leaned against the opposing wall, speaks up, “If you want to hire security, we should be able to vet them first. Nobody shady.”

From a standalone chair, Alexei compliments the idea in between bites of the focaccia on the tray in his lap. The others echo the sentiment. 

“Okay, sure. Fine.” Valentina sighs. Bucky watches from across the room as she releases her arms from their tight hold, and steals herself for a moment – she looks stressed, uncomfortable. Good.

“Right- are there any more questions, or are we done here?”

“Yeah, I have one.” Alexei says, mouth still full, “Where do you get off?”

“I don’t know what to do with that.”

The Q&A is cut to a close as her P.A., Mel, enters, phone in hand and crease in brow, leading the two to a hushed strategisation session near the door. With that, the room is filled with a different kind of silence.

Bucky closes his eyes. The pot has cooled, but the buzzing still remains, and it makes him jittery. It’s in the air, it’s in their eyes, it’s in the hors d'oeuvres; it tastes like impatient anticipation. It’s not a new feeling, per se; the dread, he’s all too familiar with. But there’s something else there too – a twinge of excitement, of good change, that he’s not quite used to. Change doesn’t have a history of being on his side. 

The buzzing is getting stronger. 

“Do you guys hear that?” Bob asks. Bucky holds himself back from saying, how could you not?

“Oh, yep, I think that’s me.”

Bucky opens his eyes. Yelena, now joined by Bob as well as John at the trestle table, pats down the utility pockets of her outfit before snagging a phone from a low thigh pocket. She answers it without hesitation. 

“Hello?” A pause. “This is Yelena.”

The others listen with baited curiosity. “Who is it?” Alexei whispers. 

Yelena turns her gaze towards Bucky.

“I’m looking right at him.”

Bucky frowns. He pats his pockets– is that… his phone? Yelena, eyes still locked, bridges the space between them, and holds the phone out. “It’s for you.”

Yep, that is definitely his phone. As he grabs it, his eyes trace the name of the caller id before the screen dips back to black. 

Sam. 

He steadies his hand on the scaffolding below.

He puts the phone to his ear.

“Is everything okay?”

Sam’s voice, tinny through the speakers, rings clear through his ears despite the overwhelming background static. 

“Where are you?”  

“Are you okay?”

The others are all looking at him now. He turns his glare to the floor. 

“I’m fine. Where the hell are you?”

“The av- the watchtower. Level- I dunno, five or something-”

The call cuts out. 

Bucky drops the phone to his lap, staring through the screen. His mouth is dry. 

“Who the hell was that?” John’s voice echoes. 

“It’s not important.”

John scoffs, and starts, “Well- I’d say it’s pretty damn important considering you just gave them our location-”

“Yelena, why did you have my phone?”

Yelena pauses. “Oh, I have a few.” She replies, confoundingly. “Was left on the sidewalk. Did anyone else lose theirs? Maybe I have it.” She turns back to the others, patting each of her countless pockets.

Bucky stares at nothing. His eyebrows furrow, computing. 

“Sounds like stealing.” Alexei comments. 

Did Sam sound mad? Perhaps it was the wind, but he kinda sounded mad.

“No! - It is not stealing, I will return- ”

He’s usually short with Bucky, but that seemed – more short than usual. Curt.

“I think I lost mine. How many do you have?” Ava’s boots scrape against the floor. 

“Who was on the phone?” Walker whispers conspiratorially.

Why would he be mad? He wasn’t mad last time they spoke, which was- how long ago?

“I don’t know, some guy. I have, like, five.” Yelena replies. “Alexei, yours is here too.”

“What! How in the hell– I did not teach you to do that, sticky fingers.”

Has it really been that long since they’ve seen each other? Maybe that’s why, but– granted he’s a horrible texter, but– they’ve been busy. Sam’s been busy. At least, that’s what he figured, so why–

“You dropped it. And yes, you did.”

Captain America plunges through the glassless window. 

For a second, the voices go silent, overwhelmed by the rushing of air against vibranium feathers. It sucks the oxygen out of the room – Bucky’s chest tightens, a little bit in fear, a little bit in awe. 

The man straightens, prodigious wings lowering, and folding in on themselves until they disappear at his back with a metallic shhck.

He looks furious.

Bucky stands. There’s a fleeting moment where he thinks (in fear? in hope?) that Sam came because of him, but that moment is crushed under Captain America’s heel as he stalks forward, gaze locked, without even sparing Bucky a glance. 

“Ms De Fontaine.” His voice rings out, rigid and commanding, steamrolling the shocked whispers in the room. Valentina, in the opposing corner, next to a positively catatonic Mel Gold, mutters, “Oh for god’s sake.”

Sam continues. “Where did you find the right to form a government-affiliated group of- mercenaries – under the trademarked Avengers name? Because I certainly did not give it to you.”

By all accounts, Sam looks fine. He’s not hurt, at least according to a cursory once-over; his suit is clean, hair neat and back straight. In fact, he’s somehow become more put together since Bucky’s seen him last, only betrayed by the wild twinge of his brows; although, with each step towards Valentina his face turns further out of view. He slides his gaze to the taught curve of the man’s spine, instead, and the tension in the bend of his wrists. 

“That must’ve hurt.”

Bucky almost jumps. He should be embarrassed by how much he startles internally at the girl appearing next to him– by all accounts, Yelena is a master of stealth, but only when she’s trying to hide. Perhaps he’s more shaken by today than he’s giving himself credit for.

“What?” He mumbles back, eloquently.

She jerks her head to the scene in front of her. “He completely ignored you. Kind of rude.”

Bucky releases a frustrated click in his throat. The other four (‘mercenaries’) are slowly tiptoeing their way over to his corner of the room as well, putting distance between the evolving tension of the scene in front of them. 

(“You know, Mr. Wilson, I am a very busy person-”

“As am I. Do you not understand the position this puts me in?”)

Alexei sidles up beside them, his voice, admittedly, probably as soft as he can make it, “That is Captain America, yes? Why did he not acknowledge you? I thought you were friends.”

Yelena gestures a hand in exasperation. “That’s what I’m saying!”

Bucky feels a pain building behind his eyes. As they form a small huddle in their corner of the room, Sam and Valentina continue to bicker back and forth. He can’t help but feel the voices drown out, a bit, as he draws his brows together. He didn’t expect this (well, any of this, but particularly Sam’s sudden part in it), and he can’t help but shake the feeling that he should’ve. You’d think, for someone who’s often lost and confused, he’d be more comfortable with the feeling.

“So he’s who called?” Walker comments. Bucky nods, sharp, feeling multiple gazes brush his face. Walker scoffs. “Clearly we’re not the ones he was looking for.”

Bucky can’t help his frown.

Across from them, Valentina looks to be slowly edging out of the conversation.

“Mr Wilson, this really is not my jurisdiction.”

Sam, who has essentially backed Valentina into the open door, laughs. Bucky can see his chest quake with the mockery of it, his head dip and shake, a performance of disbelief. “You’re damn right it’s not your jurisdiction. The government has no jurisdiction over the title or trademark of the Avengers – we are a private organisation. I have fought institutionalisation attempts at every turn, you’d be sorely mistaken if you think I’m going to give up now.”

There’s something about the way he holds himself that demands attention, like a loaded slingshot. Bucky holds his breath, watching the muscles in his back pull taut, waiting to snap.

“Like I said, Mr Wilson, this is not the format for this kind of discussion. I really don’t have time for this – if you want, you can contact my lawyers.” 

“Oh you best know that I will be in contact, Ms De Fontaine.”

All smiles, Valentina backs out of the room, Mel in tow. “I’m looking forward to it.”

The room goes silent. As Valentina makes her escape, Sam doesn’t follow– instead, he stands, face to the door, back to the others, and ducks his head. It’s fascinating to watch the slingshot disengage, muscles loosening with precision, readjusting. Then, he turns.

They lock eyes. 

Perhaps it’s blind optimism, perhaps it’s pure stupidity, or perhaps Bucky isn’t as good at reading Sam as he thought. Perhaps the buzzing in the air has made him giddy, but when he turns, and they lock eyes, Bucky smiles, and he wrongly assumes the weapon is disarmed.

“Hey Wilson,” he says, all teeth, “Long time no see.”

Sam lets out a sharp laugh, and the slingshot cracks.

“Oh, don’t even get me started on you.”

Sam rounds on him. Before Bucky can process the shift, the guy’s already halfway across the room, everyone else scattered to the wind. Whatever restraint he had before is discarded through the glassless windows.

“No calls, no texts, the entirety of New York goes dark and I have to find out from a goddamn news article that you had something to do with it? Make that make sense to me.”

It was one thing, watching Sam’s anger unfurl from behind. Finding himself suddenly pinned to the target, Bucky struggles with the whiplash. 

He stumbles. “Yelena had my phone.”

Yelena, now across the room, gives Bucky the dirtiest look she could possibly muster. Sam follows his gaze, and she holds up a sheepish hand.

Sam turns on her. “How long did you have his phone for, exactly?”

“Like, an hour?”

Sam laughs. The noise ricochets throughout the room. 

“An hour.”

Bucky holds his breath.

Sam shakes his head, chin ducked. Smiling to himself. Then, he flips.

“Are you shitting me? This has been going on for days, and you didn’t think to call me once?” The humour in his face is all but unrecognisable now, fully replaced with disbelief. The man strikes a palm against Bucky’s shoulder.

“Hey- c’mon, man, I haven’t seen you in ages, and this is the first thing-”

“Yeah, this is the first thing, because you didn’t call – correction, you don’t call, and I have to hear on the news that you almost died and I could’ve helped but I didn’t because you didn’t call?”

The thing was, he did think about calling. More than once – not just over the past few hours, or days, but weeks. Months. He thinks about it almost constantly. It’s actually slightly debilitating, if he’s being honest. 

But he doesn’t. For some reason, when it comes to Sam, he can never be objective. He never knew when to call, because he never knew when not to call – picking up the phone always felt like a shot in the socially-acceptable void. He’d developed a fear, of sorts, of smothering the guy, not that he has any proof that he was, but because he has no proof that he wasn’t. His judgment has always been… impaired, with Sam, and between being too intense and drifting away, Bucky much prefers Sam to hate him for the latter.

And so, he slowly stopped reaching out first. He really, honestly didn’t think Sam would notice. The guy was busy out of his mind before he got the shield, for christ's sake, but now?

So, he shrugs. Looks at the wall. “I figured you had more important things to worry about.”

“You think I’d prioritise some conference over your life?”

It takes him back for a second, eyes flicking to Sam’s, before fluttering down, away, latching back to the wall. He feels Sam’s gaze boring into his cheek.

“I didn’t realise it was gonna be that bad.” He pauses. “I didn’t wanna worry you.”

“So which one is it. ‘Cause it can’t be both.”

Bucky falters again, glancing at Sam and finding his gaze caught in the trap. He opens his mouth, then closes it, unable to spin his contradiction in a way that makes sense.

The gears shift on Sam’s face. A light breeze trickles past, tickling the hairs on Bucky’s cheek, filtering through his fingers. Sam sighs. He looks away, breaking the spell. When he speaks next, his voice is softer, quieter, aimed towards the floor.

“You realise I worry more when I don’t hear from you, right? I figured, I assumed when you did your whole congress thing that it meant you’d stop putting yourself in danger, but.”

“I guess I can’t escape it.”

Sam levies him with a gaze. “Oh, you go searching for it.” 

“I know, I know.” He leans back, looks to the breeze, a sheepish smile on his lips. 

“Seriously though, what’s up with this whole thing? I thought you were done with that.”

“Well-”

“I mean-” There’s a fire in Sam’s voice, and Bucky snaps his attention back, “-when I asked you to join the Avengers, you said no, and then I hear this New Avengers bullshit, and you gotta understand how that looks from my perspective-”

“Look, I didn’t have a choice-”

“Ha!” The laugh echoes through the room, as the man spins in disbelief. Behind him, the five other members of his new shitty team loiter in the corner. It only now registers to Bucky that they’re still in the room. Sam, presumably, is either unaware or unaffected by their presence. “Bullshit, you didn’t have a choice.”

The other five share a look. Walker, from against the wall, leans forward, “It’s true. Val sprung it on us.” 

Sam jerks back to look at him. For a second, Bucky figures he didn’t realise they were still listening. “Right. Thanks, Walker.” And then, at Bucky, he jabs his thumb over his shoulder and whispers (poorly), “And this guy? You’re seriously gonna choose him?”

Behind them, Walker looks somewhat hurt.

“Like I said,” Bucky insists, almost pleading, “it wasn’t my choice.”

He’s staring. He realises he’s staring, but he does it anyway, and Sam matches him. For a moment, they stare at each other, and their frowns deepen, and their eyebrows knot. Bucky thinks Understand I wouldn’t’ve chosen it to go this way, and Sam’s eyes say back Doesn’t mean you didn’t choose it.

Sam breaks it, just for a second, glancing away before he turns back. “Fine. But it’ll be your choice if you stay.”

There’s something in that. A betrayal, perhaps? Or an acceptance of defeat. And it hurts.

“Sam-” He steps forward, but Sam has already checked out.

He turns his back to Bucky, and the gears shift, muscles setting and resetting. He hears the tone in his voice change.

“I’m so sorry about that,” Sam addresses the five huddled figures in front of him, voice warm, official, “not my best first impression. I’m Sam Wilson, I’m looking forward to working alongside you all.”

They give each other looks. They give Bucky a look. He ducks his head.

“Uhm.” Bob’s voice rings out. “You’re Captain America, right?”

Sam chuckles. “Yes.”

“Cool.”

Everyone takes a breath.

“Well, that’s my cue. Nice meeting you all.” Sam turns his head to John, nods, “Walker,” and then promptly walks out the door, without looking back.

Ava snorts, someone jostles Walker with a laugh he doesn’t reciprocate. Bucky looks down, away, out of the glassless window, and then straight ahead, not surprised to see five pairs of eyes staring right back at him.

“Yeesh, that was tough,” Alexei grimaces. “Trouble in paradise?”

__________

They take a trip to the hospital, get cleaned up. The others are wary, but for once they don’t have a reason to be afraid of getting caught. It’s weird. Different, but not in a bad way. Although, he doesn’t blame any of them for not trusting it, considering he still hasn’t made his mind up either. When they get cleared, he finds a hotel room, has a shower, tries not to think. When he emerges, having failed, a new message sits on his phone screen. 

Sam - 8:54pm

you’re not injured though, right?

Buck - 9:10pm

No. Nothing to call home about. 

Sam - 10:48pm

noted

He’s embarrassed to say he doesn’t sleep until just before 11.

Chapter Text

Still Lost After The Blackout? Here’s What Your Void Visions Say About You, According To Top Psychologists

 2 weeks ago

__________

The next few weeks are decorated with uniform fittings and photoshoots. It’s unfamiliar, and more than unsettling that the two most experienced in their current affairs (preparing for the media spotlight) are Walker and Alexei. Granted, the latter’s experience is dated about forty years, but that doesn’t stop him from sharing it at any given opportunity.

(“You know,” Alexei says, to the photographer, as she turns her camera monitor to show the huddled group, “you are lucky. Back in sixties, they didn’t have all this convenient digital stuff. When they take my picture, for the posters and the promotions, they have to develop in darkroom to see photos. They use this, uh, Kodak? Kodak brand film? Have you heard of this one?”

“Oh, yeah.” The photographer replies. “I’ve got one at home, actually.”

Alexei is extremely pleased.)

Between all the pampering and PAs and useless marketing strategy committees, Bucky barely has any time to think for himself. Hell, he’s still living out of a hotel room (along with the rest of them), with nothing but the clothes off his back. Finding even a spare six hours for the round trip to his DC apartment and back is a fool’s errand.

And god, does he feel like a fool.

“So, how is Sam Wilson doing?” Yelena asks him at the hotel buffet one morning.

Bucky freezes, for a second. He’s scooping scrambled eggs one-handed out of a metal bowl with a lid that refuses to stay open, his other hand occupied by a teetering sausage-and-bacon-stacked plate threatening to commit suicide at any moment. Yelena leans against the buffet table, her own decorated plate in hand, observing. 

“How would I know.” Bucky replies, expertly non-chalant. “Could you- would you mind-”

“Oh, of course.” She holds the lid open for him. 

There’s a beat, as he scoops his eggs. He can sense the words behind her teeth in the silence, flipping them over her tongue with languid consideration. His grip is tight on the egg ladle.

“You haven’t called him?”

Bucky gives her an admonishing glare. “No.” He states, blunt, placing the egg ladle back on its little plate and stalking towards the breads. A couple vacationing children almost become collateral in his stubborn pursuit.

Yelena looks on in disbelief, for a second, before dropping the lid and tailing after him, sidestepping the other buffet-goers with ease.

“Are you kidding me? Look– I don’t want to intrude on whatever the hell you two have going on, but he seemed pretty adamant about the calling thing. Like, quite specifically. That you don’t call him. And that you should. Call him.”

Bucky slips a piece of bread into the conveyer toaster, and burns it with his eyes.

“He didn’t mean it like that. And you are intruding, by the way.”

“Oh I’m pretty sure he meant it like that.”

Bucky bites his tongue. He watches his toast slowly move down the conveyer, browning under the low buzzing of the grill. When Sam told him to call, he didn’t mean whenever. He meant in emergencies. At least, that’s the only point of reference he gave, and god knows that Bucky will not extrapolate. And there hasn’t been an emergency. So no, he has not called.

Yelena lets the moment sit for a second. He can feel her analysing.

“Are you avoiding him?”

Bucky huffs. 

“He’s mad at me. I’m giving him space.”

“I’m pretty sure he’s mad at you because you’re giving him space.”

Exasperated, he finally turns to face her, expression painted in stubborn defiance. “How would you know?”

The toast falls around the bend with a startling shhck.

“Basic emotional intelligence.” Yelena replies, before snatching the piece of toast for herself.

“What– hey, c’mon. What the hell.”

“See, this is why you need to call him.” She brandishes the toast at him like a weapon. “You are distracted, vulnerable. How will you lead a team like this?”

Bucky scoffs, looking away in disbelief, but he knows she’s right. He hasn’t been as present lately; he’s still recovering from the change, still getting his bearings, but– god, who is he kidding. Even at his best, his ability to lead anyone is dubious (if he can barely get his own thoughts together). Almost as an admission of defeat, he lets the toast go without a fight, something he’s been doing too much of lately. He sighs, and nods, grabbing another piece of bread and restarting the whole charade. 

“Fine. I’ll talk to him.”

“Well, it is a little bit late for that right now. You know, considering he is flying around somewhere in Northern Europe.”

Bucky turns to look at her way too quickly.

“What, don’t tell me you didn’t know?”

He glances away, sheepish. “Of course I knew that.” It’s his worst lie yet.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me.”

Okay, fine, perhaps Bucky’s been avoiding Sam (and everything Sam related, including texting, calling, news articles, social media, and, if he can help it, the American flag.)

“So, clearly, he’s been busy, which is why I haven’t called.” Bucky points out. He knows the kind of mad that Sam is isn’t fixable by a phone call, and the feeling of knowing how in theory to solve it but being physically unable to has been clouding his thoughts like a toxic fog. 

“Oh don’t act like you knew that.” Yelena scoffs at him.

The truth is, Sam isn’t mad– he’s hurt. The best way to fix that is to go back in time and choose him over congress. The second best way is to drop his shitty team, and go join him now. And break his teams’ heart. And lose his new job, after basically ending his old job. Assuming Sam would even accept him back. It’s helpless.

“I knew he was busy. He always is.”

So, maybe Bucky has been avoiding him. 

His toast tumbles out into the open, and he snatches it up before Yelena can say another word.

 __________

It takes barely a week before they’re shuttled off to their first press event. It’s just preliminary, or at least that’s what Valentina keeps calling it (“After all, you don’t even have your official costumes yet! It’s just to show face, mingle, let them know we mean business.”). Preliminary or not, it still feels like a pain in the ass.

At least his experience in congress is finally coming in handy.

They put him in a suit that he’s forced to be measured for, and yet he’s pretty sure it’s too tight (which bewilders him, since he’s found time to grab essentials from his DC apartment, including his congressional attire). The others are styled similarly, stuffed into silk shirts and pressed pants and a sleek black limo that nobody is quite stoked about. Unsurprising, considering how their last limo ride ended; poorly, and upside-down, thanks to Bucky’s interference. 

(“This car doesn’t even have disco lights,” Alexei mutters, indignant.)

As the limo journey reaches its close, Val gives them all a look of purpose.

“Right. Remember – play nice. Light conversation, no specifics. You don’t know what’s in store for you yet, but you’re excited to see what the future brings!” She says the last part in a fake cheery tone. “It’s really more of a photo op – we’ll be in there thirty minutes, an hour tops.”

The rest of them pass around uneasy glances.

“And big smiles, everyone.” Valentina concludes, showing her teeth in a cheesy pantomime, before opening the limo door. 

It does, in fact, feel like being back in congress. For once, Bucky’s the most experienced one of the lot, feeling the mask slip on like a silk glove. It’s all smiles from the moment they walk in, pearly teeth and gilded edges and “Good evening Congressman, nice to see you again, lovely gala, this champagne is to die for. Can I get you another drink?” It’s a tired charade, but one he’s grown proficient at.

He finds that the five others don’t ever fully leave his periphery for more than a few minutes at a time, tailing like ducklings to his proverbial goose. Alexei strays the furthest by far, although his voice still hangs close, amplified across the tall ceilings. Walker’s range fluctuates, not completely unfamiliar with – nor opposed to – the validating masquerade of hand-shaking (although, he seems to disappear from his sights whenever Bucky begins conversation with a member of the Military Justice Committee). The other three, however, are basically chasing Bucky’s shadow. They watch his conversations like kids behind their parent’s leg, offering no more contribution than an awkward nod when being acknowledged. Bob, it seems, is using him as a shelter for prying eyes, head ducked and personal space ignored. The two girls stalk behind him like watchdogs, haughty and suspicious, appraising each reaction as if observing from behind a partition, with the commentary to match.

During a lull in conversation, they gather around a small standing table, and Ava tips her champagne flute towards him. 

“How are you so good at this?” She asks with a funny look.

“Hmm?” Bucky shrugs. “Am I?”

“Oh, yeah, so good,” Bob concurs, and Yelena nods along.

“Weirdly so, I must add. You’re not exactly the best communicator.” Yelena points out. “No offense.”

The two girls clink their glasses together in agreement. Bucky can’t even argue against it – even in congress, he could never get his words to sound right in front of a microphone, but that was different.

“Well– I dunno,” he sighs, “this isn’t exactly communicating. It’s networking. Nothing you say really needs to mean anything. It’s- uh, less like a conversation, more like a dance?”

Bob nods, but his brows say otherwise. The other two give him blank stares – he rephrases.

“Or, like a fight. I guess.” One blank stare is an improvement.

“Right.” Yelena adds.

“How?”

Tipping the rest of the champagne into his mouth, he scrunches his brows, considers how to phrase it. “So– basically, you’re disarming your target. You keep them distracted, don’t let the conversation stray out of your bounds. Talk about the music, the food, things you can control.” He stares off into the sea of distinguished attendees, eyes unfocused as he thinks. “Your main goal, I guess, is to make them laugh, and then leave while they’re still smiling.”

He finishes eloquently, and glances back at his students. Ava looks pleasantly surprised, if not a little hesitant, Bob nodding in thought, mouth slightly agape. Yelena looks troubled.

“What?”

“I think the metaphor you are describing is pickpocketing.”

Next to her, Ava clicks her fingers. “Yes, I was trying to put my finger on it.”

“Or like, uhm, those guys who do magic tricks in the street?” Bob tacks on, and the other two agree with vigor.

Ah. Bucky lets out a laugh of disbelief. 

“Not to say yours did not make sense.” Yelena assures him, quickly, realising the rudeness of her words. Next to her, the others nod enthusiastically, Ava muttering so eloquent! under her breath, and Bucky tries not to feel offended. The air reverberates around them, an abundance of polite conversation blending into one gibberish buzz that echoes across the high ceilings. Somewhere, a violin plays. 

“Alright, since you guys are such experts, why don’t you try it out.” He smiles (only slightly spiteful), and does a quick sweep of the crowd, calling “Senator, long time no see!” and tipping his champagne flute, despite the horrified expressions of the three before him.

The senator, a pudgy middle-aged man he’s spoken to maybe three times ever, approaches with a smile from behind his three teammates, who curse at him silently up until the very moment their faces become visible.

“Congressman Barnes! Or, I guess I shouldn’t call you that anymore. When were you going to make your resignation official?” The senator asks, taking his hand with a firm shake, Bucky giving him a light pat on the back, and realising that he had forgotten the man’s name.

He laughs, distracts, takes control. “Oh, it’s in the works. Tell me, have you met my associates?” He gestures forward, and the three straighten their backs, glancing at him for confirmation. Bucky smiles with his teeth, prompting them, and their faces burst into varying degrees of cheerful politeness. 

“No, I haven’t yet had the pleasure. It’s lovely to meet you all. Senator Brooks-” The senator says, shaking each of their hands in turn, as they each introduce themselves. Jackpot, Bucky thinks, absentmindedly. 

“You know, I have to thank you all, when I heard about what happened in New York, I couldn’t believe it– I’m glad we had people who stepped up.”

The three laugh awkwardly.

“Well, um, thank you.” Yelena replies, wiping her hands on her black silk shirt.

There’s a beat of silence. Ava fills it, “Yes, it was really no trouble– I mean, we were around, so–”

“It was the right thing to do.” Bob brings home the big finish.

The senator smiles, as does Bucky. He gives them a little nod, and they all take a collective breath.

“Well,” the senator says, glancing between them all, “I’m glad we have people to rely on again. Between you all and Captain America finally being back in the country–”

“He’s back?” Bucky interrupts, despite himself. 

The senator is slightly caught off guard, stuttering the end of his sentence before backtracking, “Well– yes, he and his team came back a few nights ago, I believe he said?” The senator turns his shoulder back vaguely, and Bucky follows the movement with his eyes.

There, amongst the crowd, is Sam Wilson. He’s decked out in a tailored suit, smooth whites and crisp lines that fit him like a glove, and he’s looking right back at him. 

He stares. Sam stares back. He purses his lips. Sam raises a brow.

Yelena whispers, “You’re staring.” He knows. He doesn’t care. Somebody pokes him in the ribs, but he can barely feel it. Sam’s gaze shoots through him, burns a fire through his retinas, his fingers tingling with adrenaline. He feels alive.

“-gressman Barnes? Is everything alright?”

Bucky zaps back to reality. He blinks back down, and realises that his mask has slipped. He pulls it back on with haste, offering the senator a charismatic smile.

“Sorry– so sorry about that, Senator Brooks – something caught my eye, I have to apologise.”

He can suddenly feel the vile glares of his teammates. For a second, he glances back towards Sam – he’s laughing, all smiles, at someone in the crowd. Something twinges in his chest.

“Uhm, the champagne is- good.” Yelena’s voice trickles through.

“Indeed, it is– Right– well, it was lovely meeting you all. And seeing you again, Congressman.” The senator says, somewhat robotic, a slight dent still in his brow, before he dips out of the conversation.

As soon as the senator’s back is turned, Yelena whacks him in the ribs. He flinches, pulling his gaze away from where it had once again drifted to the crowd.

“What the hell was that for? You left us out to dry.” She snarls in a half whisper.

“What? Oh, c’mon, you guys did great.” He brushes it off.

“Sure,” Ava scoffs, “we were doing great, until you disappeared into lalaland like a- like a rabid dog or something.” 

“Yeah, I don’t think that man left with a smile.” Bob hazards.

Yelena’s hand waves into his field of vision. Bucky blinks down again, his gaze being brought back from its wandering.

“Hello? He’s not even listening. What is wrong with you.”

Bucky sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing his hand across his face. “Sorry, sorry– I got distracted.”

“No, you have a staring problem.” Yelena combats, with unanimous agreement from either side. “I know what you are looking at. Stop being such a- weirdo and just talk to him-”

“What? No–”

“Why not?”

“Because–” Bucky lets out a breath. He looks away, scanning the room with half focus as he mulls the words over in his mouth. “Because. Just because. He’ll talk to me when he wants to. I won’t force it.”

He glances back to catch the three of them exchanging meaningful looks. In the corner of his eye, he spots Walker and Alexei, slowly drifting over. He flickers a gaze back through the crowd, and sees Sam, million dollar smile in tow, pat someone on the shoulder and turn to his direction with purpose.

“I’m going to the bathroom.” He states simply.

“Oh, you’re such a baby,” Ava calls over his shoulder.

__________

He’s not a baby, he thinks to himself, as he splashes water on his face. Fool, perhaps, but baby? Definitely not. His fear of Sam is justified; the man has a powerful presence, and it demands to be respected.

Not that he’s afraid of Sam, per se. No, god no – he’s more-so afraid of Sam’s- disapproval? That’s not the right way to put it. He’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Because god knows he’s already prone to it, and god knows how much worse it is when Sam’s involved. His charades are well-tailored, but Sam can see right through them, and that scares him – everything Sam sees is exactly what’s on the page, and that makes his disappointment cut even deeper.

He stares at himself in the ornate mirror of the men's bathroom, knuckles tight on the marble washstand. It’s a fight, he thinks, just evade, disarm. Leave while he’s still smiling.

But, if he’s honest, after almost a year in congress, he’s starting to feel a bit rusty in that respect.

__________

Bucky emerges from the bathroom to find, with distaste, that Sam is making nice with his teammates.

The man clamps his hand on Alexei’s shoulder, shakes Bob’s hand, nods at Walker. On his side, Joaquín Torres chatters along with a shy smile. It is, by all means, a heartwarming scene. Bucky considers running for the hills. In his brief hesitation, however (curse his habitual staring), his presence is clocked by Yelena, who rolls her eyes and jerks her head. All he can do is kick the floor and suck it up. 

The others greet him with smiles as he approaches, Torres giving him an over-eager wave that he returns begrudgingly. As he sidles in beside Sam (a force of habit, despite himself), the guy turns to him with a flippant, yet surprisingly warm smile. He can’t help but be caught off guard. 

“I was just introducing myself to your wonderful team over here.” He comments, and there’s a glint in his eyes when he says wonderful. 

The gaze lingers.

“Oh, you flatter us.” Alexei waves him off, and Sam turns towards it. Bucky doesn’t – he’s lost his composure, trying to read through the lines on Sam’s face for answers. Wasn’t he still mad? 

“Nice of you to join us,” Yelena comments, as the group-flattering conversation continues. He forces himself to drag his eyes away and acknowledge her chiding look.

“Hello to you, too.”

Yelena smiles, lowers her voice, “Are you done brooding?”

“Never.” He whispers back.

She rolls her eyes. Then, she glances at the conversation, for a second, before turning back to mouth, “Talk to him.”

Bucky mouths back, “Shut up.”

He watches her pause, for a second, before starting to form the word “Bab-”

Bucky pointedly looks back to the conversation.

The others seem smitten with Sam, as he flashes them his shining smile, despite the circumstances of their previous interaction. “-well, you were also quite big back in the day, I’ve heard. During the- the cold war?” He directs to Alexei, innocently. 

Yelena gives Bucky a flick on the arm. He ignores it. 

There’s a collective groan. “Don’t get him started,” Ava mutters, as Alexei positively radiates energy. He’s never seen the man more chuffed. 

“Oh, Mr Wilson, you did your research! You know– people have considered me to be the Captain America of Russia.”

“So Captain Russia?” Bob inquires, almost to himself.

“No- the Red Guardian -”

Walker snickers. “I prefer Captain Russia.”

Bucky takes a back seat as the conversation devolves. He’s relieved to see Yelena finally distracted along with the rest of them – he doesn’t mind, so much, when she intrudes, because he knows she’s right, and she should say it, for his sake. He just doesn’t really like to hear it. 

Next to him, Sam shifts, ever so slightly. Bucky feels the fabric of his suit graze his shoulder.

Sam speaks, voice low, casual. “You still haven’t called.” 

When Bucky glances at him, Sam is still looking ahead at the team, but his head tilts his way. Subtle. 

Bucky turns his gaze forward. “You were busy.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause. 

Bucky scoffs in disbelief. “Oh, come on. Are you serious?” He digs his gaze into Sam’s turned cheek. 

Sam doesn’t respond. 

He sighs. “Okay, let’s say I had called. Could you have even picked up? I thought you were ‘soaring the skies of-’ uh- Northern- Europe, or whatever.”

Sam’s cheek turns, slightly, with a humourless smirk, but his gaze remains forward. 

“Latvia. And, I would’ve appreciated the thought.”

Bucky, laughs, rolls his eyes, looks away – the knowledge that Sam is probably just trying to irk him sits somewhere in the shallows of his mind, but it holds barely a whisper to the feeling of being irked.

“You know,” he says, adding fuel to the fire, “you go on so many missions, and yet, I can’t seem to recall Captain America ever giving me a call?”

This makes Sam’s head turn. 

“I call you.”

“Not for help.” It’s Bucky’s turn to get stared down, and he graciously withholds Sam’s satisfaction of receiving a glance back. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say a little birdy got a shield and suddenly thinks he’s better than me.”

He watches in his peripheral vision as Sam rolls his eyes, glancing away before doubling down. “Oh, you know that’s not true. You were doing your whole- congress thing. You wouldn’t’ve wanted to help.”

“Well. I would’ve appreciated the thought.”

Sam’s gaze is a lit match on his cheek. It burns through his skin, tearing through bone and tissue, feeding an inferno down deep into the pits of his stomach. He couldn’t care to hide his smile. 

Sam laughs a low rumbling laugh. “Oh, you’re such a dick.”

“You love it.”

He meets Sam’s eyes. 

The fire crackles in his ears. Sam’s stare holds a challenge that Bucky could never turn down – they’re locked in a stalemate, brows narrowed and jaws set. Bucky feels breathless. The corner of Sam’s lip quirks upward, and the inferno swallows him whole. 

“-ot like Sam’s.”

A hand clasps onto Sam’s shoulder. The spell is broken; they both blink away, disoriented.

“Hmm?” Sam asks.

“Your wings?” Torres repeats, seeming to realise Sam hadn’t been paying attention. “They’re Wakanda-made.”

Bucky’s focus flickers back. The gala bustles with patrons, shifting like fish under the water behind his team, who are looking at Sam expectantly, he notices, whatever conversation being had now dependant on his answer.

“Oh!” Sam lets out a soft chuckle. Slightly embarrassed, trying to hide it. “They sure are. Pure vibranium.”

In his quick visual sweep, Bucky’s gaze snags on Yelena’s. She gives him a smirk. He blinks away.

“Just like Bucky’s arm.” Yelena posits. Sam glances back, Bucky glances down, flexing his fingers. 

“Yeah, it-”

Ava interrupts, “Matchy-matchy.”

The two immediately whip their heads to her.

“What? No-”

“In what world-”

“-it is a surprisingly common metal-”

“-with this guy? I would rather-”

“Excuse me, guys-”

Sam and Bucky spin to the voice like deer to a gunshot. Mel, who had made the unfortunate decision to approach from behind, looks positively shell-shocked.

“Jesus, Mel. Some warning, next time.” Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a breath. He ignores the barely-stifled laughs in the group around him. 

She apologises, but Bucky waves her off. “Valentina asked me to round everyone up. She said to meet her in the car?”

Bucky thanks her with a smile, relieved at the distraction. He turns to usher the group away, and with a final spark of something (perhaps it’s the word pickpocket in the back of his mind), he looks at Sam, says “Sorry, Cap. Duty calls.” and then he winks.

He doesn’t give Sam the satisfaction of witnessing his reaction.

(Behind him, just out of earshot, Torres says, “The wings were a gift from Bucky, though, weren’t they?” Sam shoots him a filthy look. Ava mouths “Oh My God.”)  

__________

Later that night, Sam gives him a call. 

They’re walking back to their rooms as it rings, and he can’t help a small smile. He excuses himself, going ahead, and picking it up as soon as he’s out of earshot. 

“You know this means I win, right?”

Sam tuts into the receiver. “I didn’t realise it was a competition,” he states, but the petty indignance in his tone says otherwise. Sam’s voice is clear, soft, little background noise but the slight buzz of the phone signal. He ignores the tingle behind his ribcage.

“Sore loser.” Bucky makes his way through the hotel corridor, counting down the numbers on the doors. “To what do I owe this honour?”

“I wanted to apologise.”

His steps falter. 

“For what?”

Sam takes a breath through the phone. “I was- it was selfish of me. To get mad at you, for joining your new team. So I’m sorry.”

Bucky can’t help but feel slightly taken aback. “Well- I dunno-” Out of everything, this isn’t what he expected – sure, apologies aren’t uncommon with them (although few and far between), but on that specific occasion, he’d thought Sam’s anger felt somewhat justified. “Honestly, I can’t really blame you.”

“Well, you should. It wasn’t my place.”

“Okay, then. I blame you. How could you, man, it wasn’t your place.” He jokes, resuming his pace ever so slightly.

The tinny sound of Sam’s chuckle echoes through the hall. “I’m serious, Buck. It was-” He sighs. “It was unfair of me to make you feel bad for choosing them over me.”

Bucky frowns. “I didn’t choose them over you.”

“Well, that’s what I- sorry, I phrased that poorly.”

Bucky lets out a soft laugh. The hallway lights cast a dim yellow glow on the speckled carpet, absorbing the sound of his soft footsteps. “You didn’t rehearse this beforehand?”

“Oh, shut up. I meant to say, I didn’t mean to act like it was either-or. I’m sure you had your reasons to turn me down before, and you have your reasons to stay now. I shouldn’t’ve taken it personally.”

Coming up to his hotel door, Bucky slides the keycard from his pocket. “You know,” he says, slowly, “I did wanna join you. Still wish I did.” 

The line is quiet.

Sam’s voice comes out hushed, hesitant, like the first shift of weight on a frozen lake. 

“So why didn’t you?”

Bucky pauses, keycard hovering in the air. There are so many ways he could answer that question. Because I was afraid. Because I didn’t want to be a burden on you. Because I thought I would let you down. 

They all feel too close to a confession.

He settles on this, “It’s a lot harder to kill someone as a congressman.”

On the other end of the line, Sam sighs, and it almost sounds like he’d been holding in a breath, waiting for the ice to crack.

“Well, that’s because you weren’t very good at it.”

Bucky laughs. He presses the keycard to the lock, and it whirs and clicks. “Hey, give me a second term and I would’ve been killing it.” 

“Killing something, at least.”

He pushes the door open. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He can hear the smile in Sam’s voice. He can feel a buzzing in his chest. Sam sighs. “Well, that’s what I called for.”

There’s an insinuation, there, that Sam is saying goodbye. He allows himself one push of his self-imposed boundary, and pretends he can’t hear it.

“Out of curiosity,” Bucky asks, as he pulls the door closed, flicking on the lights, “what brought this on?”

“Hmm? Oh, I dunno. Your team seemed nice, I guess. I think I misjudged them.” Bucky listens absentmindedly, letting Sam’s words tumble through the phone as he kicks off his shoes, unbuttons his jacket. “You looked happy.”

“That’s what you got from that interaction?” He scoffs. “That was a shitshow of a conversation.”

“Hey man, I said what I said. You looked happy.”

He settles on the armchair. “I’m always happy.”

“Ha.”

He feels that spark, now, in his chest. Just, ever so slightly burning. He feels the hunger, and he quashes it. 

“Well, I’ll let you sleep.” Then, “Thanks for calling.”

“Anytime, Buck.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Bucky hangs up before the fire devours him.

Chapter Text

The Void – A Blessing In Disguise? “Don’t Lose Sight Of What’s Important” – How This New York Businessman Turned Trauma Into Motivation

 1 month ago

__________

“Okay, now fight,” Valentina’s voice comes through the intercom.

Nobody moves. Walker calls out, “That’s all?”

Through the glass partition, Val frowns. She glances at Mel on her left, and then presses her manicured nail back on the intercom, only to say, “Yes.”

“Well what’s our objective?”

Currently, the new Avengers are situated in the recently refurbished training room of the almost-fully-refurbished watchtower, split into two teams, staring at each other like idiots. They’d moved into the tower a week ago and gotten their new uniforms three days prior, and Valentina, either wanting to celebrate or quality-check, had announced a group training session. The room is vast, clean, high ceiling and barren white walls and a sleek epoxy floor crisscrossed in lines reminiscent of a basketball court. Above, through the (hopefully) bulletproof glass on the far wall is a control room, where Valentina looks down on them, aged by the pained expression on her face.

Her voice crackles out again over the speakers. “To win.”

Bob frowns, turns his head to the floor, then looks back. “What do we win?” He stands on the left, near the back corner as Yelena flanks him, Walker forming the point of their triangle.

“The fight?” Bucky posits, from the opposite side. His team consists of Ava, who has her arms crossed and lips pursed in front of him, and Alexei, on his right, hopping from foot to foot in a fighting stance.

Energised, the man triumphs, “Glory in battle!”

Bucky closes his eyes for a moment. Over the comms, Valentina’s voice rings out again, “Exactly. Thank you, Alexei. Well, what are you all waiting for?”

There’s a moment of stillness. Then, Ava steps forward, casual, bridging the gap between herself and Walker. He eyes her, only slightly wary, but his shield still hangs limp at his side. She lifts her fist, and gives him a light punch on the shoulder.

“Ow.” He says, how one might react to a mosquito bite. 

Someone snickers.

“Well, aren’t you gonna hit me back?” Ava asks, all serious.

Walker shrugs. “I don’t see why I need to.”

Behind him, Yelena covers her mouth to hide a laugh. Bob, too, chuckles, and Bucky can feel himself starting to smile.

“Okay, fine.” Valentina’s voice echoes throughout the room, “I’ll find you a damn objective. Give me a moment.”

Above them, the intercom goes silent. Ava steps back to her position – as she goes, Yelena tilts her hand with a mini cheers from across the room, and Ava clinks back with a smile. They stand in impatient apprehension. Bucky waits, watches as Val speaks to the tech operators, lips moving in silence through the reinforced glass. 

After a moment, there’s a loud clunk. Then, a series of buzzing and whirring; the small circle imprinted in the centre of the room opens like a shutter, revealing a podium that pushes through the floor. Atop it sits a china teacup. Two more podiums appear, one behind Bucky’s team, and one at the other end of the room, both empty. A bewildered glance is passed around the group.

The intercom roars back to life.

“Okay. See that cup in the centre? Your goal is to get it to the other team's podium, intact. Any questions?”

They shake their heads. Under her breath, Yelena whispers, “what is this, capture the flag?”

“Okay, good,” Val’s voice echoes. “Go.”

Walker is the first to approach. He saunters up to the centre, slightly wary, but everyone else remains still. Two steps from the podium, he stops, and turns to look at his teammates. Bucky shoots Ava a glance; she nods. Walker waits, for a second, and eyes his opposing team. Then, in a swift motion, he goes for the cup.

There’s a shift of light. In the second before Walker’s hand makes contact, Ava’s form reappears in front of him, corporeal for only a moment as she grabs the teacup and phases out of his reach. Walker’s hand waves through the empty air where the cup had been.

The rest of them spring into action.

To his right, Alexei makes a run for the opposite podium. In front of him, Walker flings his shield; Ava phases through. Bucky all but throws himself toward it, anticipating the rebound – he snatches the shield out of the air just before it sails into its unsuspecting victim. Ava turns, then goes incorporeal. Through her, Bucky spots Yelena, and only barely lifts the shield in time as two throwing knives sail through Ava’s ghost right at him. His heart beats in his chest. 

Across the room, Alexei, yells, waves his arms above his head. “I’m open! Pass it over here!” His voice cuts through, loud and unexpected – they can’t help but look. 

Walker sweeps a foot under Ava, taking advantage of her lost focus; she’s knocked prone, elbows landing on the ground with a dull thud, and her grip loosens. 

The teacup clinks across the floor. There’s a jump in Bucky’s throat, anticipating a shatter, but it doesn’t come – the teacup rolls to its side, six feet from his shoes, perfectly intact.

Bucky looks up at Walker; Walker looks back at Bucky. 

They both dive.

Adrenaline is thick in the air. At the last second, Ava’s arm hooks around Walker’s shin, and the man falls short, leaving Bucky with the advantage. He scoops the teacup in his hands, discarding the shield in the process. Forearms scraping across the floor like nails on a chalkboard. Cup clutched tight, he rolls over his left shoulder, momentum bringing his knees back under him so he can find his footing once more.

Teacup in hand, Bucky assesses his options. Walker’s preoccupied, grappling Ava on the ground before him. Yelena stands halfway across the room, approaching with intent. Alexei hops on his feet next to their podium at the back, arms still waving above his head. Bob is a couple steps away, fists clenched, terrified, but ultimately not a threat. Bucky’s heart thuds in his ears.

“Throw it to me!” Alexei yells.

“I’m not throwing the damn teacup!” Bucky yells back. They were supposed to keep it intact, for god’s sake. He’s not an idiot.

Alexei keeps waving. On the floor, Bucky clocks Walker reaching for his shield, ready to swing. Ahead of him, Yelena slowly raises her fist, black widow’s bite engaged. His body floods with adrenaline.

He throws the damn teacup.

The delicate object sails through the air, almost as if in slow motion. Everyone’s eyes move to trace its arc with baited breath.

The room erupts with voices.

“Bob!” Yelena calls out.

“I got it!” Alexei assures.

“Bob! Get the teacup!” Walker yells. “Come on!”

Bob’s eyes are wide as saucers. His head is on a swivel – at the teacup, then at Alexei, then at Yelena and Walker. There’s a slight tremor in his arms, a jitterriness to his feet, unsure of where they stand. Bucky tenses, opens his mouth.

When the teacup is about three feet from Alexei’s head, Bob raises his arm.

It stops mid-air.

There’s a cheer across the room. For a second, Bucky lets out a breath, impressed, (relieved?), but it quickly fades – something’s wrong. The man’s chest is heaving, and his irises glow bright, for a second, before the light goes completely dark. There’s a spot of black on the tips of his fingers.

Bucky takes a step forward. “Bob-”

The teacup explodes. 

Alexei manages to catch Bob before he hits the ground. He’s shaking. He holds his hands, dotted with ceramic shards, out in front of him in panic, but colour is coming back to his irises. Yelena rushes over, Ava and Walker scrambling off the floor to reach him, the room feeling too quiet, too big. Bucky watches from a distance, frozen, before running his hands through his hair, and turning a glare toward Valentina in the room above.

“We’re done for the day,” he calls out to her, firm, final, and joins his team.

__________

Bob is fine. 

Sure, he’s rattled, and sure, his ability to control his powers (and his mental state) have been put further into question, but otherwise, he’s fine.

Yelena makes him tea, Walker runs him a bath, Alexei cleans the ceramic shrapnel from his face, and Bucky paces up and down the corridor enough times to scuff the newly-painted floors. He feels useless, restless, and when Bob is successfully pampered to sleep, Bucky can’t bring himself to settle like the others do. Adrenaline darts electricity through his synapses, his body still in fight or flight mode. So, he texts Sam.

Buck - 3:07pm

You around?

Sam - 3:09pm

you’re a lucky guy. conference ended early. 

why?

Buck - 3:10pm

Need to let off some steam. 

Be my training partner?

Sam - 3:11pm

gladly

__________

Sam meets him at the watchtower. 

It feels dangerous, ever so slightly, and he’s not sure why. Maybe it’s because he feels dangerous – his senses are ticking off the meter, stress boiling to overflow. Reckless, if he isn’t careful.

This time, Sam comes through the front entrance. Or, at least, he tries to – Bucky reaches the first floor, and before the man even comes into view, he can hear his voice going back and forth with the lobby security. There’s some issue with clearance, he gathers from the raised voices. He turns out from the elevator unit, following the sound through the otherwise empty lobby. There, across the way, Sam stands in between the glass doors and the glass security gates, hands on his hips, t-shirt tighter than a tourniquet. Bucky pauses, for a second more than usual, to admire it, before stepping into the open space.

“He’s with me.” Bucky calls out. 

Sam’s head quirks up from behind the glass partition. He catches Bucky’s eyes, smiles, and then lingers for a beat, almost dragging himself away to turn back to the security guard, “See, I told you.”

“Mr. Barnes,” the security guard looks slightly scared, and gives him a polite nod, “your friend here isn’t on the approved list of visitors-”

“Well, then add him.” he crosses his arms. He can feel Sam’s gaze on him, and it burns. “This is the Avengers watchtower. Sam Wilson is, technically, one of the only official Avengers.”

The man splutters, looking back and forth between the two. “Well, that’s technically-”

Bucky sighs, reaches forward, and hits the button behind the security desk. He sees Sam smirk.

“Mr.– Barnes–”

The gates open, and Sam walks through with ease, nodding politely to the appalled security as he passes. Bucky turns, Sam falling in step behind. He holds up a hand to the security guard as he goes, back turned with casual disdain, “If you get in trouble, tell ‘em to come to me.”

He leads Sam to the elevators. The rubber souls of trainers scuff against marble with a soft sound, echoing throughout the high-ceilinged lobby of the watchtower. The silence reverberates in Bucky’s chest. He’d removed the uncomfortable shock-absorption vest of his new suit sometime earlier, now just stripped down to a carbon-fibre under layer, which scrapes against the metal of his arm as he walks. The fabric is thick, but tight – Bucky can’t help but suspect that Valentina had put more thought into the visual branding than any combat practicality. 

He slows to a stop. “God, all that trouble – I should’ve just opened a window for you.”

Bucky turns, to see Sam nod with a soft laugh, but his eyes aren’t in it; his gaze is pointedly not meeting Bucky’s own. Rather, it draws an outline of his body. It works up from his hips, across the metal hardware of his belt, to the dip of his waist, glancing across the slats in the fabric. It travels up his arms, across the smooth stitching on his chest, following the fabric to where it ends against the nape of his neck, and finally up to his face. Bucky’s skin burns with it.

Sam meets his eyes. Bucky quirks a lip.

“New suit.” Sam notes.

Bucky grins, teeth bared. “You like it?”

Sam’s eyes flicker down, flicker back up. There’s a glint in his eyes, a slight arch to his brow. “I do. Looks good on you.”

He pauses, traces Bucky’s chest again, reaches forward to glance a knuckle against the shiny metal A embedded into the fabric on his left clavicle.

“Except for that part.” The corner of Sam’s mouth lifts, contact lingering for a second too long.

Bucky feels alive.

__________

He takes Sam to one of the smaller training rooms. This one’s more like a mini boxing gym, really; weights and a couple machines set up in the corner, punching bags hanging nearby, the rest of the room sectioned off with a large rubber mat. It’s certainly not the best, facility wise, compared to the other exercise rooms in the building, but it’s definitely the one with the least foot traffic. Perhaps because it’s small. Perhaps because he’s been using it every day since he moved in, the fear of his presence a powerful enough deterrent to would-be gym buddies.

“How long you in New York for?” Bucky asks. 

They stand opposite each other on the mat, fists up, sparring. Sam throws a jab, then a cross, and Bucky lifts his guard to block it. 

“‘Til the end of the week.” Sam replies. He absorbs Bucky’s next hit with his forearms. “Just a string of meetings, then I’m goin’ back to DC for a bit. Take a breather.”

Sam hits again, his hands glancing off Bucky’s raised arms. “Jealous.” Bucky huffs. “Haven’t even had time yet to move the rest of my stuff.”

“They’re really working you to the bone, huh.” Bucky aims a jab near Sam’s waist; he catches it, throws it back.

“Tell me about it.”

Sam throws a hook. Bucky ducks, aims at Sam’s chest, he blocks it. 

“So where’s your team?”

“Resting.” Bucky aims a punch at his shoulder.

“Resting?” Sam catches it in the palm of his hand. It lingers there, for a second, along with the crease in Sam’s brow. “From what?”

Bucky sighs. He pulls his arm back, shakes it off. “Group training, this morning. Didn’t end well.” He throws another jab, and Sam blocks it, automatic. “Bob lost control of his powers.”

Sam hesitates before his next attack. “Anyone get hurt?”

“No.” He replies. He thinks of the teacup shattering, the clatter of the ceramic against the wall. He feels the twisting in his gut. Goes for a left hook.

“So then why are you so fired up?”

Bucky blinks up, mid swing, confused, and Sam catches the fist with his left hand. Instead of letting it go, he pulls Bucky forward, taking advantage of his surprise. The swift motion ends as Sam pulls his left arm tight, slamming his right forearm into Bucky’s clavicle, locked in place.

He smirks. “Got you.” Bucky’s metal arm is crossed over his body, tucked into the left of Sam’s waist, faces pulled mere inches apart. They are eye to eye, nose to nose. Sam’s eyes glint, Bucky feels the impression of his forearm like a hot rod burning through his collarbone.

“I’m allowed to be concerned.” Bucky combats, voice slightly hoarse. “And no, you don’t.” He slips his free arm through the space in between Sam’s left and his side, slamming down, freeing the grip on his metal wrist. Sam’s forearm is still pushing against his chest – he swings his right arm around, teetering backwards ever so slightly, to catch it against his own. Their forearms form an X between them, the point of contact burning into his wrist.

Sam tuts. “You are.” He shoves his forearm forward, and throws a left hook, forcing Bucky’s centre of gravity even further backwards as he blocks the blow. “Doesn’t explain the anger, though.”

Bucky stumbles back, ever so slightly. “Stop psychoanalysing me.” Sam gives a jab, then a cross, both aimed high. He blocks one, but falters on the other, and feels his body rock backwards. He tries to plant a foot behind him, but Sam’s quick – before Bucky’s foot can land, Sam hooks his leg around, knocks the unstable ankle loose, and sends Bucky tumbling.

He catches Bucky by the forearm, just before he hits the ground. Arms linked, he holds him there, holds him with a chiding look. 

“You can’t invite me here when you're in a bad mood and expect me not to psychoanalyse you.”

Bucky feels the outline of Sam’s hand melt into his skin, his heart beating in his chest, freefalling. Sam pulls his arm taut – Bucky overbalances, feet finding the ground as his arm is tugged past Sam’s side, his shoulder caught in Sam’s other hand, keeping him steady.

They are almost chest-to-chest. Sam stares at him, and the look pierces through his very being, and his chest heaves with exertion and his shoulder burns and his forearm burns and his lungs burn and he burns.

“Unless,” Sam’s voice is low, dangerous. There’s a glint in his eyes, a quirk to his lip, “you just wanted to let me win.”

Bucky stops breathing. Unsteady, he grabs for support with his other arm, landing somewhere on Sam’s ribcage. The man doesn’t flinch. His eyes are sharp, intense. A slingshot, pulled taut, ready to snap. He can feel the warm air of Sam’s breath on his lips.

Oh, he is so ready to let it all go. 

But he doesn’t. Because he’s not sure – he can’t be sure – he’s never sure. And he’ll never let himself cross that line if he isn’t sure. 

So, instead, he stares back, and he burns. 

And then the door opens. 

Perhaps there’s something to be said about how fast Sam pushes off him. He doesn’t let himself think about it – he won’t extrapolate. Instead, he brushes himself off, acts casual, and looks to the entrance.

It’s Walker, slightly red in the face. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were– didn’t realise you had company.” He looks pointedly between the two. 

“Hey Walker.” Sam says with a nod, and he looks somewhat- restless? “Don’t worry, we’re just training, not tryna steal your teammate.”

“Well, he’s your partner, so.”

Sam and Bucky exchange a wary look. Like two hyenas, passing in the night, checking to see if the other will let them go without a fight.

The moment ends, and neither of them lunge. Bucky turns back to Walker, eyebrow raised.

“Uh, we were just thinking of ordering Mexican for dinner, just checking if–” he glances to Sam, “Were you gonna stay, or.”

“What, me?” Sam asks. “No, no, I’ll be gone by then. Thanks, though.”

Bucky tries to ignore the disappointment. He sighs, runs his hands through his hair. “Mexican is fine. Just get me the same as last time.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll text you when it’s here.” Walker replies. He nods at Sam, reverent, and leaves the room, Bucky calling out, “Thanks Walker!” in his wake.

Bucky sighs, turns back to Sam. He looks calmer now, the intensity sapped from his gaze that still follows the closed door, the moment passed. He puts his hands in his sweatpants pockets, looks up at Bucky, smiles, softly.

“So are you gonna tell me what’s wrong?”

He does. 

They sit against the wall, and Bucky tells him every concern he has about his team, and Sam listens, and when he’s finished, Sam tells him everything that he can think might help. The burning has passed – now, it’s replaced with a comfortable warmth, ebbing and flowing through the vessels of his heart. This is the Sam he wants the most, and, he reminds himself, this is the Sam he can’t afford to lose. So he breathes it in, gets as much as he can get before Sam leaves with a hug and a smile and a reassurance that everything will work out fine.

When he goes back upstairs for dinner, he’s met with a panel of prying peers.

“Heard you brought your boyfriend over.”

Bucky levies Yelena with a dangerous look. “Don’t.”

From the kitchen bench with the others, she rolls her eyes, unafraid. “Sorry. Your ‘partner’,” she punctuates with sarcastic air quotes.

Bucky ignores her, walking past to get a glass of water. Walker twists his body in his seat to follow him.

“So like, what’s up with the two of you? Are you, like, in a talking stage, or–”

“Ew, don’t you ever say that,” Ava gags from beside Walker.

Bucky turns on the tap. “We’re just friends.” He glowers into the basin.

“I’m sorry, but that did not look like friends-”

Slamming the tap closed, he turns to glare at Walker. “Do we really have to have this conversation?”

The words sizzle in the air. Alexei, opposite Walker, gives Bucky a pleading look. “Oh come on, we are curious! We are trying to have team bonding. Get to nitty gritty.”

Bucky looks over the team. The five of them look back, sitting there at the kitchen table like apostles at the last supper, paper Uber bags and cardboard containers and tinfoil-wrapped foodstuffs shared amongst them. They each give him their own interpretations of a kind, almost pleading look. Curious, innocent, wanting connection. Bob, sitting in between Yelena and Alexei, blanket draped over his shoulders and tea cupped between his hands (probably having just woken up in the last half hour), gives Bucky a tentative smile. 

He sighs, takes a seat. Sam had suggested he open up more, drop his guard around his team. 

“Alright. Fine.”

He feels the table swell a little.

Alexei leans forward. “So have you guys boned?”

A breath is sucked in so suddenly through his lungs that Bucky is forced to hack forward in a cough of pure astonishment. Sipping the water, hearing a mixture of scolding, horror, and amusement, he manages to croak out a “Jesus, no.”

“What?” Alexei defends, “Do they not have the vibe of two people who have boned and then now it is weird?”

Bucky grabs the only unattended burrito. “Like I said, we’re just friends. Nothing else.”

“But you like him.” Yelena points accusatorily at him with the tip of a french fry.

He sighs, closes his eyes. Rubs his hand down his cheek. “This is too much for me.” He mumbles, mostly to himself.

Next to him, Walker comments to the table through the food in his mouth, “You know, ever since I met them, I swear there was this vibe. Acted like they hated each other, but they seemed just as close as my partner and I.”

“Did you like them? Your partner.” Ava asks.

Walker swallows, and his tone turns softer, slightly fragile. “Not like that, no. But we were closer than brothers.”

Bucky blinks an eye open, watches as Yelena pats John on the forearm. The implication of the word were hangs in the air, raw and vulnerable, in mourning. He looks to Walker, and the man tenses minutely, anticipating whatever Bucky may say next – It’s not a pleasant feeling, realising the man expects him to be hostile. There are a million things he could point out that would make that fear justified, but he holds his tongue, tries to bridge the rift instead.

“He was a good man,” Bucky provides, his best attempt at being respectful.

Walker gives him a smile. 

There’s a moment of comfortable silence. Bucky finally starts to unwrap his burrito.

“So, when are you gonna tell him?” Bob, out of all people, asks. Bucky tries to hold back the potency of his expression.

“I’m not.”

The group cries out in despair. “Why not?” Yelena proclaims.

“Because.” He sighs. Looks at the disappointed stares of the group before him. Looks down at his burrito. “Think about it. He’s the figurehead of the damn country, and he has it tough enough stepping into a– a white super soldier’s shoes. It’d only make it harder for him than it already is.” Bucky fiddles with the foil of the wrapper.

“But you know it is legal, right?” Alexei posits.

“Yes, I know that.”

He takes a second, the table petulantly somber. “Also–” he remembers, “because he doesn’t feel the same, and I don’t want to ruin anything, so if any of you–” he gives each person at the table a meaningful look, and their backs all straighten, “–interfere in any way.”

Two of them nod, sharp. Two of them give him a salute. Bob provides a thumbs up.

Bucky sighs. “Good.” He says. “Thank you.”

He takes a bite of his burrito.

Chapter Text

“New Avengers” Project Still In Developmental Stage – Is The Contessa Sitting Ducks Or Sitting On Greatness?

  1 week ago

__________

On Tuesday, Bucky discovers three different pairs of socks are missing their matching partner to his DC apartment, and subsequently decides he needs to get the rest of his stuff.

He mentions this to the team. Alexei, as it turns out, also has an apartment still full of belongings in DC, the others have hands to lend, and Yelena still adamantly holds Val’s reputation in her hands, so they get approval for a break over the weekend. O.X.E Group funds are begrudgingly negotiated to pay for some moving vans; although, they forget to consider their own transport until after Val’s goodwill has run out. Considering the group’s dwindling collective savings (and lack of a car), they go with the cheapest transport option.

On Friday morning, they get up early, collect a few things, get the number of the moving company from Mel, and jump on the next train to Washington DC.

On a whim, as the group bickers in their seats over some news article, Bucky sends Sam a text.

Buck - 9:52am

Heading down to DC for the weekend. Packing the rest of my stuff.

You still in town?

Sam - 9:53am

hell yeah i am

let me know when you get in 👍

Bucky smiles down at his phone. Beside him, Alexei observes.

“Sam Wilson is in DC too, yes?” The man’s voice is quiet, casual.

Bucky’s gaze flickers. “Yeah,” he replies, slightly wary.

“Good.” Alexei nods, and Bucky’s tension eases. “He can help us move.”

__________

As it turns out, Alexei’s place is much further from the station than they’d anticipated (as much in DC as Walker is Captain America), so they head to Bucky’s place first. After all, he tells them, he has very little to pack, so it should be a breeze.

When the group bursts into his DC apartment at one-thirty in the afternoon, and almost immediately does a complete search through every personal item and openable drawer he owns, Bucky feels the first inclination that he’s made a poor decision bringing them along.

(“Oh my god, man,” Walker says hesitantly as they first enter, “I think you’ve been robbed.”)

It seems he’s the only one really serious about the task at hand.

“Woah,” Yelena states loudly from the bedroom, mid-inspection, “You really do not have a lot to pack. Is this actually all you own?”

Bucky sighs over the boxes he’s folding on the living room table. 

“I’m not a big shopper.”

“You don’t say,” Ava calls back. “Hey– do you sleep on the floor?”

Bucky pauses, turns his head to the other room. “It’s a futon.” 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” her voice carries out, and she appears in the doorway with a blanket and pillow in hand, that he still keeps on the floor, despite the futon, just in case. “Do you. Sleep. On the floor.”

He used to, when he first got the apartment, unbothered to buy a real bed. The futon was bought with his first congressional paycheck, after Sam visited and roasted him to pieces, and he discovered how much of a hassle bedframes were to set up. Although, sometimes, in the summer heat, he much prefers the feeling of the cool floorboards.

He does not admit this. 

“Not anymore.” He says, instead, “I sleep on the futon.”

The second inclination that he’s made a mistake bringing the team over comes with the sickening crunch of a broken chair.

Bucky’s opening the door for Bob and Yelena, returning from a quest for more sleeping mats, and in the one moment his back is turned, Walker, presumably to reach the top kitchen cabinets, steps on one of the two kitchen stools. And, presumably, loses balance. Then, presumably, let’s the chair tip, latching with desperation onto the cabinet door, and, presumably finding it much too weak to withstand his super soldier body weight, rips it off the hinges as he lands, square, on the tipping chair, crushing the legs with his great strong back. Bucky can only presume, because all he hears is a yell, a clang, a crunch, a groan, and Ava’s voice, exclaiming “Jesus, Walker!”

He turns the corner.

“Damnit, Walker. My deposit.”

The man in question lies pathetically atop the shattered pieces of Bucky’s kitchen stool. His face is tinged with both pain and hurt. 

“What about an oh no, are you okay?” He complains, voice slightly winded, and Bucky struggles to feel a shred of pity.

Rubbing a hand across his face, considering his options (and the reducing number of chairs), Bucky says, “You’ve survived worse.”

“Your deposit?” Ava asks, as John groans to a stand. “These chairs came with the apartment? Did you buy a single piece of furniture in this place?”

“Yes.” Bucky responds, distracted. “The futon.”

The third, and hopefully final, inclination that he’s made a mistake bringing his team along, comes when Yelena finds the alcohol stash.

“Bucky Barnes! And I thought this house was empty, you dirty dog.”

The collection is half expensive gifted wines and recreational beer bottles, the other half essentially a medical cabinet of alcohol content high enough to sterilize a wound, or, inebriate a super soldier. At first, the idea of relinquishing the extensive, expensive stash makes his stomach twist, but then Alexei says “the more you drink with us now, the less you drink alone later”, and he’s beginning to change his mind. After all, the apartment’s now almost completely torn down to its buyer inclusions, most of his (ten, maybe eleven?) possessions packed dubiously in boxes around the living room. Work basically done, none of them can find any reason not to indulge.

So, they order a pizza, drag some chairs into the bedroom, and drink. 

“Okay,” Walker asks, perched backwards on a dining chair like a youth group leader, beer in hand, “would you rather have hands for feet, or feet for hands.”

“No, that’s boring.” Yelena clinks a glass of vodka and whatever-soda-was-in-Bucky’s-fridge towards Walker from across the room. She grins, straightening her back from where it’s leaned against Bob’s knees and the futon. “Would you rather go to jail for ten years, or have sex with Redskull.”

The room is shocked into silence. Ava, perched on Bucky’s only other dining chair, scoffs, “I am not answering that.”

“Go to jail.” Walker states, matter of fact. “I’ll just break out. Easy.”

“No,” Yelena wags a finger, “You cannot break out.”

“Sure I can.”

“No-”

Reclining next to Bob on the futon, Alexei interrupts, “Well then you can just break us out.”

“I’m not doing that.”

“What? You wouldn’t break your own father out of prison again?”

“No-” Yelena looks troubled. “That’s not the point. Has to be full ten years in prison. No loopholes.” She affirms. 

Walker says, “That’s stupid.” 

“Yeah, I’ll say,” Alexei nods to Walker, takes a swig of Absinthe, “I am not going back to prison.”

“I’ll cheers to that,” Bucky tips his own drink from his spot on the armchair. He’s comfortable, allowing himself to turn off his guard for the first time in – well, maybe it’s been a little easier to do these days. Let his walls down, trust, allow himself to be trusted. And the feeling is mutual, mirrored in the lazy slumps of shoulders and bends of knees in the team surrounding him. He lets himself breathe it in, be vulnerable. 

Yelena grins, and it’s devilish. “So does that mean you choose the Red Skull?”

Perhaps not that vulnerable. 

“Oh, I’m not answering that question.”

“Okay, fine. What about thirty years.”

There’s a resounding collective groan. Outside, the doorbell rings, and Bucky steps up to get it, hearing the voices echo behind him (“What about life in prison?”)(“You’re sick, you know that?”).

He sidles up to the door, leaning on the frame, far from tipsy but not quite sober, thanks to the Everclear. Expecting a pizza delivery man, he turns the knob and finds himself sorely mistaken.

Captain America stands on his front doorstep. 

“Sam.” Bucky feels his chest inadvertently flutter. 

He’d shot the guy a text, when they’d arrived a few hours back, but with the assumption that they’d make some kind of plan for the following day. He hadn’t expected him to show up tonight, let-alone unannounced, in a rolled-up sweatshirt with a 6-pack of beers in each hand.

“Thought you might need some help.” Sam says with a sheepish smile, clinking the beers in his direction. Bucky ducks his head.

“Yeah, well, I do have a lot of stuff,” He lies. “So much. Like, you’d be surprised. Haven’t even made a dent.” 

Sam cracks a smile. “Right. Like that blanket on the floor?”

“I’ll have you know I have a futon now.”

“Progress.”

From behind them, Alexei’s voice rings out, is that the pizza guy? and Sam blinks for a second at the noise. 

“Oh,” he says, brows pulled, weight shifting, “I didn’t realise your team was here.” There’s a hesitance, now, an unsurety in his spot on the doorstep. He glances back, “I don’t wanna intrude–”

“Don’t be stupid.” Bucky replies, latching onto the man’s forearm and dragging him inside without room for protest.

He pulls the door shut behind them, feels the contact tingle on his palm as he releases the man into the living room. The buzzing is quiet behind his eyes, but still an effort to ignore. 

He plucks the beer from Sam’s hands, calling out “Not the pizza guy,” as he slides them across the bench with a shifck. Bucky turns towards the fridge, snagging four beers from a pack of 6 while Sam drops his bag, takes in the littered boxes on the floor. Behind him, he hears the man whistle, before remarking, “Woah, you really did not need my help. This seriously everything?”

“Eh, well.” Bucky opens the fridge. “I’m not a big shopper.”

“Then who is it?” Another voice calls out. 

Bucky replies, “The pride of the nation.”

“The what?”

Sam huffs from across the room. “It’ll be a shame to see you go,” he comments, eyes digging through the open boxes.

Bucky hums. Ignores the buzzing. “You could always move down to New York. If you’re gonna miss me so much.” He shoves a couple bottles of off-brand Sprite across the fridge shelf, slotting the remaining 6+2-pack in between.

There’s a laugh. “Ha! As if. I’d be up to my eyes in rent. I don’t have that kind of money.”

Bucky closes the fridge. “Whatever happened to the American dream.”

Approaching the kitchen, Sam spots the pile of chair rubble next to the bin, and then the amputated cupboard door lying on the kitchen bench.

“What happened here?”

Bucky shakes his head. Flicks the cap off two beers with his metal thumb, reaches one out to Sam. “Walker happened.”

“Are you taking a shit or something?”

The yell tightens the muscles in Bucky’s jaw, his tense expression prompting a smile from Sam. He rolls his eyes, mouthes an expletive, feeling the warmth of accomplishment in Sam’s laugh, before grabbing the two extra beers with his occupied hand, resting the other hand on Sam’s shoulder, and leading them inside the bedroom. 

When they enter, a heated discussion slows to a pause. Walker whistles.

“If it isn’t Mr. America himself.”

Sam nods back. “In the flesh.”

There’s a slight pause. He can feel the tension in the muscles of Sam’s shoulder, coiling like tripped wires.

“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long, just dropping in-”

“Nonsense!” Alexei almost stands to his feet. “Stay, Mister America, the party has only just begun! We were about to play this traditional Russian drinking game–”

“Oh get over yourself, it’s truth or drink–”

“Do not diminish the rich cultural heritage–”

“Traditional my arse, you just made it up.”

Sam watches them bicker by the door, feet still glued to the ground. Bucky watches him; there’s a soft warmth to his smile, but a flicker of hesitation lingers underneath. His thumbnail worries at the paper sticker on the beer bottle. Bucky gives him a pat on the shoulder, tries to lead him inside, but the man’s steps falter.

“Where– I should probably grab another chair–”

A huff escapes Bucky’s chest. “Only chair still intact is a tall-ass kitchen one.” He, too, pauses for a second, but it isn’t out of indecision; rather, it’s a plea for bravery. He takes a swig of his beer, focuses on the buzz in his cheeks, slides his hand down to Sam’s upper arm, and pulls him into the armchair. 

Their bodies meld together amongst the soft cushion. Sam’s wedged into his left side, metal arm looping behind his back and onto the opposing armrest, right leg almost on top of Bucky’s knee. Sam’s right shoulder digs into his collarbone, but the other doesn’t protest – he readjusts, but remains, as if it’s normal, meaningless. Bucky feels alive.

A couple looks point their way, but they slide away quickly, effort being put in to appear non-descript. Bucky leans forward, tries not to roll his eyes as he rests the two extra beers on the ground beside the Everclear; one for him, one for Sam.

“So,” Walker leans forward against his chair’s backrest, aimed toward the futon, “What are the rules?”

Alexei reclines. “You go ‘round circle, ask one question. Person either answers, or takes drink. No repeat of questions. Winner is most sober.”

The simple explanation sparks a scoff from Ava. “Wow, so complicated-” Sarcasm drips off her tone. “-I can really feel the cultural heritage-”

“You shut up-”

“I have a question.” Bob interrupts. He’s observing the armchair from where he sits, next to Alexei on the futon. The gaze is unabashed, curious – when everyone quietens, his confidence flickers, but he’s looking right at Sam. “Did you, uh, have a vision? In the void?”

The room hums with curiosity. Sam speaks, and Bucky can feel the vibration of the words through the small of his back. He says, simply, “I did.”

It’s simple, short, a tone of finality. With an awkward laugh, Bob looks down to his lap. 

Yelena, however, leans forward. “What did you see?”

From the corner of his eye, he can see Sam break out into a sly smile. He gestures to Alexei, faking innocence, “I thought he said, one question, right?”

Yelena laughs. “You tricky bastard.”

They move on, Alexei asserting “we go anti-clockwise”, and the mic gets passed to Bucky. 

“What did you see in the void?” Walker asks. 

He takes a drink. At the protests, he shrugs, stating simply, “Like I said, I got a great past. Nothing to see.” Sam’s snort jostles his shoulder, warm and pleasant.

Next is Alexei. Ava quirks her hand to speak, and says with a smile, “When was the last time you washed your Red Guardian suit?”

“What?” He replies, confused, and laughs, “You don’t wash a supersuit-”

The answer is not well-received. “Gross, man,” Walker gags. Yelena shifts across the floor, cringing away from him. Bob, too, leans away, slightly.

“Okay, well how often do you guys wash your suits? I bet Ava doesn’t wash hers either.”

Ava bristles from her chair. “If I take mine off, I disintegrate. And yet I still wash it.”

The game continues. 

It’s something to be said that, despite the high-ranking combined trauma across the participants in the room, the questions remain somewhat lighthearted, inquisitive. Bob is asked who makes the worst tea (it’s Walker). Ava’s asked if her suit has a butt flap for using the bathroom (she drinks). Bob asks Alexei about his dating life (he doesn’t drink – they wish he did). Walker interrupts someone else’s question to ask if Yelena actually does like his helmet – she doesn’t hesitate to say not at all. They still drink, in between, the game more-so a conversation structure than a strict sport, and Bucky’s gone through two beers and can feel the Everclear dwindling. Unsurprising, considering he also has not answered a single question with anything but a swig of the bottle.

Before them, Yelena leans forward, elbows on tucked knees, cheeks glistening, and gives a look of mischief. “Walker,” she states, “Explain to us, in detail, how a period works.”

Ava heaves with laughter.

“I had a wife,” John blusters, “I’m not an idiot.”

“Okay,” Ava somewhat sobers, “then explain it.”

Walker shifts in his chair, clears his throat. Goes to lift his drink to his mouth, sees Yelena’s brow raise, thinks better of it. 

“Well– Once, a month, a woman gets–” his face is red. He makes a sweeping motion in the vague area of his genitals. “–you know– blood– in her pee?”

The two women laugh until they’re breathless. 

Then, they turn to Bucky. In the back of his mind, he prays they don’t ask him the same question.

They don’t (thank god). Instead, they ask something worse.

“Did you ever want to date Captain America?”

Bucky drinks so fast that he almost chokes. Around the room, there’s protest.

“Oh, come on.” Walker complains, “He’s drunk every single time.”

“Yeah, this is bullshit.” Ava concurs.

Leaning back, Bucky shrugs, heart thrumming in his chest. “Hey, sorry, I didn’t make the rules.”

Immediately, the protests are turned to Alexei, who lasts about two seconds before throwing his hands up and stating, “Okay, new rule! No drinking twice in a row. Starting now.”

Then, the looks turn back to Bucky. It takes a beat longer than it should for him to realise that they expect him to answer the question. He looks around in exasperation. 

“What– like starting now now?”

He’s met with expectant stares. “I already drank,” he pleads, to no avail. He turns to Sam, desperate and exasperated, “C’mon man, help me out here.”

Sam chuckles, shrugs. “Sorry. I’m curious too.”

Betrayed, Bucky takes a breath. Closes his eyes. Feels the buzz of inebriation in the static behind his lids, loud and dizzying. 

He asks, “What was the question again?”

“Did you ever want to date Captain America. Or, I dunno, do him.”

He opens his eyes. “Which one?”

The room is mostly silent, waiting, looking from Bucky to Yelena like opponents in a tennis match. 

She smiles at him. For a second, her teeth glint with something cunning, but it’s held behind the tongue. The look in her eyes isn’t malicious, just curious, and a little bit reassuring. 

“Steve Rogers,” she clarifies.

The air hums with a silent anticipation as Bucky considers his answer. It takes a fraction of a second – this is something he’s thought about more times than he’s willing to admit. He says, with conviction, “Date him? No.”

Perhaps he should be concerned by the sheer intensity of confusion that ripples through the room at this answer. There’s a few comments of disbelief, but he focuses on the one from the man seated on his leg, who shifts his body to give Bucky a pertinent look, saying, “Bullshit. You cannot tell me you weren’t in love with that man.”

Their faces are close, Sam’s eyes barely a breath of air below him. He looks, looks away. “I didn’t say that. I said I never wanted to date him.”

Across from them, Yelena affirms, “So you did want to do him.”

“I–” He huffs, flustered, and glances away over his left shoulder in a small effort to hide. “Sure.”

Sam’s eyes trace his turned cheek. “But not date him?”

“Steve was–” He pauses, looks down at his drink, collects his words. “He was a very straight man, for lack of better words. It would’ve never worked, and he would’ve been guilt-ridden the whole damn time. Plus, he was in love with Peggy, and- don’t even mention being Captain America-”

Beside him, Sam inquires, “Why would being Captain America be an issue?”

The question feels weighted, somehow. Bucky glances at him, sees the curiosity in his eyes, glances away. “Oh, you know. Pride of America, and all that jazz. Star Spangled– whatever. Wouldn’t’ve worked with the brand.”

He glances up, and the rest of his team look on in a solemn understanding of the status quo. Although, a couple eyes look a bit too knowing for his taste. Against the futon, Yelena holds up her drink.

“But I was right about you wanting to do him.”

Bucky snorts, despite himself, and lifts his drink in a mock cheer towards her, before downing the final sip. “I’m all out,” he says, like a call to action. He sits up as if to go change that, but Sam’s snatching the bottle and patting him on the arm before he can think to protest.

“I’ll go. I need something stronger.” Sam rises, asks for requests as he leaves the room, and Bucky can’t help but feel the sudden cold like a knife to his side. He watches him go, slightly dumbfounded, and two seconds after his feet breach the room’s threshold, Alexei’s voice rasps in a stage whisper that has him spinning back to face the room.

“Mister Soldier, you have a type.”

Alexei is levelling him with an accusatory look.

“What?” Bucky hushes, heart in his throat. “I do not have a type.”

“Oh-ho-ho yes you do.” Alexei takes a languid sip of his drink, before jabbing the lip of his bottle towards him, sending a dribble of Absinthe across the room. “You like Captain Americas.”

Yelena and Ava burst out into laughter. Bob covers his mouth. A disgusted look paints Bucky’s features.

“No, I do not. I wouldn’t touch Walker with a ten foot pole.”

There’s a resounding cackle as Walker’s face twists into something horrific. Alexei gives a booming laugh as well, shaking his head and offering a “You got me there!” in between amused breaths. 

Bucky lets himself smile, at the ridiculousness of it all. For once, it doesn’t feel so bad, being perceived.

(When Sam comes back in, rest of the beers in one hand, cups tucked under his arm and a bottle of something clear and a bottle of lemonade twisted in the other, he’s slightly disappointed by the group’s refusal to tell him what’s so funny. He gets over it quick, though, dropping the contents of his arms into the centre of the circle, dragging the beers closer to the armchair, and sidling back in beside Bucky like he’d never left. The fire is licking up the hems of Bucky’s trousers. He takes a hefty swig.)

The pizzas come, and they go, within a matter of minutes. Bucky uses the bathroom, Sam gets up for napkins, and every time, they end up back in the armchair. It’s not- he’ll admit, it’s not exactly groundbreaking, but there’s something about the normality of the closeness that settles something pleasant in his stomach. Oh, who knows, he’s probably close to drunk by now.

(“Yelena,” Ava asks, while the game is still somewhat in play, “Would you rather go to jail for life, or have sex with Redskull.”

To everyone’s horrified, extremely vocal dismay, she gives a sly smile and takes a drink. “I’ll never tell.”)

At some point, Sam goes to open a beer, and starts for a second, looking for a bottle opener. Bucky doesn’t hesitate – he shifts back so he can snake his metal arm further past the guy’s waist, giving him enough range of movement to snatch the bottle for himself, and flick off the top with his thumb. Across the room, somebody whistles, “Woah, party trick”, and two out of three of the remaining men try to prove their similar prowess. 

Bucky ignores it. Instead, he tips the bottle to Sam, who takes it graciously. 

“My hero,” Sam teases.

Bucky eases back into the chair, slightly proud of himself. 

“Are you comfortable? I’m not crushing you, am I?”

“Hm?” His focus shifts back – Sam’s gaze looks vaguely up in Bucky’s direction. He laughs softly at the misguided concern. “No, I’m good.” He reaches his right arm over, and for a second he’s basically wrapped around Sam, as he tilts his bottle to knock twice on the left arm. It clangs bluntly. “Metal arm, remember. Can’t feel it.”

He lets his right side fall back to the armrest, mourning the brief warmth. Sam snorts. “True.”

There’s a second of silence, where Bucky assumes the interaction is over. He belatedly realises it’s because Sam’s been staring at his arm with interest. He only realises this because he feels a shift – Sam swaps his drink to his right hand, so he can slip the fingers of his left around the back of Bucky’s metal wrist. The hand guides his palm from the armrest with a deft elegance, letting it slip down so it rests atop the guy’s knee, the corner of Bucky’s elbow tucked into Sam’s waist.

Bucky can’t help his frown. Heart clenched, caught off guard – Sam’s fingers linger on the smooth metal, and his chest flutters.

“You can’t feel it at all?” Sam asks, his voice low, ever so slightly slurred. It takes a second for Bucky to process the question, and then a couple seconds more to give an answer, Sam’s nail scraping down the divots of his metal fingers.

“Uh– I can a little bit? It’s kinda like–” Sam twists his wrist over with a gentle movement, the back of Bucky’s hand cupped in the man’s palm, leaving a line of contact from the tips of their fingers to the edges of their elbows (racing up his shoulder, to the impression in his side), and Bucky has to clear his throat before he continues. “It’s like the feeling of someone touching your hair, in a way? Like–” Sam’s thumb traces over the carved depressions in his palm. “Like I can feel it through how it- it moves the rest of my body.”

Sam hums, engaged. His fingers wander across his arm, turning it over and back in vague curiosity. He runs his fingers lightly across the inside of Bucky’s wrist.

“Can you feel this?”

He can, barely, but it still burns. He takes a breath, focuses on keeping his words clear, unslurred. “Mhm. It’s- it’s sorta like, muted, though, but yeah. I think that’s the Wakanda tech. Kind of like wearing leather gloves? Or–” He pauses, slides Sam’s hand into his palm, runs a vibranium fingertip over the back of Sam’s thumbnail. “Like this.”

Sam laughs quietly, and the feeling reverberates into Bucky’s chest. “I see.” He says. “Cool.”

He doesn’t pull his hand away. Instead, he lets Sam turn it over, again, tracing the gilded indents, bending the joints. He flexes his fingers, and receives a subtle gasp, before Sam guides his hand into a fist and observes the way the metal shifts. There’s something calming about the distant feeling of Sam’s finger, tracing across the dips and valleys of vibranium with a clink, clink, clink. He can’t help but watch, transfixed.

__________

There’s a quiet tap on his shoulder, and Bucky blinks awake. He’s not sure when he’d drifted off, but the room is empty now, save for a sleeping Sam on his chest, Alexei passed out on the bed, and Yelena tapping on his shoulder.

“Hmm?” He blinks, quiet, his gaze tracing the outline of Sam’s turned cheek against his shirt.

“Sorry for waking you,” Yelena whispers. “Where did you put the sleeping mats?”

He frowns. “Uh– they should be near the door? Here, I’ll–” He starts to get up, bleary-eyed, but Yelena stops him, pushing him down by the shoulder and going to find it herself.

Settling back down, Bucky feels the dizziness start to clear. Everything feels like a warm blob, but he hones in on his senses; Sam, curled into his shoulder, soft breaths warming his skin. One hand limp in his lap. The other, snaked around his metal arm, curved in towards his body. Slowly starting to stir. 

He must’ve jostled him when trying to stand, he thinks. The man scrunches his head forwards and groans, arms shifting as his eyes squint in the soft light. He turns his head, appraising his surroundings, looks up at Bucky. There’s a smile in there, he thinks, but it’s hard to tell from this angle. The man stretches, slightly, and a hand slides across his chest in the motion of it.

Bucky holds his breath, afraid to move, lest the spell be broken.

“What time is it?” Sam’s voice drawls out.

“No clue,” Bucky blinks back.

The other shifts, patting his pockets before slipping out his phone. They both cringe as the brightness of the screen attacks their eyes – Bucky squints through it.

12:36am

Sam’s demeanour changes. “Shit– I should go–” He moves to get up, untangling his left arm to push against the armrest, and Bucky follows the motion with forlorn confusion. Sam stands, stumbles, and Bucky gets up to catch his arm, softening the blow.

“Woah– it’s– it’s fine, just stay.”

Sam shoots him an adamant, almost wary look. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” His hand lingers on Sam’s bicep, keeping himself steady.

The man pauses, frowning, as if he thought the answer was implicit, and is now struggling to put it into words. He seems defiant, but he’s leaning into the hand on his arm a bit heavy. “Well- where would I sleep?”

“We got mats. In the living room.”

Sam frowns. Looks down, looks away. “I don’t wanna take up space.”

It’s not a no, but rather a saving of face, surrender already clear in the man’s expression.

“Oh, shut up. I still have your toothbrush,” Bucky replies, and Sam folds. “You’re too drunk to fly, anyways.” He slides the hand to Sam’s shoulder blades, and the man gives way with ease. 

He receives a laugh as they stumble towards the door. “Did you think I flew here?”

“Didn’t you?”

Sam teeters dangerously close, gaze lingering, piercing. “I took the bus, idiot.”

They wobble into the kitchen, Sam settling into his side as he leans against the cabinet. Close, casual. Bob turns to smile at them from the counter, nursing a cup of tea, the kettle boiling as the other three rip into the packaging of the mats on the floor.

“Good morning.” Ava says as she tosses aside a piece of plastic packaging. 

“Did you guys need any help?” Bucky offers, hand slipping away from the small of Sam’s back, almost in self-preservation.

“We’re good, thank you.” Walker grouches. 

Yelena looks up at them, equally exhausted, “Do you have any spare blankets?”

The spare duvets are atop the wardrobe, one of the items they’d kept unpacked. Sam follows him closely into the bedroom, leaving the others to the tea and the sleeping mat setup in the living area, except Alexei, who’s still passed out cold on the futon. 

Sam leans his side against the wardrobe, eyes sleepy, watching. The duvets are up high, and Bucky’s still somewhat drunk, so when he latches hold he feels his tippy-toes waver, and a hand slides onto his back. Steadies him. 

Then, another hand slides onto his hip. 

Bucky is suddenly finding it hard to breathe. 

He ignores it, for a second – or, he tries to, both arms above his head, tangled in duvet. He carries them down, turns, lets them fall with a soft plat on the floor. The hands don’t leave their position. 

In fact, they shift to his waist. Bucky turns back, but Sam isn’t looking in his eyes; his gaze is a wildfire, burning a pathway up his abdomen, and his fingers follow its destruction. Sam's hands slide up, marking the impression of his stomach, travelling over the peaks and valleys of his ribcage. Bucky stills, doesn’t let loose his shaky breaths under the pressing palms. Lightheaded, breathless. Sam’s right hand travels up his sternum, fingers pressing through fabric into bone, and takes a left turn – Bucky snatches the wrist, afraid to reveal the heavy pounding of his heart. 

He looks at the hand in his metal grip, soft, pliant. Sam’s motion pauses, too, observing. He feels his chest shudder. 

“What are you doing?” The words leave Bucky’s lungs, barely a whisper.

When he looks up, Sam’s gaze bores into his own, electric. He can see the haziness in Sam’s eyes, can feel it in his ears. 

“Being selfish,” Sam breathes back, and looks down again, expression unreadable. He continues the path with his left hand. It travels up his chest, over to the round muscle in his shoulder, down, for a second, to his bicep, before making its way back up to trace with light fingers along his collarbone. Bucky’s eyes follow it the whole way, dizzy. 

When his hand moves to the knot of his neck, past the point Bucky’s gaze can follow, he turns back to search Sam’s eyes. Trying to find something, but his processor is shot, and each touch sends a jolt of electricity to disturb his sensors; the machine in his mind sparks, fizzles, and comes up blank. 

The man’s eyes still linger on the side of his neck, the impression of his thumb swiping across his jugular. Bucky swallows. 

There’s a noise outside. He’s too bleary to register what it is – a step, perhaps, or a door opening, or maybe even a voice. But Sam’s focus breaks, his right hand slipping out of Bucky’s loose grip, his left dragging back down his neck and over his chest before pushing off and turning away. A second later, Yelena’s head pops in, whispering for tea, and Sam follows behind her, leaving Bucky alone with a sleeping Alexei. Distraught, suffocating. 

He closes his eyes, leans his back into the wardrobe, grips the ashy remains of his shirt, and wills his heart to quieten. 

__________

Bucky sleeps on the armchair.

Chapter Text

Taskforce or Tax Write-Off? O.X.E Group On Spending Spree While ‘New Avengers’ Still Unconfirmed

 7 hours ago

__________

The next morning, Bucky wakes with a sore back.

Several people either had the forethought to set a morning alarm, or no hindsight to turn theirs off, because the group rises slowly to a cacophony of mixed instruments that interrupt their sleep in multiple short bursts over a half-hour interval. By nine-am, they’re all grouchy, grumbling, popping paracetamol and chugging water, but for the most part, awake.

The conversations this morning are far more subdued. Half of the group assist Bucky, picking up empty bottles and packing up trash and rolling up sleeping mats, folding blankets and final items into boxes. The other half sit on chairs or lay on the futon, filling the silence with their incessant complaining. Bucky counts his blessings; at least half of his team are helpful, even if one doesn’t technically count. 

To his credit, while they pack up, Walker calls the moving company. By around ten-thirty the boxes are taped and ready to go, everyone fresh and clean, moving van parked out front. Sam helps wordlessly – in fact, they’ve barely shared a word all morning, and Bucky can’t yet decide if it’s notable, since he hasn’t exactly been very talkative either. It’s something that plays on the back of his mind as he traipses up and down the stairs nonetheless.

(“What are you doing?”

“Being selfish.”)

No, he’s not feeling very talkative at all.

A few trips later, one of the final boxes in hand, Bucky approaches the van to see Ava and Yelena huddled lazily beside the tailgate. Rapt in a conversation, which is hushed into hurried silence as soon as they spot him across the way. He frowns, shifting the box into the van before turning to them with a suspicious look.

“What, grandpa.” Ava remarks, leaning against the lip of the van’s cargo bay.

“You talkin’ about me?”

Ava says no at the same time that Yelena says yes.

He turns fully to lean against the trunk, crossing his arms, and levying them with an expectant look. It’s just the three of them in the morning light of the DC street, the rest of the group still somewhere upstairs. The air hums softly with the buzz of insects, mingling with the murmur of distant traffic.

Yelena breaks. “What do you remember from last night?”

A snort leaves Bucky’s throat. 

“What, you think I was blackout? Takes a lot more booze than that to get me there.”

“Okay,” Ava starts, tentatively, “so you were fully lucid, then, when Captain Obvious started to compare hand sizes?”

The two give him expectant stares, as if what Ava said is supposed to be groundbreaking. For a second, he feels fingertips ghosting over his skin, hears “Can you feel this?” whispered in his ear. Clenching his vibranium fist, he blinks back.

“Is that a euphemism or something?”

Yelena throws her arms up in exasperation. “He was flirting with you, you blind freak.”

There’s a pang in Bucky’s chest. He chokes out a laugh of disbelief, turning a finger on them in self-preservation, “Don’t do that. You don’t know that. And don’t interfere.”

“We’re not interfering, we are simply observing-”

“Yeah, well. Don’t.” He says it, and there’s something raw in his tone – a yearning, maybe, to believe them. He doesn’t give himself the satisfaction. 

“Oh, come on. It was so obvious.”

“Don’t.” He says again, and the other two pause at his tone. “I don’t need… false hope,” he flicks his hand away. The girls stare back at him, and he can see a glimmer of pity in their expressions as they size him up, giving each other a weighted glance. “Please,” he finishes, and they nod, lips pursed in guilt.

He doesn’t need any more reasons to overthink things.

Across the way, Bob emerges, holding the door open, and a few seconds later there’s Sam, stepping out awkwardly, gripping the back end of the futon’s frame. Bucky’s feet move automatically, and it’s only when he’s sliding his hand under the wood next to Sam’s that he considers, perhaps, that the guy’s probably strong enough to handle it on his own.

Regardless, he helps. There’s a scoff, and he turns his head to Sam as they hobble the frame out of the doorway. The man’s lips are pursed, eyebrows flattened, unimpressed. 

“I got it, strongman.”

Bucky smiles, looks away. “I’m sure you do.”

From the other corner of the frame, Alexei calls out, “Thank you, Mister Soldier!”

__________

They end up catching a bus halfway to Baltimore. Sam insists on coming along to help, despite the forty-minute travel time displacing him tens of miles from his apartment, and Bucky can’t help feeling a little guilty for putting him out. “I’ll owe you one, then,” Bucky compromises, and Sam is more than happy to assure that he’ll cash in the favour. 

And, by god, the favour will be big. Because Alexei’s house is a mess.

It’s a wonder that the front door even opens – the interior is decorated with a smorgasbord of discarded clothing and undiscarded trash, collecting like dust on every flat surface. It’s almost artistic; A museum of ancient artefacts, some gathered from the spoils of the Cold War, others curated from the Taco Bell across the street. Bucky spies at least two Red Guardian posters, and three-hundred doordash receipts just from his spot at the entrance.

“Jesus, man, you lived like this?” Walker says in horror, nudging clothes across the floor with his foot to clear a pathway through the house.

Bucky can’t believe his eyes. A needling pain wedges itself into the tender flesh of his temple. He hesitates by the doorway.

“Would’ve been nice to know that you’re a hoarder.” 

“I am not a hoarder! Is just a little messy, is all.” Alexei’s voice sounds hurt, as he rummages through his things in a futile plight for organisation.

Yelena pushes past Bucky, knocking his metal shoulder as she comments, offhand, to the air, “At least he owns something, Winter Sociopath."

Bucky can’t find it in himself to protest.

So, they get to work. They start with the clothes, collecting every loose item into a big pile in the bedroom, leaving Alexei to sort through it all as the rest of them go on trash duty. Three piles are formed – the straight-to-rubbish, the keeps, and the ones only Alexei can decide on (most of which end up in the keeps regardless). They run out of boxes and rubbish bags pretty quickly – Walker and Ava are sent to retrieve more. The former, because Bucky can see the tension in the man’s arms and wants to avoid anything breaking (again), and the latter, because he doesn’t trust Walker to get what they need alone.

There’s a somewhat charged energy in the living room. It’s just the three of them (“Just the boys!”, as Alexei coins), Yelena and Bob sorting through the bathroom, and a speaker softly playing some old Russian Pop that Bucky’s pretty sure he’s heard before (possibly fifty years ago). The silence feels overwhelming. It’s not like Sam’s been ignoring him – quite the opposite, actually. Bucky can’t help but feel watched, like a dogcatcher to a stray. His every movement is sized up for its threat level, and Sam shifts his demeanor accordingly, careful not to spook the wary animal; relaxed, casual, but with a tenseness underneath that reveals it’s all just playacting.

He’s probably overthinking it.

Presently, Sam and Alexei sit on the couch, sorting through a pile of items before them, as Bucky prowls the room, box in hand, collecting more. The work is tedious, leaving too much space for thought for his liking, and he can feel himself edging on agitation. At least, nothing’s been broken- yet. 

He stands at the display cabinet between the window and the couch, slowly clearing its items into the box on his hip, when he takes a rather ambitious handful, and finds himself tangled. A particularly magnetic necklace has wrapped itself around his thumb. With every scrape of his fingers to grab it, the chain settles itself deeper into the grooves between the vibranium plates. He curses, struggles one-handed, too stubborn to put the box down and address it properly.

To his right, Bucky hears a snort. A cursory glance affirms his suspicion that Sam is watching, amused, with a laugh subdued behind his lips.

Bucky grits his teeth as the necklace evades his grip. “Enjoying the show?”

There’s a laugh, and then the sound of the couch settling. “Just reminiscing on old times,” Sam’s voice, coloured in mirth, carries over Bucky’s left shoulder.

Bucky tuts, but doesn’t give in, fingers still tensed in effort until two hands slide over the cool metal, relaxing the joints manually. Only then does Bucky glance up – Sam, sidled up close, looks pointedly down in focus, and there’s a soft amusement in the quirk of his lip, but it’s tight, doesn’t fully reach his eyes. Almost as if the guy is holding his breath, waiting for Bucky to pull away. 

He doesn’t.

“Which times,” he says with a snort. Sam’s fingers are delicate on the pad of his thumb, pinching the chain and guiding it carefully, leaving butterfly touches in their wake. Bucky thinks of last night, thinks of something else. 

Sam’s smile widens ever so slightly. “The time you got your arm wrapped up in the fishing net.”

“Oh, I see how it is,” Bucky replies, mock offended. That had been so long ago, and Bucky can’t help but feel a warmth at the memory of Sam’s Louisiana family home. The guy laughs, and Bucky chases it.

The necklace makes a final clink before Sam pulls it free. 

“So how’s Sarah?” he leers, and the look Sam shoots him is positively murderous. He tosses the necklace into the box, shakes his head.

“Oh, kill yourself. And after I helped you, too.”

Sam parries Bucky’s childish grin with a roll of his eyes, and turns away. As he traipses back to his spot on the couch, he remarks, lightly, “You know, Sarah tells me the kids have been asking about you. You should visit sometime.”

The casual invitation settles warmly in his chest. Bucky smiles, resumes picking off items from the cabinet.

“Yeah? Well, let me know when you go down next. Don’t wanna keep the fans waiting.”

He hears Sam sink back onto the couch. There’s a comfortable silence, for a moment.

Then, Alexei speaks up. “Who is Sarah? Is she– your–”

He glances over to see Alexei, eyebrows pulled taut with a less-than-subtle concern. Sam laughs, shaking his head, understanding some implication Bucky misses as he clarifies, “She’s my sister.”

“Oh! I see.” Alexei’s expression clears, tension fading with some sense of relief. Bucky turns his attention away. “I thought, for a second, you had secret wife and children.”

There’s an amused huff. “No, definitely not,” Sam assures. Cardboard scrapes across a lightbulb Bucky slots into the box, clinking against assorted picture frames. Softly, a foreign voice sings over the mellow notes of a guitar.

“Well,” Alexei continues, “do you have a woman in your life?”

Bucky pauses with his hand on a magazine, almost afraid to make a sound. 

“No,” Sam replies.

“No girlfriend? Lady caller?”

Sam makes something that sounds like a repressed choke. The noise draws Bucky’s gaze over, unwittingly, and for a second he and Sam make eye contact. Sam’s look says is this guy usually so forward? and Bucky’s look says, hopefully, nothing of the piqued interest rising within him.

“I– no, no. That’s not– really my thing.” Sam answers with a sheepish look, and now his eyes back away, only focusing on the box on the table and the curious man seated next to him. 

“Ah,” Alexei nods with a grin, “I get it. So is it the dating you do not like, then? Or the women?”

Bucky flicks his gaze from where it’s been resting on the muscles of Sam’s cheek (staring, probably), to give the older man a horrifying look. “Alexei,” he chides, his heart seizing, his eyes saying I told you not to interfere.

Alexei looks back with defiance. “What?” he defends, “This is safe space! You know,” he turns to Sam, but Bucky is still glaring holes into his forehead, “I had quite a number of male lovers in my time. So many fit, strong soldiers sleeping in one room, it was hard to keep away-”

“Alexei.” Bucky’s voice holds a warning, which Alexei, again, ignores. 

“-nothing to be embarrassed about. You know it is legal now, Bucky.” The look he gives is chiding, like a mother to a child, and it does nothing for the clench of Bucky’s jaw.

“That’s not the point. It’s an invasi-”

“It’s fine, Buck. I don’t mind.”

The two battling soldiers turn their gaze to Sam, who looks uncomfortable with the fuss being caused. He smiles at Bucky, shakes his head, calls off the dogs, before turning back to Alexei and answering, “It’s a little bit of both, actually, but mostly the latter.”

Bucky blinks. Tries to connect the dots. “Since when?” He asks, dumbly.

Sam gives him a glance, skittish, before looking away, slight curve to his lips. “Since always.”

Bucky is staring. “Why didn’t I know?”

“You never asked.”

Sam drags a box towards him, starts rearranging its contents. There’s a moment of silence – Alexei gives Bucky a knowing look, and he glances back to the cabinet to avoid it, hearing the couch slump as the other man reclines. A weird feeling bubbles through his lungs, and he pushes it down without mercy.

“So, what is your type, then?” The idle rhythm of rustling cardboard resumes. “Perhaps, Steve Rogers?”

Sam and Bucky snort in unison. “Ha– no.” The other elaborates, “He’s much too– mall of America for me.”

Bucky picks up a half-used glass candle, slots it into the box, tries to sound casual. “So, what, you prefer them more rugged?” 

Sam laughs, and he can see in his periphery as the man’s eyes flicker to him, and away. “Uh, I guess so?”

“Like me?” Alexei grins. “I am rugged!” He slaps the thick muscle of his bicep with pride. 

There’s mirth in Sam’s voice, and Bucky can’t help but glance over, watch how the flattering expression rests on his features. “I think you’re a bit old for me, no offense,” he replies, mouth quirked, eyes crinkled, brows flattened in smooth planes. Alexei is immediately offended. 

“You know,” Bucky pipes up as Alexei laments, and Sam meets his gaze, “he’s about 50 years younger than me.”

Sam rolls his eyes, looks away. “Well, that’s different.”

“How?”

The man purses his lips. “You don’t look it.”

“Oh, so it’s about looks?”

Sam starts, taking the bait to meet Bucky’s shit-eating grin with a glare of confrontation. Behind them, Alexei points out, “Bucky is rugged.”

Sam closes his mouth, retort retreating behind lips that curve into a frown. There’s a dent in Bucky’s brow, too – he looks down, appraises himself. “Uh– Am I?”

“What? Yes, you-” Alexei makes a sweeping gesture to Bucky, tilting his head up and down to further prove his point. Bucky feels the paths of two sets of eyes sliding across his body. He feels somewhat objectified. “If you are not rugged, then-”

From the bathroom, Yelena’s voice rings out, “Alexei! What do we do with all your stupid shampoo bottles?”

Alexei is sufficiently distracted – he sighs, graciously frees Bucky from his piercing appraisal to lift off the couch, yelling over his shoulder, “Don’t touch! I will come.”

The remaining two watch his back until he disappears through the other room. Then, they meet each other's eyes – the tension breaks, and the laughter bubbles over.

__________

They make pretty good progress over the next couple hours. Once Walker and Ava get back with supplies and snacks, looking only somewhat hostile towards each other, the momentum picks up – by sunset there are about a dozen completed boxes pushed near the door, all other unpacked items rounded up in the living room for sorting. By that point, conversations devolve into increasingly concerned lines of questioning about Alexei’s choice of possessions. It is when the group begins to discuss dinner, at around six-thirty, that Sam stands up with purpose, brushes off faux-dust from his trousers, and announces that it’s time for him to leave.

Unsurprisingly, this announcement is met with much protest. Surprisingly, it’s from everyone except Bucky. 

“But it’s the weekend,” Yelena objects, prompting one of Sam’s crowd-pleasing smiles, bashful and blinding. 

Bucky gets up to join him. “He’s been here long enough,” he addresses the team, hiding the twinge of disappointment behind his voice of reason. He gives Sam a small nod, understanding, and Sam gives one back.

“Sorry, guys, I’ve got plans tomorrow. Gotta be up bright ‘n early.”

Bucky changes his tune, for a second, saying with surprise, “On a Sunday? I know you don’t go to church.”

Sam glances back to him, and looks down with a smile, before lowering his voice slightly. “Joaquín got a tip. I’m heading over tomorrow to have a look.”

Sam walks over to collect his things, and Bucky follows him, brows furrowed. “What kind of tip? I thought you were taking a break.”

Huffing with a humourless laugh, Sam leans down to grab his bag from against the front doorway. “Yeah, well. Duty calls.” He straightens, bag slung over his side, meeting Bucky’s eyes that have been following his movement like a hawk. “And, that’s not your jurisdiction. We’re not on the same team anymore, remember.”

“Doesn’t mean we can’t work together.” Bucky’s stare is unwavering.

Sam meets it, for a second, then cracks a smile, shaking his head, glancing away. “Yeah, yeah, partners or whatever. Look-” He pulls his eyes back, fond, assuring, “if we find anything, I’ll loop you in. Okay?” Eyebrows raised, Sam waits for confirmation.

The moment lingers until Bucky nods, and Sam looks away, satisfied. He turns to the rest of the group, gives his goodbyes and good lucks, before turning back to Bucky, putting a palm on his bicep. 

“It’ll be lonely in DC without you.” His tone drips with melancholy, eyes coloured with a raw honesty he’s not used to seeing directed at himself so blatantly – Bucky feels a pang in his stomach, twisting with an emotion he refuses to acknowledge. 

He laughs, looks away. ”End of an era,” he replies, half-joking, and Sam parrots the phrase. Then, he smiles, and it reaches his eyes, brimming with a warmth that tangles in the wires of Bucky’s brain. He gives Bucky a soft pat on the arm, reaches back to open the door, and turns to send him one last fond look.

“Don’t be a stranger, Buck.” 

He closes the door behind him.

When Bucky turns back around, sad smile still on his face, it's to an audience of five shit-eating grins. 

“Do you miss him already, Buck?” Ava teases, and his muscles go stiff.

“If any of you call me that, even once, I will reveal your dirty laundry to the press myself.”

It’s not enough to stop them from laughing.

__________

The packing takes them into the night, and through to the next day, finally clearing out into a second moving van by late Sunday afternoon. Alexei gives the apartment a tearful farewell, and they head back to New York, the DC skyline becoming another blur in the distance.

As soon as they arrive back in the building, Valentina calls for a meeting. It’ll be quick, she promises, so they all begrudgingly sit in the conference room, exhausted and needing a shower.

(“Alright, let’s talk strategy,” she says, as if everything hasn’t already been decided.)

It’s about the team’s marketing – supposedly, their schedule is being fast-tracked, due to public demand, with an official public press release planned for the very next morning. The group feels vaguely uneasy, but much too tired to consider the deeper implications.

The rest of the night is spent packing away boxes of items from the vans, and waiting anxiously for the news to break.

__________

(In a plane somewhere over New Jersey, Captain America scrutinises a pop-up ad on his phone.

“God, these promos are terrible. Have you seen these? Looks more like a target ad than a taskforce.”

Joaquín Torres glances at it over his shoulder. “It’s not that bad.”

“Oh, come on-” Sam scrolls to a photo of Bucky, the Winter Soldier, and zooms in with his fingers. “Look at this. They got his angles all wrong. And his hair– to think, the miracles he could make with a competent photographer.”

Joaquín nods, slowly, lips pursed. “Right- so what exactly are his correct angles?”)

__________

The next afternoon, Bucky receives a text message. It’s a screenshot of a news article, centred on one of the pics from their promo photoshoot. A second later, another message comes through.

Sam - 4:32pm

edgelord.

He has no idea what it means.

Chapter Text

Avengers: Out With The Old, In With The New? Captain America Begs To Differ!

 1 week ago

__________

“I’ve got great news,” Valentina announces one afternoon, barely a few days after their official public debut, “I have your first mission.”

She stands at the head of the conference room table, smile blinding. When the news is received with uneasy looks from the New Avengers seated before her, instead of a collective jumping-for-joy (or whatever she’d expected), her face sours. “You’re not excited?”

Yelena gives Bucky a look from across the table, confirming her worry is shared, before she speaks up cautiously, “Isn’t it a bit too… soon?”

“Soon?” Valentina laughs. “Please, this team has been public knowledge for months; almost too long, I’d say. It’s about time you guys start doing your actual job.” She appraises them, leaving little room for argument. “Plus, we received new intel this morning. Mel, if you wouldn’t mind–” Valentina turns to her P.A., on her right, who nods and taps on the tablet in her hands. 

Behind the two, the projector lights up with a collage of images – street maps, text conversations, blurry CCTV photos of people in hoods loading boxes onto trucks. Bucky studies the screen, but without context it’s difficult to decipher what exactly ties each image together. 

Valentina continues, “We’ve been tracking an illegal shipment of weapons across the east coast, with suspicions that the receiver is a particular arms dealer we’ve had our eye on for a while. Your job,” she motions to the team with a nod of her head, “is to infiltrate the deal, apprehend the perpetrators, and show everyone what you’re made of.” Valentina finishes the speech with a pointed clench of her fist, representing strength, power, capability.

Somewhere in Bucky’s mind, there’s a faint sound of alarm bells ringing. He shifts in his seat, unable to shake the unease, and he has a feeling he’s not alone. 

“Why are we only finding out about this now?” He asks.

Valentina frowns. “Because you weren’t needed until now.”

He begins to protest, but Yelena beats him to it. “So what, this is just another one of your hit jobs? Send us in blind to do your dirty work?”

“We’re not assassins,” Walker tacks on, an implied anymore hanging off the end of his tongue.

“No,” Valentina assures, good mood officially overturned, “you’re not. It is imperative that you make a formal arrest – like I said, we got the tip this morning, otherwise I would have briefed you all way earlier!” She gives an assuring smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Now,” Valentina continues, the projection shifting to more detailed map locations, images of warehouses and streetfronts, “the exchanging of goods will be held within a building at an industrial park in Carlstadt, at approximately eight-pm tonight-”

“Tonight?” Several voices echo at once, and Valentina pauses, taken-aback. 

“Is that a problem?”

The alarm bells blare through Bucky’s eardrums. 

“We are not ready,” Yelena stands, hands splayed on the table in front of her. 

“Oh, don’t sell yourselves short-”

“I am not being – insecure, I am being realistic, we haven’t- we’re not-”

“We need time to prepare," Bucky states from the table. He grits his teeth, thinks about the exploding teacup. “You can’t send us out there without training, you saw how the last time went. Someone could get hurt.”

Valentina rolls her eyes. “Is that what you’re worried about? Hurting criminals?” Her face scrunches with the mockery in her words. 

Beside them, Walker says, “Yes,” with all the weight in the world. 

She sighs. “Look – I don’t have time for your moral dilemmas-”

Bucky stands, starts towards her, “I don’t think you understand what you’re risking here–”

“I do, thank you very much, Mr Macho.” Val stares him down. “I am risking our guy walking free with potentially dangerous weapons because you all want to prioritise your ‘mental health’. We, simply, do not have the time for this.” She motions to Mel, turns a chiding eye back to the group, “If you want to be prepared, do it now. We’re leaving in an hour. Be ready.”

Valentina walks out the door.

For a second, there’s a heated silence, jaws clenched and hearts racing and tongues curled with words unsaid. They all look at each other, and in each look there’s anger, fear, apprehension, and a promise, that their first priority is to each other. 

“I think,” Alexei speaks up, “that we will crush it.”

__________

Not long before they have to leave, while everyone’s still preparing their things, Walker approaches Bucky. 

“Look,” he says, standing in Bucky’s doorframe, suited up, helmet in hand, voice low, “it’s not that I don’t trust the team or anything. Of course I do, it’s not- it’s just that-” He sighs, looks down, meets Bucky’s questioning stare with one of concern, “I think it’s a good idea to call Sam. Have him nearby, in case anything happens.”

When he says anything, Bucky knows he means The Void. It’s in the back of everyone’s mind; the exploding teacup, the black fingertips, the shaking hands. They know when they say we aren’t ready they mean he’s not ready, but none of them want to say it out loud, afraid that if they do, it’ll only act as confirmation.

So when Walker gives him that worried look, and says “Call Sam”, he does.

__________

As it turns out, Sam has been following the exact same lead. He’s slightly annoyed to find out that Val’s beat him to the punch, but he confirms the intel is legit. When Bucky asks him to watch over, he doesn’t laugh, he doesn’t call him paranoid, or distrustful, or a bad leader – he just asks when and where. The voice is assuring, calming his nerves, and Bucky lets himself think that perhaps, it won’t be as big a disaster as they’re all anticipating it will be.

__________

“So,” Yelena says, tablet in hand, “here’s the plan.”

They load into a cargo van, the type to hold construction equipment or large shipping boxes or professional filming gear, and pore over the ground plans of the industrial space. There’s a nervous tension in the air, but Bucky can’t ignore the faint tinge of excitement that lingers underneath.

“We know the building, but not the level, and this one has three, so we assume the top. Ava will enter first, through the front street side. Identify security, mark entrances. When clear, I follow.”

Bullets have been replaced with what are essentially tranquilizer darts in most of their weapons – the aim is to disarm, not kill, a safety measure put in more-so to police the team itself than to protect their targets. Yelena’s finger draws a line down the map.

“We make our way to here. Alexei, Walker, you will be positioned outside – once first floor is clear, you enter, and wait by the stairs.”

The dark seeps into the van, covering their huddled bodies from the night like a protective blanket. They rock in unison with the jolts of sore tires over uneven roads. 

“Then, Ava will reach the second floor. Bucky is positioned on the second level fire escape stairwell – when Ava opens door, you enter, go left. I go right.”

The van parks in a lot close to the building, amongst several other industrial-built vans and trucks and professional vehicles. Across the rest of the lot are littered other vans and cars that have arrived sporadically over the last couple hours, containing officers and agents disguised as late night workers. When Bucky traipses from shadow to shadow across the dark alleyway, he can’t help but eye each car, and wonder which ones are allies in hiding.

“What about us?” Walker interrupts. 

Yelena gives him a strict look. “You are still downstairs. Be patient.” She turns her eyes back to the screen. “Ava will leave from fire stairwell, and go up to the top floor. Check inside. Bucky and I will clear second floor, then Walker and Alexei follow.”

The stairs are rusted, prone to noise, but he manages, placing his feet with precision, vibranium fingers buffeted by leather gloves so as to not clink against the metal railing.

“Walker and Bucky stand by the third floor staircase. I will be on the fire escape, and Alexei guards the stairs going down. On Ava’s signal, we apprehend.”

Once he makes it to the second floor landing, he crouches, leans behind the continuing stairs, in an attempt not to feel exposed in the open air. On his tablet, he watches little green trackers appear one-by-one across the floorplan of the building following Ava’s path. Slowly, each one flickers to red, for incapacitated. 

“And Bob, you’re our lookout. You stay out back here, and you let us know if anyone leaves, arrives, or does anything weird. Can you handle that?”

The man looks surprised at the responsibility, but unsurprised by its distance from the action. He pauses for a second, as if to make sure it’s the truth when he nods yes. Bucky gives him a pat on the shoulder, and a reassuring smile. 

The street is quiet, but for the buzzing of insects in the summer night air. 

“Lastly, if anything goes wrong, Sam Wilson will be waiting nearby for the assist. Got it?”

The buzzing gets louder, fractionally – Bucky pricks his ears, notices a little metallic object flying towards him through the air. Redwing. He rolls his eyes, turns his gaze forward, and sees a figure perched on an opposing building roof, tucked into the shadows, moonlight glinting off the metal edges of wings pulled tight like a bird of prey. He smiles.

“Got it.”

The last few dots on the tablet’s screen blink from green to red. Bucky watches the screen for a moment longer, but no new markers appear. Instead, Ava’s voice speaks into the bud in Bucky’s ear, “First floor clear. Moving up.”

He waits patiently on the stairwell. Opposite him, Redwing hovers in the air, hanging just above the door, hidden in the shadow of the stairwell above. It turns to him, sensors pinned to his features. Bucky scowls, looks away, but the robot flies closer, target locked. He stares through the sensor. Behind the warped camera, he pictures Sam’s eyes, the soft curve of his smile as the drone lingers forward, teasing, flirting with the stupid robot’s life. Bucky lifts up his gun. The robot jerks away; he suppresses a snort.

Moments later, the door handle shifts. Bucky centres his gravity, Redwing zipping back into the corner position. The door teeters open, ever so slightly, and then Ava phases through. 

The tension in his muscles loosen. Bucky stands, Ava nods. Below them, the street is deathly still. Ava’s head turns sharply to make direct eye contact with Redwing, reacting to the foreign noise; buzzing almost imperceptible, but not quite silent. She tilts her head, gives it a smile, and whispers, “Hi, Sam,” before continuing up the stairs without another sound.

Giving Redwing a glance, the Winter Soldier slips through the open door.

__________

The second floor is cleared pretty swiftly. Between Yelena’s red-room-trained marksmanship and Bucky’s military precision, all eight men in the open office space fall to the ground in no time. As Yelena reports the floor cleared, Bucky observes the unconscious bodies; cotton button-ups, polos, on-site casual wear, but a cursory lift of a shirt hem reveals holsters of concealed weapons. He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Across the room, Yelena attaches a final tracker to one of the felled bodies, and then turns to him. Redwing on his shoulder, he approaches the stairwell leading up – she approaches the stairwell leading down. Over the intercom, her voice rings out,

“Second level in position, ready for backup.”

Alexei’s voice crackles through, and Bucky can swear he also hears it echoing up the stairwell, “Who is backup? It is only us down here.”

He watches from the side of his vision as Yelena puts a hand to her temple. “You are the backup, idiot.”

“Well, okay, but that was slightly unclear, no need for-”

“Just come upstairs, now.”

There’s a moment, where Bucky can hear a slight hushed argument trickle out from the lower level. He sighs, watches Yelena close her eyes in frustration. Then, it’s quiet, and Walker’s voice echoes “Roger,” back. 

As soon as the soft sound of footsteps can be heard from below, Yelena shuffles across the room, positioning herself at the fire escape exit across from him. 

“In position,” Yelena mutters, “Ava, any word?”

The pause is long enough to become concerning – Bucky and Yelena share a look, muscles tensed. Just as Bucky’s about to check back in, Ava’s voice comes through at the same time the tablet in Yelena’s hand starts glittering with dots of green. 

“It’s a full house. Tried noting it down, might be wrong. Shitload of weapons.”

Yelena tips the screen to Bucky – there are at least twenty dots glittering across the third floor floor map. They aren’t trackers, but estimations Ava had input herself, unmoving, unreliable. Behind them, their teammates appear at the stairwell, Alexei remaining as Walker crosses the room to flank Bucky at the opposing stairs.

“In position.” Walker’s voice filters into their ears. Redwing floats behind, sensors aimed at the stairwell entryway. Yelena, pushes her shoulder into the fire escape, hand hovering over the handle. Alexei stands at the mouth of the stairs, fists pulled at his sides. Bucky, gun in his right hand, flexes the metal joints in his left. Opposite him, Walker holds his shield at the ready.

“On my cue.” Yelena echoes into his earbud. She breathes, counts down, opens her mouth.

“Wait.”

Above, there’s the sound of a push bar door opening. Conversation fills the stairwell – Bucky and Walker make panicked eye contact, hidden from the new figures on the stairs, and Bucky glances down to the incapacitated guard lying on the floor between them, completely in their view. 

An unfamiliar voice rings out from above, “Is that-”

They both turn the corner and shoot.

Two bodies fall to the ground, but it’s too late; at the top of the stairwell, the push bar door is still falling closed, and Bucky makes eye contact with someone in the room through the barrel of his gun. There’s a shout, and a swear, and Bucky sends a dart through the crack in the door, hitting his target as it falls shut. 

“Go, I guess,” Yelena complains as she swings the fire escape open.

Walker bodies through the push door first. Immediately, it’s chaos, gunshots firing through the stairwell towards them. He hears more outside, Redwing assisting Yelena with those escaping via the fire stairs. “Thanks for the warning,” Ava shouts, and he can see her phasing across the crowd, struggling to both avoid gunfire and place bugs on the room’s inhabitants undetected. 

He breaks fully through the stairwell, his senses on fire. Office workstations are covered tabletop-to-tabletop in firearms, tech, vials, things that glow and things people are desperately putting in pockets or mounting on shoulders. Walker stalks through the room like a wild animal, catching fists and dodging bullets as he scans the room for the supplier. Ava’s slapping trackers and shooting tranquilizers, and Yelena appears from the fire escape as a deafening crash echoes behind her, presumably caused by a falling fire escape staircase. Someone aims a gun at Bucky – he grabs the barrel with his vibranium arm, covers it with his palm. A tremor travels through the metal body of the weapon as the shot is stifled. He scrunches the barrel closed with his left fist, puts his pistol to the shocked man’s chest with his right, and watches him fall limp, asleep. The visual still sours on his tongue, a movement too close to death to sit comfortably. 

“Which one’s Val’s dealer?” He calls into the intercom. Figures run past him towards the open stairwell; he aims, hits two, the third skating past with the bodies as cover. “Alexei, coming your way,” he parrots as he watches a dart skim past the disappearing figure into the wall behind.

Alexei’s voice echoes back, “Finally! Is it not obvious? Look for big guy in fancy suit, probably.”

Big guys, there are many, but none in fancy suits. 

“I’m looking,” Walker’s voice heaves from across the way. “Don’t let anyone go until we find them.”

Another gunshot fires, glancing off his raised arm. He searches the room with his eyes, but it’s impossible; everything stands out, and nothing stands out, each tiny movement screaming for Bucky’s attention. From the corner of his eye, a door opens, and he pursues it, Bob’s voice announcing that there’s someone on the roof mere moments before Bucky breaks out into the summer air. 

It’s only when the noises soften, buffeted by the night, that Bucky realises just how much of the chaos was from the sound of his heart beating in his ears. 

He heaves, scans the roof. A gun barrel appears from behind the open door – he knocks it away with his arm, bullet firing into the air. He aims a shot at the holder’s waist as they start to run, but the dart glances off the thick fabric of a vest, not as piercing as a regular bullet would be. With a curse, he lunges after them, jaw clenched and heart in his ears. He barely registers the soft click of a silencer before his vision goes dark.

Wrapped around his body, shielding his eyes from everything but the stars, are the sturdy vibranium wings of Captain America. A bullet, meant for Bucky’s head, glances harmlessly off the side.

Sam looks down at him. In the dark, breath ghosting over his skin, the only thing truly visible of the man are the whites of his eyes and the glint of his teeth. 

“You oughta watch your back better.”

Feathers swing around in a flurry of wind, more bullets shattering against the movement. Bucky ducks, slides, sends a better-aimed dart into the side of a retreating figure’s neck. “I thought that’s what you were here for,” he calls behind him, adrenaline buzzing through his fingers. 

Another figure appears at the door, sending a dozen rounds their way. Sam laughs, and it echoes through the wind. 

They fight in synchrony. Sam deflects, Bucky incapacitates, falling in step as they pursue the fleeing figures, defend from the emerging ones. Distantly, there’s a flashing of police lights. 

“On your left,” Sam calls, and Bucky ducks, the man sending a pointed fling of his shield through the air. The metal lands with a dull thud, ricocheting towards them again as its target stumbles backward off the roof. 

They both pause at the visual. Sam turns his head back to find Bucky’s gaze already boring into his cheek, astounded.

“I’m sure he’ll survive.”

Bucky pauses, considering the possibility, and he can only assume Sam follows the same line of thinking, because when he starts towards the ledge, saying “Then he’ll escape,” Sam is falling in step, wings retracting before the last syllable even leaves his lips.

They peek over the edge, barely catching a glimpse of the man sitting up, being pursued by the now-arriving officers. 

Behind them, a bullet whips through the air, and Sam just barely lifts his shield in time. They turn – two more people stand at the door, weapons ready. One throws a knife, that Bucky grabs before it lands, feet heavy on the ground towards them. Knife guy charges, and they’re locked in combat, the woman behind him raising her firearm. He’s slippery, aiming swipes at Bucky’s waist and drawing back out of reach, but Bucky catches the man’s wrist and is seconds away from pulling a dart when he notices bullets firing into the concrete behind him. He turns just in time to see the metal biting at Sam’s heels, sending him backwards over the roof's edge. 

Bucky lets go, discards his gun to free his right arm, the adrenaline shooting through him as he makes it to the ledge just in time to latch onto Sam’s forearm in the rushing wind. 

Bucky leans over the side of the roof, eyes wild, grip strong. Below him, Sam is suspended in the air. In the dark, his expression looks – dumbstruck? A shot skates past Bucky’s jaw, and the ringing reverbates through his eardrums, white and hot. Below him, Sam’s expression shifts.

Wings shoot out of his back like the flick of a folding fan. Sam uses the momentum to kick his feet off the wall, pulling Bucky with him. 

For a second, they rush through the air in freefall.

Then, Sam spins, pulling the man’s body against his as the wings curve around them, buffeting against the rush of air and bringing them up again, coiling to brace as they crash through a first floor window. They tumble like two bodies in a barrel, rolling to a stop amongst the rubble of an empty room. Bucky, on his back, closes his eyes, feels the pressure of his heart in his throat, and wills it to slow. When he opens them, Sam is pushing off him onto his feet, wings retracting, and he looks furious. 

“What the hell was that, Buck?”

Bucky sits up, tries to catch his breath, panic still colouring his lungs. “You’re welcome,” he says to the ceiling.

“You’re welcome?” Sam laughs, splutters, spins in a circle. “Where is your gun.”

There’s a dent in Bucky’s brow, now, as he pulls himself to his feet. “I dunno, I tossed it.”

“You tossed it.”

“Yeah, because I was saving you.”

Sam gives him an incredulous look. His arms are crossed tightly, chest rising and falling in sharp motions through his nose. He takes a step forward, shoes crunching on smashed glass, and Bucky, for the life of him, cannot figure out why he’s so upset.

“You were saving me?” Sam repeats, and his eyes are wild. The room is silent, gunshots dulled through the concrete above, so when Sam speaks, his voice rings loud and clear, unmatched. “I fell on purpose, Buck. I can fly.”

Oh. 

Something clarifies in Bucky’s mind. It takes a moment, his brain slowly shifting together through the blurry haze of adrenaline, and it must leave a choice expression on his features, because Sam raises his brows.

“What, did you forget?”

Bucky glances away. Maybe, he thinks. “I- I dunno-”

A laugh booms from Sam’s chest. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky starts forward at this, on the defense. Shards of glass bounce off the carpet in his wake. “So what? We’re not hurt, so why does it matter?”

“You put yourself in danger! You- you discarded your gun, you almost got shot-” Sam emphasises each point with the pacing of his feet, sweeping his hand in exasperation.

“Well I’m fine-”

“You almost weren’t!” He huffs, puts a hand to his temple, closes his eyes. “They were shooting at us, you can’t just turn your back on that.”

Bucky considers it. He considers turning his back on Sam, instead, as the bullets pierce the ground at his feet, and listening to the sound of him hitting the pavement. He closes his eyes, purses his lips, leans his back against an office table. “I saw you fall, Sam.”

Sam’s voice is tinted with frustration. “Again, I can-”

“I’m sorry, but I’d much prefer I save you when- when I didn’t have to, than run the risk of you getting hurt, or-” He stumbles to an empty finish, and his eyes blink back open to see Sam staring at him, expression impossible to read.

For a moment, the air is still but for the muted sound of combat from above. Sam smiles, slightly, then lets out a breath, turns away.

“Oh, bullshit.”

“Bullshit?” Bucky is incredulous, pushing off the table. “What’s bullshit? That I don’t want you to die?”

Sam spins back around. “No- clearly, you’re- you’re embarrassed, so you’re trying to pretend like you care about me-”

“I care about you!”

“Not like that.” Sam says, and his chest is heaving with it. They stand, eyes locked, feet wedged amongst the glittering glass in the carpet. There’s a challenge in his stare, or perhaps it’s a warning, not to push further. Bucky ignores it.

“Not like what.”

Sam’s gaze flickers away. “Like- like- I dunno.” He looks back, is faced with Bucky’s eternal, expectant stare. “You wouldn’t risk your life just to make sure I didn’t get hurt.”

Bucky laughs, shakes his head, looks away. There’s a fire within him, now, and it burns his tongue. “Yes, I would.”

“I’m not stupid. I know you wouldn’t.”

Something twinges in his chest at that, and he can’t let it go. Bucky rounds back on him, until they’re barely two steps apart. “I would. Why is that so hard for you to believe, Sam?”

“Because it’s not true,” Sam argues back, and there’s a tone in his voice that Bucky can’t place. “You- you probably just think I’m weak, because I’m not a super soldier, and that you have to-”

“Is that really what you think of me?” Bucky is hurt, breathless. Sam falls silent, his eyes raw on the skin of his cheek. “I don’t think you’re weak. You’re not weak.”

They’re barely two steps apart. Sam’s gaze flits across Bucky’s features, as if searching for a hint of dishonesty. He comes up blank, speaking up again, voice still tainted with restrained hostility, “Then why else would you do it, Buck.”

“Is it not enough that I don’t want to see you get hurt?”

Their eyes are locked in a stalemate. “No,” Sam says. “Why else.”

Bucky frowns, feels the fire climb up his throat. “Because. I. Care about you-”

Sam’s voice rises along with him, “Not that much-”

“You can’t tell me how much I care-”

Sam’s eyes narrow, “Yes, I can, because I know you-”

“Then you would know,” Bucky says, and feels the fire seeping to his bones, doesn’t try to stop it from burning him whole, “that I-” 

The fire goes cold on his tongue. He falters before the line, heaving, cheeks red.

“That you what.”

Bucky closes his eyes. Thinks, fuck it.

“That I love you.”

Sam raises a brow. “Okay, man, I love you too, but that doesn’t change my point-”

Like the world crashing around him, Bucky feels his chest cave in with a sickening laugh. He closes his eyes, feels Sam’s eyes burn through his soul, heart in his ears.

“No,” He laughs, disbelief coating his tone, glancing behind him, away, “that is not what I meant.”

“Then what the hell did you mean?”

There’s tension in the muscles of Sam’s arms, his shoulders, his whole body pulled taut to the hinges of his jaw like a slingshot, loaded and ready. But there’s something else in his eyes, and perhaps it’s a warning, perhaps it’s an invitation, perhaps it’s an eyelash, perhaps it’s a match and Bucky wants to see it in flames.

He kisses Sam.

There’s barely a step between them, and when he moves forward, Sam doesn’t move back. When he slides his hand to his nape, Sam doesn’t turn away. When he closes his eyes, closes the gap, Sam doesn’t push him off. Bucky presses forward, for barely a moment, lips touching for just long enough to prove his point (and they’re soft, and his heart is in his throat), before he pulls back, opens his eyes. When he does, he falters for a second, to watch Sam’s eyelashes flutter open, before he starts to say, “That is what I-”

The words are barely halfway out of his mouth when Sam pulls him back in. He’s slid his hands to Bucky’s chest, grabbed the strap of his harness, and yanked, and before Bucky can register what’s happening there are lips on his own and they press into him with a hunger that drives through his chest. He presses back, and it overcomes him. 

A hand slides down his waist, pulls him closer. He feels breathless, dizzy, burning from the tips of his fingers to the corners of his mouth where their lips connect, separate, and connect again. Sam pushes into him hard enough to feel the pressure against his teeth, locked, tongue tracing a line of hot lava across his own. Bucky chases it, fingers scraping against the nape of his neck, teetering forward, over the edge. He needs a breath, but he can’t breathe, and he doesn’t care – if he were to die in this moment, suffocated by the pressing of Sam’s lips and the whims of his own desire, he would close his eyes and let it happen, again and again.

Somewhere, an earbud crackles to life, “I think I found the supplier?”

Bucky pushes forward, pushes his palm into the small of Sam’s back, bites his bottom lip. A hand tugs at his hair.

“Where?”

There’s a gunshot, loud and piercing, the noise ricocheting against the walls of the first floor. 

Then, there’s a scream.

Chapter Text

Bob has been shot.

No, that’s not fully correct – Bob has been shot at. He can’t really be hit, not properly, but the intention is still there, and that’s all that matters.

Because, on the street outside the broken window of the first level of the building, Bob sees the the arms dealer trying to escape, and he reports it to his team, and then the arms dealer shoots at him and it all goes black.

And, in a room with a broken window on the first level of the building, Bucky hears the report on the intercom, and he ignores it, and then he hears the shot and the scream and he turns, and through the gaping hole in the window he can see the outline of Bob painted in black in the night and he tears himself towards it, Sam on his heels. 

“Bob,” he yells, and the outline of his friend has its arms outstretched to the man who just tried to shoot at him. At his voice, the darkness flickers, eyes golden but unstable.

Bucky calls for help on the intercom, struggling to keep his voice steady, and he barely registers a hand on his shoulder. All he can think of is the teacup explodes, the teacup explodes, the teacup explodes.

__________

Shots Fired In Carlstadt Business Lot – 19 Arrests, 4 Injured, 1 In Critical Condition

 2 hours ago

__________

Bucky is in fight or flight mode.

He’s been in fight or flight mode since the mission had started that afternoon, and across the last couple hours he’s been jumping between fight and freeze like Jack over the candlesticks, flight not an option in his mind. Until now, in a conference room with Valentina, where all he wants to do is leave this stupid conversation.

“I did not authorise you to have Captain America on the premises-” She’s yelling at him across the empty conference room, and it’s flickering from flight to fight with the fluorescent lights overhead.

Bob had been pulled from the shadows before he could do anything irreversible to anyone but himself, but the damage to the mission (and their team’s future) had already been done. Val’s perp got his cuffs, deal busted, but it’s all in spite of as opposed to thanks to; a team pushed too far, condemnations being arbitrarily tossed anywhere but the offender herself.

Bucky crosses his arms, stands his ground. “If Sam wasn’t there, we wouldn’t’ve- I wouldn’t’ve made it out of that building alive."

Valentina doesn’t shift her position. “That says more about your reliability than it does Sam Wilson’s place in that mission-”

“You knew we weren’t ready, you can’t blame us for finding insurance in case it all goes to shit. Which-” He advances forward, fists clenched, “it did.”

Currently, as he’s being chewed out in private, the rest of his team is either sitting in the opposing room with Bob, unconscious, or waiting in the chairs in the hallway. Sam is with them, or at least he was when they arrived, Bob subdued in their arms, arms dealer on a ventilator in an ambulance. They’d lost half their targets in the process, but Bucky doesn’t care. He never needed those arrests in the first place. 

Before him, Valentina frowns. “What happened back there is not my fault.”

“Well then who’s fault is it? Because it is not Bob’s.”

__________

By the time Bucky makes it out of the room, his head hurts and his body is sore, the memory of Sam's lips on his feeling more like a fever dream amongst the rest of the evening’s chaos.

So much so, in fact, that when he steps into the hallway to find the four conscious members of his team waiting, he doesn’t even think to question why Sam is missing. 

“What did Val say?” Ava asks from against the wall.

Bucky huffs, crosses his arms. “Doesn’t matter. She’s an idiot. How’s Bob?”

Yelena says asleep. Walker says stable.

“And the guy he attacked?”

“He’ll be okay,” Alexei assures, hand on Yelena’s shoulder. 

They’re all quiet, processing. After a moment, Yelena’s voice pipes up again, echoing softly through the otherwise empty hall.

“Sam left, by the way. ‘Bout an hour ago.”

Oh. Right – he registers the man’s absence, registers the reality he finds himself in. Feels something akin to a ghost on his lips, simmering in the back of his mind.

“Did he say why?”

Yelena shrugs, shakes her head. “His sister called, I think. Someone named Sarah? I don’t know about what, but, he told her he would be right over.”

Bucky frowns, eyes unfocused. When he glances back up, the rest of his team looks at him, watchful, expectant.

“What?” He asks.

Ava tilts her head. “Your little birdie has flown away. Aren’t you going to go catch it?”

__________

Bucky does, but it takes half a week.

After all, he has to make sure that Bob is okay. The man is in and out of sleep for two days, eating little and saying even less. It’s a mental thing, Bucky assumes, a response to trauma; Bob’s body had been given three options, and it had chosen, in order, fight, flight and then freeze. 

When Bob finally emerges from his room, at the three day mark, smile wary and uncertain, the group takes a collective sigh of relief. He remembers little, but he knows something happened, can feel it in the pit of his stomach – the rest of them assure him it wasn’t his fault. And, amongst the group, every single one of them believes it.

It is only when he’s confident that the process of finding Bob a licensed psychiatrist is officially in the works, that he feels comfortable stepping away. The truth is, he’d been tossing up between pursuing Sam and letting the whole thing pass them by (or, rather, he’d been toiled in thought about the ramifications of either choice). However, there hasn’t been a word on Sam’s end since Carlstadt, and that could mean one of two things; Either Sam is putting as much distance between them as possible, or some tragedy has befallen his family. If it’s the former, there are too many words caught in Bucky’s throat to just let it happen, too much effort spent pushing this all down to save a friendship he won’t lose like this. And if it’s the latter – Bucky’s chest seizes at the thought. No, he can’t sit in the silence any longer.

So, on day four, Bucky wakes up bright and early, informs his team of his absence, and heads to the airport. He doesn’t tell them where or why, and they don’t ask – he knows that they can probably guess, but saying it out loud might make the whole thing feel a bit too impulsive.

It’s an hour in customs, a three hour flight, and another hour in a taxi from the New Orleans airport. All he’s got with him is an overnight bag and a pair of wired earbuds for entertainment, but when he has to unplug them to put his phone on charge, there’s nothing to distract from the thousand doubts in his mind. He thinks, with a drop in his gut, as the taxi is ten minutes from Delacroix, that he has no idea if Sam’s already returned to DC. But it’s too late to turn back, and at this stage sending a text would be pointless, so he pushes forward. 

He decides, as he stands on the doorstep of the Louisiana home, that Sam’s friendship means more to him than his stupid crush. If the only way to preserve it is to lie, it’s what has to be done, his own feelings be damned.

Sarah answers the door. She looks slightly worse for wear, tucked into a nightgown and slippers, lips chapped and nose red, but her eyes glisten in amused shock when they land on his face.

“My eyes be damned, if it isn’t Bucky Barnes.” She says, voice tender. “What brings you here?”

He smiles. “You doin’ well? I heard Sam rushed over, wanted to make sure everything’s okay.”

There’s a warmth in the shake of her head, a knowing lilt to her chuckle, and she assures him with a soft look, “Oh no, everything’s fine over here. Just had the flu is all, needed some extra help ‘round the house. Sam said he wasn’t busy, so.” The last sentence is said with a quirk to her brow, almost like she’d suspected it wasn’t true, and Bucky’s presence at her doorstep is only further confirmation.

He sighs, lets out a breath of relief, but somewhere there’s a guilty jolt of disappointment, fear, at the subsequent realisation that Sam’s disappearance is, in fact, personal.

“Why don’t you come on in? The boys are at school right now, but they’ll be so happy to see you – I’ll fix you a cup of tea-”

“Oh, no, I couldn’t make you do that.” Bucky interrupts. “Please, rest. I just need to talk to your brother.” He doesn’t step inside, but peeks around her regardless, curious if the man is listening in, perhaps. The house is lit with a warm glow from the afternoon sun, hallway empty but for the sparse clutter of a lived-in home. “Whereabouts is he?” he finishes, coming up empty.

Sarah gives a laugh, rolling her eyes. “He’s out in the boat again, probably fixin’ something that’s not broken.” She pauses, appraises him, and he can feel an unspoken question in the slope of her brows. She doesn’t ask – instead, she gives him a frown, and says, “If you’re not gonna come inside, at least put your bag down first.”

He does. Although, there’s a hesitance in the back of his mind that he tries not to entertain, of whether it’s a smart idea to rule out the option for a speedy escape. 

__________

To his relief, Sam isn’t on the deck of the boat. It doesn’t really matter, except that it allows Bucky a moment longer to steal himself, school his emotions, before climbing over and into the bowels of the ship. He steps down slowly, shoes echoing against the steep metal stairs, and sees the curve of Sam’s back, crouched next to the diesel engine. The man’s head turns at the sound, and they lock eyes; He stands with a start, face painted all shades of shock and astonishment.

“Buck, what-”

Bucky smiles back, and something in his chest pulls taut. He feels like throwing up, just a little bit. 

“What are you doing here?” Sam finishes, collecting himself. His face is still coloured in surprise, but more subdued, a crease to his brow. Bucky glances at it, looks away, still standing awkwardly at the base of the stairs. He nudges a stray bolt with his foot.

“You left so suddenly. I wanted to make sure everything was okay.”

When he glances back up, Sam’s expression hasn’t changed, eyes flickering over his skin like words on a page. The man frowns. “You could have just called.”

“I could have.” Bucky looks down with a laugh, almost like an admission.

There’s a moment of silence, where they both feel the topic hanging in the air, and neither of them jump to address it. It hangs there, regardless, filling the room with a thick tension. Sam leans back against the engine, wiping his hands on his slacks as he asks, “How’s Bob doing?”

Bucky is grateful for the procrastination. He finds purchase on the second rung of the metal stairs, resting there as he replies, “Doing okay now. Got him some appointments lined up, but he’ll be on the bench ‘til he’s confident enough to use his powers.”

Sam gives him a look. “Which could be never.” At that, Bucky huffs, nodding; it’s a reality he’d much prefer to the alternative. Sam’s eyebrows pull further. “And how’s Val?”

This gives Bucky pause. “Not happy,” he replies, and watches the gears shift uncomfortably in Sam’s expression, “but she’ll get over it.”

The other man looks down as he says, “I’m sorry. I know me being there only made things worse-”

Bucky’s standing again, pushing off from the metal rungs before Sam can finish his sentence. “She can go die in a hole for all I care. I asked you to be there, Sam.” He levies the man with a stern gaze, but Sam’s eyes are fleeting, troubled. It puts an uncomfortable thought in Bucky’s head, that he finds himself desperate to quash.

“Sam- if you weren’t there, you realise I probably wouldn’t’ve made it out, right?”

When Sam’s eyes meet his with a guilty purse of his lips, Bucky’s suspicion is confirmed. The man looks back down, away, mutters, “If I hadn’t gotten us side-tracked by that stupid argument, maybe-”

“Maybe what?”

Sam doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to; the connotation hangs clear in the air. Above, the sound of the ocean breeze trickles into the engine room, boat swaying lazily as waves lap against its side. Bucky sighs, crosses his arms, remembers the sound of Bob’s report over the intercom, sees the troubled look on Sam’s face.

“You can’t seriously think that was your fault.”

Again, Sam’s gaze comes up, down, and away. There’s a tension in his shoulders, clicking in the muscle of his jaw. 

Bucky leans back onto the staircase. He thinks of the sharpness of Sam’s expression, thinks of the words stupid argument, remembers the decision he’d made on the doorstep. Tries to fix it.

“Sam, he shouldn’t’ve been out there in the first place – if anything, it was my fault, for– look, I’m sorry.” He breathes the last two words out like an admission of defeat.

Sam glances up, perturbed. “For what?”

“For-” Bucky glances around the room, endless lists forming in his mind, “for putting that on you. For bringing you into the mission, making you feel like you did something wrong.” he sighs, takes a breath, Sam’s eyes watching carefully. “For-” For extrapolating, he thinks. Crossing his invisible line, kissing Sam before he knew it was right, and messing with everything – he doesn’t have the strength to say any of this. Instead, he ends his sentence vaguely, afraid to admit anything more. “For acting without thinking.”

Something is processing in Sam’s brain, and Bucky watches the words shift in his mouth, finding the best way to phrase it, before he opens his lips, tentative, but heavy. “Are you saying you regret what happened?”

They are no longer talking about Bob.

There’s a weight to Sam’s phrasing, and he feels it in his chest, unsure which way it leans. Bucky purses his lips. “I didn’t mean for it to go down like that.” He says, trying to discern the way Sam digests his words, but his expression is almost unreadable.

Sam nods, frowns, hand braced against the diesel engine. Light pools in the crevices of the wood at his feet, the soft glow of the work lamp glancing off the edges of his shirt in warm golden light. 

“So you take it back, what happened?”

Bucky’s heart beats a heavy thud in his chest. His fingers scrape against the metal stair beneath him – one wrong move, he thinks, one wrong word, and it all falls apart. 

He looks Sam in the eyes, searches, and feels the other man do the same. “I meant everything that I said.”

“What about what you did? Do you take that back?”

“I-” Bucky pauses. He feels stuck in a riddle, stuck on the fence, too afraid to jump on either side and find he can’t claw his way back. “Only if you want me to.”

They are caught in a stale-mate, eyes locked. Standing atop a frozen lake, afraid to move lest they disturb its fragile surface. The tension builds like a rubber band, and Bucky can feel his muscles waver. He asks, low, tentative, feet shifting across the ice,

“Do you want me to?”

The ice shudders. Sam’s mouth opens, closes. His brows furrow, twitch, the plush of his lips pulling taut and catching against the scrape of his teeth. Finally, he lets out a breath, ever so slightly, and his lips part, glancing away.

“No.”

“Okay.” Bucky whispers, as the ice crumbles beneath them. His breath is caught in his chest at the sudden rush, heartbeat surging like water in his ears, but he hides it, leaning back with a nod, nonchalant. “Then I won’t.”

“Okay.” Sam breathes back. 

Waves crash against the pier. The taste of sea salt is ripe on his tongue. Bucky feels the water fill his lungs.

“So-” he starts, but Sam interrupts him.

“I thought you liked Steve, is all.”

Bucky looks at him, incredulous, but Sam avoids his gaze. “Well- yeah, I did, but I got over that years ago, like, in the forties.”

“I know.” Sam replies, still looking away. “Just- I dunno. I know how much the shield means to you.”

Bucky’s mouth is dry. A million thoughts bubble up his throat, bursting on his tongue before he can put any into words. He struggles for a moment, Sam glancing up for an impatient peek, before ducking his head again in the embarrassed admission. Finally, Bucky forces out, “Sam, I don’t- I don’t like you just because you have the shield.”

There’s a moment, where Sam looks at him, and his brows soften in the intensity of Bucky’s stare. He nods, then huffs with a laugh, looking down, before his lips curl into a smile. 

“So you admit that you like me?”

Whatever chemical reaction occurring on Bucky’s face in that moment sends Sam into a fit of laughter, and the tension is broken. Bucky rubs his hand over his face, through his hair, tries not to stare at the apples of Sam’s cheeks. Feels his chest clench.

“I guess I do. Tricky bastard.” He glowers, but there’s a quirk to it, a relief washing over him at hearing the other laugh. He feels jittery, alive, toes tapping against the wooden floor. Sam laughs, and the sound is a melody to the rhythm of his restless fingers and the rapid beat of his heart.

When Sam sobers, his eyes glint with something exciting, and it burns a hole into Bucky’s chest. There’s a smile on his face, a warmth, and when he parts his lips, says, “I like you too, Buck,” he feels it devour him like a flash fire. 

They sit there, smile at each other, feel the crackling of the flames and the warm glow of the sun filtering through the cracks in the wood above, and Bucky’s chest hurts with it.

“So now what?”

__________

They head back into the house for a drink. 

It’s getting close to three, the sun lingering with a watchful eye just above the horizon, a sweltering heat colouring the town a warm shade of yellow. Bucky can feel that warmth seeping into his skin, emanating from his chest, as he tails Sam back to the house. Sam tells him how excited his nephews will be to see him, tells him how poorly they’d tried to hide the disappointment when he’d shown up alone the few days prior. “They must get that from you,” Bucky replies, and the flushed smack of a hand against his ribs sends a jolt through his nervous system, laughter bubbling up his lungs. 

“I have a question,” Sam asks as they sidle into the kitchen, voices hushed so as to not alert a resting Sarah from the other room.

He’s rooting through the fridge, Bucky watching languidly across from him against the kitchen counter. He lets the statement sit, assuming Sam will continue, but he doesn’t. Instead, the man turns, meeting his eyes from where they’ve been travelling across the curve of his shoulders. Sam looks at him for approval; Bucky dips his head in a slight nod, prompting the man to carry on.

“I assume,” Sam continues with a smile, turning back to the fridge, “that you haven’t dated anyone since World War Two.”

A surprised laugh leaves Bucky’s lips. There’s a jump in his heart, at the word dated, but he focuses on the rest, and is embarrassed by how immediately he knows it to be true. His head ducks, palms shifting against the counter. “Sounds more like a statement to me.”

When Sam turns back, two beers in hand and a smile suppressed beneath an incredulous look, Bucky can’t help but tilt his head and grin.

“Okay, then I’ll rephrase,” Sam huffs, voice low. He closes the fridge door with his hip, and then rests against it to face him. “Will this be your first time dating someone since World War Two?”

“I’ve-” Bucky starts, pauses, takes in a slight breath as he fully registers the question. “Been on dates, just haven’t-” His heart beats a steady rhythm in his chest. Sam watches him in faint amusement, a small smile playing on his lips, and Bucky struggles ever so slightly to breathe.

“So that’s a yes.” There’s a playful glint in Sam’s eye.

Bucky bites the inside of his lip, looks away. There’s silence, for a second, and he feels the particular phrasing repeat itself in his mind as it simmers, twirling a question around on his tongue, willing for the breath to speak it aloud.

The two lean across from each other in the kitchen, alone, the afternoon light warming the outline of their shadows on the floor.

“Is that what this is, then?” He finally speaks aloud, “Dating?” The words come out more hushed than he intends, airy and uncertain. It puts a crease in Sam’s brow, but his smile doesn’t relent.

The volume of Sam’s reply is just as soft, and only slightly tinged with uncertainty. “You don’t want it to be?”

“No- I mean, yes, I want it to- I want to-” Bucky feels his neck heat up, pinned by Sam’s gaze as the man pushes off the fridge towards him. “I just, y’know, haven’t done it in a while, and-”

Sam’s smile is fond as he edges nearer, only making Bucky’s rambling worse. Beer in either hand, Sam approaches until he’s close enough to reach the bench. 

“I don’t know, y’know, what it- it- entails, in this modern-”

Bucky’s fingers tense on the counter’s edge behind him, subconsciously shifting back as Sam closes in. The man stops just before him, and glances down, casual, placing the left bottle on the bench just behind the flexed palm of Bucky’s right hand. The arm lingers, slides down the body of the bottle onto the tabletop, and remains there, as he places the other beer from his right hand onto the other side of the counter, trapping Bucky in between. He stutters, gaze flighty.

“-I’m still not used to- well, I haven’t fully learnt-”

The glass underside of the bottle lands against the wood with a soft clink. Sam finally glances back up, and Bucky’s breath runs out.

They’re close, thighs brushing, barely a few inches of air swimming in between their lips. Sam’s expression is warm, tender, the skin crinkling at the edge of his eyes, cheeks pulled up in a soft smile whose mirth trickles into the rich brown of his irises. Bucky blinks back, palm sweaty on the counter.

He chokes, trying to drown out the beating of his heart, “‘Cause, back then, y’know, there were all these rules-”

Sam laughs, and the sound hangs in the air, brushing against his skin. His fingers drag down the countertop, thumb tracing over the perched knuckles of Bucky’s right hand. 

“Will you relax?” He says, hushed, eyes pointed at his features before they travel down to the movement of his hand. “There are no damn rules.”

His hand slides up, fingers dancing over the thin fabric hem of Bucky’s t-shirt. Bucky follows it with his eyes.

“There are always rules,” he breathes back.

That elicits a soft laugh. 

“I guess.” Sam replies, and there’s a crease in his brow, for a second, before his voice pipes up again. “Can I implement a rule, then?”

He glances up, to meet Bucky’s eyes burning through him, waiting with baited breath. Sam snorts, turning away, forcing Bucky to start after him, following the man’s jaw with his eyes.

“What?” He presses, as Sam continues to laugh, and the tight feeling in his chest somewhat loosens.

Sam meets his eyes again, mirth colouring his features. “You look so serious.”

The corners of Bucky’s lips pull upwards, despite all attempts to be offended.

“Just say your damn rule.”

A stream of golden light falls through the window behind them, motes of dust dancing in the summer air, casting a golden halo around the two pressed against the kitchen bench.

“My rule is,” Sam sighs, left hand resting in the crook of Bucky’s waist, “if you don’t know, or- you’re feelin’ unsure. About anything. Just ask.”

Sam’s fingers dance up his waist, past his chest, leaving a trail of goosebumps behind as he settles over the muscles at the ridge of his shoulder. His eyes follow the movement, and Bucky’s eyes follow his, loosening a hand from the table and allowing himself to slip it against the man’s hip, touch light and delicate. There’s a buzzing in his chest, and it tingles.

“How strict is that rule?” He asks.

Sam laughs. “Hard n’ fast.”

“Can you give me an example?”

The fingers of Sam’s hand slip further forward, tracing the nape of Bucky’s neck, threaded through the roots of his hair. He smiles, suppresses it, looks away for a second, and there’s a hint of embarrassment as he hesitates. 

Sam releases the inside of his lip from his teeth, and turns to meet Bucky’s coy look with steady eyes. “Sure,” he says, finally, and the embarrassment is kept at bay. “For example; Can I kiss you?”

Bucky holds back a snort – it fails, and Sam breaks too, tutting with a look of betrayal and jabbing his other hand into Bucky’s ribs. When Bucky sobers, gets over the jitters of it all, he meets Sam’s bright, burning eyes, and says, “You can.”

Sam kisses him. 

This time, it’s not hungry, rushing against the clock. No– it’s mellow, like the honey-soaked motes of speckled light that glitter across the tabletop. It’s warm, like a summer breeze, the tips of Sam’s fingers pressing soft kisses into the nape of his neck as he presses soft kisses into the corner of his lips. It’s slow, lazy, hands travelling across Sam’s ribcage with the trudge of the afternoon sun across the sky. He tastes like sea salt, and Bucky lingers on the flavour, dipping in again and again, tracing the outline with his tongue, breaths fluttering against his chin with each pull back. The back of his thighs dig into the edge of the countertop, metal arm bracing as he pushes forward, forward, forward, into Sam’s warm mouth pushing back, back, back.

__________

When Sam’s nephews come home barely twenty minutes later, they’re too excited by Bucky’s presence to notice the matching flush across both the mens' faces. He can’t say the same for Sarah, however, barely awake from her nap but still sending them suspicious looks from the doorframe. She doesn’t say anything, though, then. Nor does she when the boys drag them out to play in the yard, Bucky’s hand hooking on the other’s wrist to drag him along. She doesn’t speak up as he helps Sam prepare dinner, either, fingers sliding across waists and lingering on wrists for physical instructions, touch unnecessary but for the fleeting electricity of skin on skin. No, she stays quiet, letting the two believe they’re moving in silence for the rest of the night. It’s only the next morning, as she witnesses them both emerge from Sam’s room with raised brows from the kitchen bench, that she finally speaks up. She tilts a cup of tea to her mouth, gives them a knowing look, and says, simply, “Sleep well?” with a meaningful glance at the hand pressed to the small of Bucky’s back.

And yes, in fact, he did.

__________

Later that afternoon, Bucky checks in with his team.

Or, rather, he texts the groupchat, and receives a call almost immediately. He can’t even ignore it; Sam, from his position in the crook of his shoulder in the underbelly of the boat, spots it immediately, and gives him a chiding look until he clicks answer. He regrets it almost immediately, as the first words through the receiver are “How did it go with Sam?” and “Did you guys do it?”

Needless to say, the team is overjoyed at the implications when discovering Sam is privy to the phone call, as they hear him laugh so hard he starts choking on his own spit. They should be lucky, Bucky thinks, that he’s too distracted by Sam’s amusement to take the tactlessness of his team to heart.

__________

(Sam gets a text from Torres that night that leaves him laughing so hard he can do nothing but turn the phone to Bucky, to read for himself.

falconboy - 7:52pm

called it. thx for letting me win like 10 bets xx

falconboy - 7:52pm

[link]

Canoodling America And The Winter Snogger? Unreleased Footage Of The Carlstadt Arms Bust May Reveal A Blooming Romance, Sources Suggest

 2 hours ago

He’s utterly horrified.)