Chapter Text
Now
Sam closes the door, leans his back against it heavily, bag dropping to the floor with a thud. Eyes closed, he stands for a few moments, ears ringing with the blissful silence.
It’s been-
Not terrible. Nothing awful. Nothing world-ending.
There’s just been an awful lot of week in this week. Meetings ranging from the mind-numbing to the soul-destroying, far too much time spent juggling various alphabet agencies who are all supposed to be on the same side and yet who also manage to have their own conflicting agendas. Sam feels a throb behind his eyes, massages his temples.
He peels himself away from the door when he has determined that possibly a little too much time has been spent using it to prop himself up. Sam flicks on the lights, the apartment illumined in warm pools from wall-mounted up-lighters and strategically placed lamps. Dark wood against pale walls, polished floors, bright splashes of colour in the throw pillows and blankets, the squashy chairs and framed artwork. All familiar and welcoming.
Or, should feel that way, at any rate. There’s a coldness on the air, an unnatural stillness. The apartment is starting to feel un-lived-in, all the warmth that comes from human habitation, from shared laughter and dumb arguments over the dishwasher, missing.
Sam pads around the space and he is not, absolutely not, checking the apartment to see if any more of Bucky’s things have vanished. Or all of them. That he hasn’t just gone, packed up and moved out entirely, leaving Sam behind.
Which is a stupid thought to have, it’s not as though they were ever-
Sam blinks rapidly. Shit. Must be more tired than he had thought. He heads into the kitchen, for the fridge, and stops again. A vertical line of Post-it notes in a particularly shrieking shade of pink and with neatly printed block capitals.
MILK IS IN THE FREEZER.
FOR
FUCK’S
SAKE!!
Sam reads them, smiling a little helplessly. Maybe a little tearily. A very little. Because it’s late and he’s tired and absolutely not because Bucky Barnes made a point of using four different Post-it notes just so he could complain about the fucking milk. Sam pulls the carton out of the freezer, places it in the sink while it defrosts. There’s an intact pack of beer in the fridge. Someone has been restocking since the last time Sam was here. He takes one of the beers.
The neatly stacked piles of Congressional packets are still on a side table. The dishwasher has been left slightly open. Bucky’s pretty big on letting the thing air out after wash cycles, even if he’s haphazard about stacking it, cheerfully cramming in as much as will fit. Sam likes to maintain a proportionate balance that will ensure that everything gets effectively cleaned.
‘It’s dishes, Sam, you’re not aiming for a spot in Architectural Digest,’ Bucky always complains, rolling his eyes at Sam’s carefully calibrated arrangements because he is a menace and an asshole.
Fuck, Sam misses him.
He’d missed him out in the field when Bucky had started on his campaign and there had been plenty of times when they had gone for weeks without crossing paths, when Sam had been on missions and Bucky had been busy in Brooklyn with his (as they were then) potential future constituents.
But it had only ever been a few weeks and then they would always find each other again here, in DC, in this apartment that they had worked on together, made decisions about furniture and paint colours together and made it a home. Together.
And then the New Avengers had happened.
Torres keeps cheerfully proposing names for their own new team which is endearing in his attempts to be supportive but also comically missing the point. The latest offering: Sam’s Angels.
Sam slumps onto the couch, turns on the TV, scrolling through channels without really seeing any of it.
With all the difficulties of being Cap, and all too often it felt as though each time one issue got wrestled to the ground, each time he proved himself, jumped through another of the endless hoops, something else would blindside him. It would make it easier, having a team. Sam has no issue with the people themselves who are currently called the New Avengers (he still has some reservations about John Walker, admittedly, but Bucky had been right - the man deserved a chance to pull himself out of the hell he’d been in. One that was largely of his own making, but still. Bucky had had a point about the second chances, too. It is really, really annoying when Bucky is right).
Sam’s issue, the thing that he can’t get past, that he wrestles with in those all-too-frequent moments when it is just him and Joaquín and their best efforts don’t seem like enough, when giving in and simply accepting being part of a team who know what they are doing and actually work together seem like the easiest thing to do: how that team had come together. The slipperiness of the people in the shadows no doubt waiting for the chance to use this new team of heroes in ways they certainly did not want to be any part of, but may have no choice about in the end.
Valentina had sidled up to him at a party in DC a couple of months ago, sly and insinuating with that shark’s smile of hers that didn’t reach her eyes.
‘They’re expendable.’ A cooing voice. She hadn’t stopped smiling the entire time. ‘It’s only a matter of time before they implode or fuck up so spectacularly that they’re shut down for good. But you - you’re a real superhero, Sam. I can help you get a team of real Avengers together, with all of the support you need.’
He had told her what to do with her offer; told Bucky about it who had just barked out a laugh over the phone, and then said, ‘Yeah, that tracks.’
He hadn’t even sounded particularly mad about it and Sam had found that, in itself, infuriating.
That constant sense of unease, of second-guessing everything and all of it is exactly what Sam doesn’t want. He wants the image that had started to form vaguely, of a network of heroes spread across the world but rooted in their communities. Preventative, rather than sweeping in at a crisis point, always acting when the threat was already present and active - or sometimes only after the event, clearing up the mess and sometimes creating an even bigger one. Sam had wanted something different and wanted it as free from government intervention and all of the attendant uses and abuses that inevitably went with that as possible.
Admittedly, so far Bucky’s team has managed to avoid that but Sam can’t shake the feeling that it was only a matter of time.
The endless hoops he has to jump through as Captain America would be infinitely worse if Cap was part of a government-sponsored Avengers. The inescapable thought that he’d be on the end of a very short leash. God - Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes screwing shut - that sounds like something Isaiah would say.
Actually, Isaiah had said exactly that during a particularly and, Sam thought, unnecessarily punishing sparring session at Isaiah’s gym. The older man’s eyes had held a grim sort of glint in them. Sam can’t blame him for that, given all of the horrific givens.
Sam turns off the TV that he hasn’t been watching, heads for the bathroom and a hot shower. He turns the water red-hot, standing under it and letting it pound against his shoulders, against the spot between his shoulder blades that always stiffens up under the weight of the wings. When there’s so much steam the visibility has become practically zero, he turns off the water, steps out, heads for the bedroom.
And he stares at the pile of clothes on the end of the bed. Folded like they’re going to boot camp, or just come from boot camp. Or something. Military precision; Bucky still makes beds the same way, sheets pulled and tucked so tight you could bounce a quarter off them. Sam had the same training and while he’s far from messy, he likes the indulgence of not having regulations about how to fold a shirt or tuck a goddam sheet. Maybe the precision of it all, the routine and repetition, is grounding and soothing for Bucky. Or maybe it’s those innate organisational skills that made him such a good XO and Sergeant, he had risen through the ranks pretty quickly back in the day, after all.
Of course, heaven forbid that Bucky extend all of this fucking precision to the dishwasher…
Sam pulls out sweatpants and a faded hoodie from the pile. Tries to ignore the ache that grips around his heart and fails. Because Bucky Barnes is absolutely the sort of passive-aggressive asshole who can argue with a man over the phone and then go behind his back to do the laundry and restock the fridge. He may as well have left a note out saying See, I still fucking care, dipshit.
Because it is caring. After that disastrous phone call a few weeks back, they have exchanged terse text messages and not much else.
In between then and now, Bucky had been home. He hadn’t told Sam he would be there. Maybe he was hoping Sam would be there; maybe he had been counting on him not being there. Whatever it was, he had put milk in the freezer and beer in the fridge, had done laundry and folded Sam’s clothes and left them on the bed.
See, I still care.
Sam sits next to his tidy pile of regulation-folded clothes and feels his eyes sting and a weary sort of defeat.
Because here is the other thing:
If, after his first term, Bucky had decided that he had found his calling, that he was happy and fulfilled working in politics, then Sam was going to support that absolutely, without hesitation. He had had his doubts, though. Even before Bucky had even taken up office, he was starting to chafe against the restrictions of the system, the slowness of the processes, the endless compromises and Bucky Barnes was one of the most uncompromising people Sam had ever known. Ironic, really, because compromise was one of the things that Sam was most wary of when it came to the New Avengers.
‘Compromise isn’t always a bad thing.’ Ruth, playing thoughtfully with the stem of her wine glass. A rich Malbec that Sam was quite happy to join her in. They were grabbing a quick drink, catching up before she headed off to meet Isaiah for … something. Again. Were they just friends? Were they dating now? Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to know either way. ‘It doesn’t automatically equate to corruption,’ she continued, her head tilting, lips pushing out. ‘Doesn’t all teamwork need compromise?’
Sam sighed. ‘I know. But I can’t shake the feeling that these might be compromises that I couldn’t live with in the end. Worst case scenario, I end up a fugitive again and been there, done that, no interest in a return visit.’
‘I could do some digging,’ Ruth said, eyes big and innocent over her wineglass, ‘find out more about the exact command structure, exactly who is involved at what level.’
And she could do it too, probably before finishing her wine. Jesus. She was slightly terrifying.
For a second, he thought about it. But it felt a little too much like investigating Bucky, spying on him, a sign that Sam had no trust in his judgement; and given their somewhat prickly respective stances around the whole notion of the Avengers, Sam didn’t want to start something that could inflict genuine damage on a friendship, a relationship, that was infinitely precious to him. If you wanna know something, Sam, just ask! He could hear Bucky’s voice so clearly he may as well be sitting in the booth with them.
‘Thanks, but I’ll pass.’
Ruth shrugged, then drained her glass.
‘Say hello to Yelena for me,’ she said as they parted outside of the bougie wine bar in Georgetown. She smiled faintly in response to Sam’s puzzled frown. ‘I was a Widow, too, remember?’ Sadness behind her smile, in the depths of her eyes. ‘Yelena set me free.’
Yelena is a good person. Kind. They are all good people, Bucky’s team (the usual Walker-related caveats notwithstanding), even if they are a bunch of screwed-up misfits.
But then, so too had the original Avengers been, in all honesty. Ex-assassins, an ex-arms manufacturer, a rage monster, a kinda flaky space-prince… Maybe being a screwed-up misfit was a prerequisite of being a hero. Steve had probably been the most stable one and he had been a time-displaced World War Two veteran with PTSD.
No similarities there whatsoever.
So yes, Sam had been determined to respect Bucky’s exploration of this new path at the Capitol. But there had been a bigger part of him that had hoped that when Bucky had got that out of his system, when he saw what Sam had built, he would choose to be part of it; and not because he felt obligated to do it out of loyalty or friendship, but because he wanted to. Because he wanted to fight alongside Sam, just like they used to. Partners.
And then Bucky ended up with a team all of his own and no matter how much they talked about it, argued about it, Sam just can't see his way to making it work, not with the constant possibility he would end up sacrificing the principles that he has already fought so hard to maintain.
The team are doing good work, though, is the thing. Really good. Watching them in the field, it is obvious how tightly-knit they are. They look out for each other, have each other’s backs. And Bucky is looking good on it (not just the new uniform and the hair, which are each impressive in their own right but when taken together… Yeah, they may have given Sam some fairly intense alone-time thoughts). There is a quiet confidence and assurance in how Bucky handles himself, something that had always been evident in the field, or when he was at his most relaxed in Delacroix, but now seems to have developed into a general way of being.
Yelena is clearly the heart of the (ugh) New Avengers/Thunderbolts/whatever, but they all defer to Bucky. Look to him for confirmation, assurance.
And in all honesty, it is probably healthy for Bucky and his ongoing recovery that he have something of his own, his own network and people, that isn’t all about Sam and his family (however much they are also Bucky's by this point), or the Wakandans who are so important to him and he to them, but also so far away.
For that, at least, Sam is- Maybe not happy, exactly, but glad for him.
But it still sets an ache in Sam’s heart, seeing him with this group. Because it goes beyond their competence in the field: Sam has seen enough of them by now during their downtime to see that they have clearly found something, all of them together. The in-jokes and teasing. Petty bickering that is obviously part of a larger cycle that none of them pay much mind to. And Bucky is central to all of it, which is fine. It is good. And yet there is that part of Sam that howls but he was supposed to be mine.
Which is childish and selfish.
Bucky isn’t his, had never been his, even if Sam had nursed private, secret hopes that their working together, living together, would lead to the inevitable. At least, it had felt inevitable when Bucky was a warm solid presence beside him on the couch, a solid unfailing presence at his side on countless missions.
Sam picks himself off the end of the bed, pads back into the living room. The soft, jewel-hued blanket that Bucky had brought back from Wakanda is still folded over the back of the couch and Sam had taken it as a silent promise. It had been a comfort, initially, it seemed to hold the memory of shared warmth. Now it just seems to hit Sam right in the face with all that he has lost - not that it had been his to lose.
The random, unfounded jealousies do not help on that score. Bucky and Yelena have clearly adopted one another as siblings, and there is something sweetly touching about the way Bucky steers her quietly but firmly, nudging her towards command decisions and supporting her. Seeing them together, Sam can only ever think how proud Nat would have been of her baby sister. Of how impossible this would have seemed all those years ago when the Winter Soldier had been an unstoppable, terrifying force and Sam had been convinced that the only way to end it was to put him in the ground.
Bucky, with his horizon-blue eyes, unexpectedly sweet sunny smiles and even more unexpectedly generous heart.
Seeing him with Ava Starr is another matter. She is so strikingly beautiful that on meeting her in person for the first time, Sam had forgotten how to speak for a good ten seconds. And then on one of those evenings when he had been invited over to the Tower, he had watched the way she had curled herself against Bucky, tucking in like she belonged there, while they worked on a clue from one of those overly-complicated board games which always seemed like something from a fever dream to Sam. The way they had grinned at each other when they had puzzled it out, heads close together. And they had looked good together, really good. Both loose and soft, Ava’s long legs tucked up, dark hair falling around her shoulders, Bucky in an old wash-worn t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, and Sam couldn’t stop staring at him, at them.
And it is a hell of a leap to assume that there even is a ‘them’. Anyone else would just be happy that their deeply traumatised, miraculously healing, best friend and (ex-, still, future, fuck!) partner had found more people in his life whom he cared for and who cared for him. Who would play silly games and share dumb jokes with him.
All those evenings spent cooped up in each other’s faces in safe houses and the languid, content ones on the couch in their apartment, sharing Bucky’s blanket and a tub of popcorn watching a movie-
It had been increasingly hard to take himself to his own bedroom, alone, instead of taking Bucky’s hand and pulling him in, or following Bucky to his, or something. It had felt so inevitable that Sam had stopped even questioning it, he realised. Until it had passed. And now Sam can’t shake the feeling that Bucky is leaving him behind in more ways than one. That it’s Sam who will be left standing in the remnants of their once-shared life while Bucky grows and blooms with happiness with a new team and a new love.
Sam sits on the couch, stares sightlessly at the beer bottle, rolling it between his hands.
It is all too entangled: the past and the present; their professional and personal lives; legacy and dreams of the future.
Take the personal out of it, his lawyer had said briskly. Just a copyright issue, let the courts decide. A legal matter, not a personal one. Sam had felt the knot in his chest give way slightly with relief when he had heard it. Take a step (or a few) back and let the process work itself out.
Although, it would probably not seem like that to Bucky. Shit. Sam scrubs a hand across the back of his head. He should have given Bucky a head’s up, talked through the ‘taking the personal out of it’ approach. And while he was about it, also say the thing he really wants to, the thing that has been dancing on the edges of everything ever since Bucky had deliberately walked into blackness and disappeared. It was only seeing Bucky’s name come up as an incoming caller later that evening, even after seeing the news reports because until Sam had proof of life that he could really believe would he be satisfied, that Sam had realised that his heart had been beating to an irregular rhythm. Only settling when he heard Bucky’s voice. And with every call and message and even face-to-face conversation, what he has truly meant to say is, Come home. Come home to me.
Sam’s phone rings, shrill and loud in the still silence. Sam stares at the screen and this manifesting shit really works, he thinks a little hysterically. He made this happen. He wanted it so badly that Bucky heard him, reached out to him, like one of those Gothic romance things that Sarah likes so much.
Sam takes a breath, punches the green accept icon.
‘Look, if you’re gonna yell at me about the copyright-’
‘It’s not that.’
Something so tense in those three words that Sam falls silent, feels his stomach swoop sickeningly. ‘What’s happened?’
He can hear Bucky’s soft breathing. ‘Remember you told me what Sterns said? On the Raft?’
The sickening feeling flexes its claws. ‘Yeah.’
‘Well, it’s here. And it’s bad, Sam. Like, Thanos-bad. It’s gonna take all of us, everyone. And-’ An impatient breath blown out. ‘Look, we can go back to arguing over naming rights after but right here, right now, this is-’
‘Is more important.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Of course. I’ll be there. I’ll call Joaquin, anyone else. Guessing your fancy-ass Tower is the best place to meet, huh? You just better give everyone free wi-fi or we’re gonna have words.’
A fraction of a pause and then a faint laugh and it’s the best thing that Sam has heard in weeks. He grins in spite of himself.
‘Hey, Buck, listen… This whole Avengers name thing- We’ll figure it out, okay? There’s gotta be a better way, some sort of’ -he takes a breath- ‘some sort of compromise, right?’
‘Yeah. Yes. God, Sam, I never wanted to cause you any-’
‘You didn’t,’ Sam says, fast. He puts his bottle on the coffee table, wincing slightly because that is definitely going to leave a ring and Bucky will never let him hear the end of it. ‘It’s just- We’re too close to all of it. You and me. But we’ll work it out.’
‘Okay.’ Soft, and maybe it’s wishful thinking but Sam thinks that some of the tension has drained out of Bucky’s voice. ‘Thanks, Sam. I know you must be pretty beat after that last mission.’
‘Yeah, well, that’s the gig, right?’
‘Right.’
Wait, how the hell does Bucky know anything about his latest mission? Sam barely knows anything about it and he just finished it. He narrows his eyes. ‘Barnes, did you hack Redwing again?’
‘Have you heard that saying, them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie?’
Sam laughs, shakes his head. ‘You’re an asshole.’
‘And you’re a reckless idiot with no sense of self-preservation. Guess that makes us even.’
Which is such a pot-kettle situation that Sam doesn’t even bother to respond to it. He checks his watch, does some mental math for an ETA. ‘Can probably be there in, like, ninety. Two hours, tops.’
‘I’ll have the welcome mat rolled out.’
Sam snorts and then, because he’s wasted too many opportunities and the last time it was Thanos-bad they lost five whole-ass years and he isn’t losing five more seconds without saying something, if it will make a difference. ‘I love you.’
A slight pause. ‘Love you, too.’ Light.
‘No, Buck… I love you.’
A longer pause then and Sam feels his heart lurch, everything swimming sideways until Bucky’s voice comes back to him, faint and wondering.
‘Sammy… Sweetheart! I-I love you, too.’
Sam closes his eyes, swallows against the tightness in his throat, his head as light and dizzy as though he had already strapped on the wings, heading at full speed into the steepest climb before free-falling down to safety. Home. Bucky’s arms.
‘Good. So, when this is over, we come home. Both of us. You and me.’
‘Save the world, come home. Finally got a good plan there, Birdman.’ And Bucky is clearly aiming for their usual bantering tone but he sounds far too tender, too fragile at the edges for it to land like that. Every word has all of his I love yous layered beneath, as audible to Sam now as though he had yelled them.
‘Just know where my priorities are.’ Sam pushes up from the couch. He doesn’t really want to end the call, but the sooner he does, the sooner he’s in the air. The sooner he’s in New York, and-
And he’s home. Wherever Bucky is, Sam will be home.
‘See you in a few, baby,’ he says, the endearment slipping out like the most natural thing in the world. And there’s an answering smile in Bucky’s voice.
‘I’ll be waiting, sweetheart.’