Chapter Text
It's three weeks, six sessions with Sandy, and half Bucky's body weight in pie later when he hears back from Sam. The Avengers – minus Tony, who'd broken some ribs on a previous mission and was spending his downtime alternating between hiding in the workshop and stomping around like a particularly pissy grizzly bear – have been gone for six days and Bucky's slowly going out of his mind. He's watching a rerun of Project Runway, griping halfheartedly to JARVIS about the idiocy of making a ballgown from newspaper, when he hears his phone ring in the distance. He all but sprints to the bedroom, and it'd be a little embarrassing if he wasn't so friggin' bored.
“Made it!” he half-shouts, which … really wasn't how he'd intended to answer the phone.
Sam laughs warmly. “Good to know.” There's a high-pitched scream in the background, and he sighs. “As you can hear, I have my sister's kids again, but if you think you can brave the little monsters, I've got some news for you.”
“Uh.” Bucky gives JARVIS (well, the ceiling) a what the fuck look, and Christ, he really does need some human contact. “You want me to come over there?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, sounding distracted. “I've got a bunch of paperwork and – Isobel Wilson, if you put that in your mouth you can forget about going to the park later!”
“Are you sure it's safe?” Bucky asks, only partly joking. He's already pulling on his shoes, though, because God yes does he want to get out of the tower. “Do I need to bring riot gear?”
Sam snorts at him. “You live with Tony Stark and you're afraid of a couple preschoolers?”
Bucky squints at the bathroom mirror. He's only got, like, a three-day beard. He probably won't scare any children. “Is this a trick question? Because Tony isn't likely to get snot and vomit all over me. Unless he's been drinking. Or has a concussion again. Actually … ”
“You'll be fine,” Sam says. He's clearly laughing at Bucky, the asshole. “I'll text you the address. You can leave the tac vest at home, but if you want something to drink besides apple juice and beer, you'd better bring it yourself.”
When the cab drops him off in Harlem (because fuck public transportation, he's saving up all his nerve for the little demons), Bucky trudges up the three floors to Sam's apartment with a sense of impending doom. He's never spent any time around children, and he's of the opinion that they're cute at a distance but best left to experts, kinda like leopards or the duck-billed platypus.
Sam opens the door looking as calm as ever. “Hey, man,” he says, grinning like he hasn't just emerged from the fifth circle of hell. “Come on in. I've got some brochures and fliers mocked up to show you, and I've got a bunch of questions that we're probably gonna need Stark to help answer, but it's a start.”
Bucky steps inside cautiously. There's no sign of the children, except for two paper plates on the coffee table, littered with bitten-off sandwich crusts. Sam's place is tiny but cozy, decorated in rich browns and reds. “So you got approval for the clinical trials?”
“Yep.” Sam gathers up the trash and heads for the kitchen. “All the papers are on the dining table there. I called in a few favors.” He starts stacking the dishwasher with kid-sized cups and silverware. “Of course now there's a couple Congressmen who are gonna want their names attached to this, like it was all their idea, but” - he shrugs - “what can you do?”
Bucky hovers awkwardly, wondering if he should offer to help. “Favors, huh? Does that mean you saved their lives with your badass jetpack?”
Sam looks up in surprise. “You know about that? So much for classified. Well, I rescued one of them, yeah. The other has a son who was having a rough time after invaliding out of the Army, and … long story, but I guess he felt like he owed me.”
Bucky shakes his head. “Holy shit, man. You're the one who should be tagging along with superheroes.”
Sam laughs, but whatever he's about to say is drowned out by the arrival of a miniature tornado. A little girl with braided pigtails launches herself at Sam's knees, and he lifts her easily onto one hip. She's dressed in a leotard and tights, tea towel pinned to her back like a cape.
“Saaam, Bobby called me a loser, and I said I'm not a loser, I'm a superhero, and when I grow up Imma be just like Black Widow - ”
Bucky chokes on a laugh, and the girl's head swivels to pin him with a laser stare. She opens her mouth, and Bucky is cringing in anticipation (fuck, why didn't he wear a glove? She's probably going to freak over his robot hand.) when her twin barrels into the room.
“Nuh uh,” the boy says scathingly. “Loser.”
Sam looks heavenward, like he's asking for patience, then gives Bobby a look that makes Bucky want to retreat to the naughty corner. Bobby shrinks under the glare, ducking his head and scuffing his toes on the tile floor. Damn, Sam's good.
“Five minute time out,” Sam says, pointing to a tiny chair crammed into the corner. “You know you're not supposed to call people names. Now what do you say to your sister?”
“Sorry,” Bobby mutters resentfully, flinging himself into the chair with a huff.
Bucky covers his mouth to hide a smile, then freezes when the movement draws the girl's stare again.
“Who are you?” she asks. “My name's Isobel, but you can call me Izzy. I just turned five years old.” She holds up five fingers to demonstrate.
“Um. Bucky. I'm Bucky.” He shoots a helpless look at Sam, who just smirks at him, the bastard. “I'm a friend of your Uncle Sam's.”
“Huh.” Izzy escapes from Sam's hold and wraps tiny fingers around Bucky's wrist. “You should come play superhero with me. I'm the Black Widow, and you can be … “ She surveys him a moment, her eyes lingering on his silver hand. “Iron Man!”
Bucky gapes at her, open-mouthed, while Sam doubles over and dissolves into a fit of laughter.
“Yeah, Bucky, go play Iron Man,” Sam wheezes. “Paperwork can wait.”
“I … but … ” Bucky flounders, betrayed. “I thought we were friends!”
Sam sort of giggle-snorts, holding his side, and Bucky decides he's pretty much over his desire for human company.