Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Stressed doesn’t begin to cover what Sam’s feeling right now.

It takes him a long time to get his breath back, keep it under control. Wind whips through the open doors of the helicopter and Natasha and Nick keep shouting at Maria. Sam can’t find another pair of headphones for a long few minutes, and when he does, his hands shake too much to grab them and put them on. Natasha has to help him. Her fingers lightly touch his eye, swelling already from all the punches he took.

He can’t help himself; he leans into the touch. Her hand slides down to his cheek, then to the back of his neck. She pulls him close again, so his head rests in the crook of her shoulder. He breathes shakily, lungs burning from all the air time he’s gotten today. His head is kind of spinning.

Natasha keeps shouting to Maria and Nick, turning her mouth away from his head. He doesn’t look up until she gasps, loud and shocked.

His head pops up just in time to see a body fall from the last helicarrier. They’re too far away to make out who it is but it doesn’t matter. Sam turns to the open door and throws up.

The helicopter sets down amid panic en masse. Sam and Nat jump out, legs shaky. A lot of the people running around don’t look at them; those that do recognize Natasha and probably assume the Avengers are on the scene.

(There are two Avengers and both are at the scene but neither are much help right now.)

Everyone’s running away from the Potomac so it’s a struggle to get there. With Nat at his side, willing to shove sharp elbows into people’s sides to get them to move, they get there quicker than Sam would’ve thought.

There’s a lot of ambulances and fire trucks and police cars already on the shore, pulling bodies out of the water. A lot of them are Insight, only a few civilians. Sam can see at least three people who are alive, coughing and spluttering and crying. Most of the people being pulled out are dead.

Sam’s stomach is a stone inside him. Whoever fell out of the helicarrier, be it Steve or Bucky, fell straight into the water. None of the people there, laying in mostly zipped body bags or on stretchers or helping out, are as eye catching as the two super soldiers are.

Sam calls to a policeman, “How many you find so far?”

The policeman scrunches up his nose, shrugs with a huff. “We’re not exactly keeping count.”

“An estimate, then,” Natasha insists. The policeman stares at her. Sam’s not sure if he recognizes her or is leering at her.

“About fifteen,” he says reluctantly.

“Was Captain America one of them?”

Panic washes over the guy’s face. “Captain America?”

“Yeah, either him or the guy with the metal arm.”

“Oh, fuck. No, no he’s not one of them. I’ll tell everyone to look out for him, okay? Him or the metal arm guy.” He runs off to get the chief.

The police chief seems much more interested in talking to Sam and Natasha, who he definitely recognizes. He explains where they’ve looked, how they have people on the water and how divers are already coming. The fourteen people they’ve pulled out have either crawled out, been seen, or floated to the shore.

“Would either of you be interested in helping?”

Sam and Nat share a look. Yeah, they want to help.

Steve is missing for two hours. He’s finally found on the shore by some teenagers who first call the police and second take selfies. Sam spends those two hours trying to get his land legs and running around with Natasha trying not to panic.

Still, when they get told that Captain America is just on the other side of the shore, Sam hops into the boat next to the stretcher and tries to push any and all seasickness away.

Finding Steve isn’t difficult -- the teens are still there -- but looking at him is hard. Bucky beat his face in. Bucky also shot him and stabbed him and caused a shitload of internal bleeding. Bucky is missing. Every news site in the ten state area has APBs running. Sam knows this because on the DC news station they play in the hospital, the presenter is talking about how no one really knows where the Winter Soldier went. They do know he almost killed Captain America, and so he has become the world’s top threat (apparently almost killing Captain America is where they’ve set the bar). Just about the whole world is being told to watch out for the Winter Soldier.

The whole world is also looking at the selfies of Steve’s face. Those damn teens put them online immediately and set off a panic. If this guy can do that to Captain Goddamn America, what could he do to defenseless, everyday, normal people? Sam wants them to stop asking. He knows what that guy will do to your Average Joe -- Sam’s got the internal and external bruising to show for it. The shade his skin is turning on the shoulder where he landed hard is enough to make Sam want to get some serum. He can’t really feel it now but it’s gonna hurt like holy hell later.

Sam and Natasha are Steve’s next of kin. The doctors and nurses here are nosy as all hell and can’t be trusted not to sneak pictures. Sam and Nat have to pretend they’re just his close friends.

Tony sends in guards for the room, two in front of the door and two in front of every exit off the floor that isn’t a window.

Steve lays passed out in bed, unaware of anything happening around him. Sam turns on Troubleman, since it’s their collective favorite and it makes him happy to remember dancing around the living room to it.

Natasha stays for only a little while, explaining when she leaves that she has a favor to call in. “I’ll see you tonight,” she says and kisses him in the bathroom. The kiss is deep, emotional and the kind of end-of-the-world kiss they’ve had one too many times. That doesn’t stop him from sticking his tongue down her throat and then crying on her shoulder.

He’s had a very eventful, traumatic day, alright? Two falls and one fake out, two of those happening at the hands of his assassin soulmate who almost killed his boyfriend. He’s gone through the ringer and if he wants to cry on his wife’s shoulder, he will.

She has to go too soon for Sam’s liking but he’s used to her slipping in and out by now. She’ll be back. She said so, and he trusts her implicitly.

When Steve wakes up, it’s just Sam there. Steve mumbles, “On your left,” their morning jog joke that Sam has not missed hearing.

Sam groans but there’s a smile on his face. Relief fills him to the brim -- Steve’s awake. There’d been a chance Bucky had beaten him into a coma.

Sam has felt anxious and sick since Natasha called and said Nick died. Today hasn't helped one bit.

Maybe he should be happy he met his soulmate. Maybe he should be happy everyone lived. But he can’t make the bad feelings go away like the flip of a switch. He can’t hide this shit like Steve and Natasha can.

“Troubleman?” Steve rasps.

Sam laughs a little hysterically. He doesn’t know why. Steve wasn’t trying to be funny. “Yeah. Yeah, I thought you might like something familiar to wake up to.”

Steve’s face crumples, and a pained noise slips from between his lips.

All the air in Sam’s lungs comes out in a half-huff, half-sob. He stands, moves closer to the bed, and presses his forehead to Steve’s. Steve drags a hand up, cradles the side of his face.

“ Sam .”

Asset doesn’t run away from the body on the shore but he sure as shit hurries. The streets of DC are a cacophony of noises, so it’s easy to blend in, easy to jump into the window of a store that somebody else already broke into and steal some clothes. He steals a backpack and some trash bags, along with the clothes. Gloves too.

He uses the bathroom to change, shoving his gear into a trash bag and putting the trash bag in the backpack. The clothes are dark, long sleeved and sturdy. The gloves go on and suddenly he looks human.

Emotions and memories of people without faces or names or voices keep assaulting him. A woman with dark hair, a little girl who looks just like him, a blonde woman, a group of men, all of whom Traitor wants desperately to talk to. Lots of women, of all shapes and sizes. Piggy little Zola. Natalia, with hair a shade brighter and teeth a shade sharper. Most of all, he keeps hearing Steve call him Bucky, but he doesn’t feel like a Bucky. He feels like an Asset.

Steve Rogers makes Asset’s head hurt. Natalia Romanova -- Natasha Romanoff-Wilson, now -- has the same effect. He remembers two versions of Steve, little and big. Natalia reminds him too much of the KGB, though honestly, he doesn’t recall nearly as much about her as Steve.

Asset has to find out more about his targets, though, it’s the only thing he can think about and not have an absolute break down over. Which means that he’s got only one person to look into -- Sam Wilson. His soulmate. Or at least, the guy Steve said is his soulmate.

Asset has no resources and nowhere to go, unless he counts Sam Wilson’s house. Which he does, incidentally.

He remembers from briefing that it’s just outside DC, in the suburbs. Takes a while to walk to, but he fixed his shoulder in the bathroom so he can handle it. Not very well protected and, in the case of a fight being brought home, there’s lots of civilians who could become casualties. Asset feels exposed in his civilian clothes. He has no body armor on and it’s making him twitch. The voice of Traitor tells him, there’s no high buildings so no snipers unless they’re really stupid enough to shoot through a first floor window. Make yourself blend in. There’s no one out but it’s fine. Tilt your chin up, swing your hips. You act like you belong and no one will question it.

He does what Traitor says just to see if it’ll work. Handler is silent, so Asset has no one but Traitor. Asset may have to rename Traitor because Traitor is right. No one’s out, but those that peek out their windows at him don’t seem phased. He’s got smoke residue on his face and his hair is a mess. He looks like any other person who left their car in the city and is trying to get home.

The closer he gets to Sam Wilson’s house, the more eyes he feels. Traitor tells him not to be obvious when he looks around, so Asset tries to be subtle. An older woman is staring right at him from across the street and two houses down. Through a screen door, three children are looking around, only the mid-sized child looking at him. Asset quickly looks away and reaches into his pocket for the lock picking kit.

It’s quick work getting inside. Asset doesn’t look around, acts as human as possible. Asset doesn’t feel human. Asset doesn’t feel much of anything except overwhelming uncertainty. He shakes his head and steps in, closing the door behind him.

The house has blue walls, art hung up sporadically, furniture that looks soft. Traitor wants him to sit on the couch. Asset says no. He touches nothing and goes upstairs, to where he assumes the bedroom is. The first door is a bathroom; he’ll come back, he decides when a quick look reveals nothing of interest. Sam Wilson is at the hospital and won’t be coming back anytime soon. There’s time.

The next room is a closet, that has extra towels and blankets in it. For some reason, there’s a bucket full of boxes of light bulbs. There’s a clear tub with papers in it. Asset takes it down and flips through, taking in the information. Birth certificate, car registry, wedding record. Wedding record? Dammit, that’s right, Sam’s married! To Natalia! Traitor growls, demanding Asset look back at that one.

Samuel T. Wilson, aged 34, married Natasha A. Romanoff, aged 28, on this day, the 11th of November in 2012.

There’s more information, like the name of Sam’s mother, where the wedding happened, names of witnesses. Nick Fury is one of the witnesses. Asset wonders if he should maybe feel bad. Natalia had listed him as her father. Asset sort of remembers shooting him -- a flash of setting up his rifle, a second of being chased; he remembers seeing Steve best. Despite what he remembers, he knows he shot and killed Nick Fury. Traitor, what do people do when they feel bad about doing something?

They say sorry. Voice analysis: Traitor thinks this should be obvious.

I’ll leave a note , he decides.

Do you really want them to know you were here? I thought the point was that they didn’t know you stopped by.

Uncertain, he replies, and takes the paper. Traitor sighs and starts mumbling about how Sam Wilson isn’t supposed to be married.

Asset ignores it as he’s ignored the rest of the mumbling and puts the tub back. The bedroom is next, walls a lighter blue than downstairs. The art here is different, more stylized. Steve’s , Traitor tells him proudly. Asset looks. They’re all signed Steven G. Rogers. Huh. Asset hadn’t been told Steve is an artist.

Traitor says, what? You didn’t know Steve’s an artist?

Asset shrugs, not responding. Why talk when there are bedside tables to look through. The one on the left has a notebook with lots of different words in it. He recognizes very few. Still, he memorizes what he sees and puts it back. Next is a gun, which he steals. Sticks of gum. A pen. Nail clippers. A charger of some sort. A wrist guard. Asset is uninterested. The right bedside table has a book in the drawer -- Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone . The clock on the table is digital, with an alarm set for six am. Traitor groans at that. Asset doesn’t find much else -- a paper that says, call mom! , a jewelry box with a ring that looks masculine and dated.

Asset bites his cheek. Is this all there is? He’s trying to get information. All he knows about Sam Wilson is that he reads children’s books, wakes up early, and forgets to call his mother. He sits on the bed with a huff, sinking down farther than he expected. Okay, Asset amends, Sam Wilson likes soft furniture.

There’s another bathroom, he sees. He gets to his feet and steps inside. Asset finds what he expects -- makeup and shaving kits, toilet paper, q-tips, tweezers, soaps, shampoos, conditioners. Oddly, there are two shaving kits. One is modern, with an electric razor. One is dated, with a straight blade. Asset doesn’t know why Sam Wilson would have two -- does Natalia need one? He checks, and no, there are more feminine-appearing razors in the shower. He can’t figure out why there’d be three different types of razors, so he files the information for later inspection.

He moves back to the bedroom, finds a bookshelf. Most of the books are about the Air Force, the military, real people and events. Asset thinks so, at least. Traitor doesn’t know what 9/11 is, either. Some of the books are about war; the Second World War, the Cold War, the War on Drugs, the War in Afghanistan. Asset steals the ones that seem decade specific, though there are only three -- the 1940s, the 1980s, and 1990s. Asset will have to find out about the other decades on his own.

I’m here, Traitor protests. Asset hums but doesn’t respond.

He moves to the closet next, finding three sets of clothes. The first set is mostly athletic t-shirts and plaid button-ups, khakis and jeans, loafers and combat boots. Asset doesn’t like the clothes. The next set is half dresses, half t-shirt/jean outfits, with many pairs of heels in all colors. He recognizes the use of these clothes; having this many makes for better opportunities. Natalia can go anywhere and be anyone in these clothes. The last set is a mix of professional and unprofessional clothes; t-shirts with images on them and button-ups that are only one color, jeans and khakis, athletic shoes and loafers and one pair of boots that Asset approves of. Asset also wonders why the two masculine sets of clothes aren’t together; upon looking, he sees that the shirts similar enough in size. The pants, however, are very different -- the first set has a much smaller waist compared to the third set.

Are there three people living here? Traitor makes a noise that Asset takes to mean he doesn’t know.

Asset steals a shirt from each set. He is uncertain what size he is so he picks the biggest shirts. He also steals some socks. They’ll be hidden by his boots so he picks the ones with bright colors.

Asset moves on from the room. There’s a guest bedroom that has been turned into an office; it holds two desks and a canvas. One desk has lots of papers and folders on it; upon a closer look, he finds case files of veterans. Sam Wilson works at Veteran’s Affairs. This must be his desk. He looks through the drawers and finds lots of little notes, with arrows and scribbles. There are a few more books, this time about PTSD and other mental illnesses. Asset doesn’t take those -- instead he steals a blank piece of paper and writes down the titles and authors. Asset does steal a note that Sam Wilson and Natalia wrote to each other.

Lookin good, handsome
Right back at ya, baby
You flirt.
You love it
I do :)

Asset isn’t sure why he takes the note. Traitor starts to say something but Asset tunes him out.

The other desk has an armory that Asset passes over for the moment. The desk has almost nothing on it, just stray pencils and post its that have handwriting messy enough that Asset can’t read. The drawers are empty. He moves to the armory, then. There’s an impressive range of pistols and rifles, lots of knives and other weapons Asset doesn’t recognize but is sure he knows how to handle. He already has the gun from the bedside table, but that’s not enough. He takes three more weapons, one knife, one pistol, and one rifle with a stand and scope. He also takes several magazines of ammo. They go in a second trash bag with the first gun; his backpack is filling up.

He moves onto the canvas then, and doesn’t find much. There’s a face on the canvas, half-drawn. Traitor says it’s the face of Sarah Rogers. Asset reaches out, holds his hand just above the paper. He wants to touch it but an old instinct says he’ll smudge it. Asset doesn’t want to smudge it; he takes his hand away. There are a few more canvases behind the easel the first sits on, leaning up against the wall. One is Natalia, nude from the waist up. Asset notes that the signature at the bottom is the same as the ones in the bedroom -- Steven G. Rogers. Steve has seen Natalia nude? This likeness is very accurate, from what he remembers of Natalia. But Natalia is married to Sam Wilson. Why has Steve seen Natalia nude?

Later, he decides. He’ll think on it later. Though it does point to…. Nevermind.

The second canvas has less nudity but more emotion. It’s Sam Wilson, dancing, caught mid-movement and smiling so wide Asset yearns to see it in real life. Asset doesn’t know much about dancing but Sam Wilson makes it look enjoyable. Asset would like to join him, maybe. Traitor sighs dreamily and makes a noise of agreement.

The third and last canvas on the floor is of Asset. No, that’s me, Traitor rebukes. See the arm? Not metal. That’s me.

Asset doesn’t really care if it’s him or Traitor. He cares that he never see it again. He turns it around and sets it back against the wall. Something inside him wants him to destroy it, but Traitor hates the idea.

Fine, fine, Asset will leave it.

He moves downstairs again, ignores the couch. There’s a television on a stand, and stacks of discs in the space below it. He looks through them but doesn’t recognize any. Traitor does, oohing and ahhing over Snow White and The Seven Dwarves, King Kong, Gone With The Wind, and Wizard of Oz . Traitor uses Asset’s hands to snag The Adventures of Robin Hood and shove it in his backpack. Asset has no need for the disc, but Traitor insists. Asset lets it go.

He moves on to the vinyls, which stand upright in a cardboard box. Marvin Gaye, Glen Miller, Best of Motown, Jackson 5, Soundgarden, Billie Holiday, TLC, Metallica, Queen. Traitor says he only knows Glen Miller and Billie Holiday. Asset doesn’t know any of them. He leaves them in the box.

Garage is next. A 2015 Chevrolet Impala in Air Force navy blue sits there, surrounded on all sides by a plethora of random things. There’s a tall box that used to hold the bookshelf he saw in the bedroom; a dartboard and several darts bundled together by a hair tie; trash bags tied off at the top; metal chairs; a bike.

Maybe some other time, Asset thinks, perhaps tired. He can go on forever if need be but going through the garage will take energy he doesn’t want to expend. What’s he going to find, anyway? Some book of secrets that tell him everything he needs to know about Sam Wilson?

Whatever. He’s going to the kitchen now; maybe something interesting will be in there.

The kitchen isn’t small. Someone who lives in this house likes to cook. There are a few cookbooks, one specifically about deserts, while the other two are for meals. He finds a drawer of printed recipes from “AllRecipes” and “Pinterest”. Asset leaves them be.

In another drawer are utensils, neatly separated and clean. Asset takes one of each, though he isn’t sure why. Traitor doesn’t know, either.

Batteries are in the next drawer, along with a hammer, nails, tacks, pins, sewing supplies, screws, and a screwdriver. They don’t have enough, he thinks. One screwdriver for the whole house? That doesn’t sound right.

He moves on. The cabinets above the stove have oils and spices in them. The ones next to the sink have plates and bowls. Cups get an entire cabinet; none of them match. Some are mugs, some are wine glasses. There are a few shot glasses, all with names of locations on them. Sam Wilson has gotten around, if he bought these. They could be presents given to him, though. Asset is uncertain how to tell and decides to just move on.

The other cabinets have non-perishable foods and base ingredients like flour, sugar, baking soda. The pantry is full of food that doesn’t need to be refrigerated. Asset takes a box of granola bars and a box of soft things called ‘Twinkies’. They go in his backpack.

The fridge has leftovers and all sorts of food. Traitor uses Asset’s body again to lick his lips. Asset doesn’t like the smell or the cold. Traitor wants to pull out the strawberries but Asset closes the door and moves out of the kitchen.

He finds himself back in the living room. There are framed pictures he’d taken note of but hadn’t looked at.

The first he finds is Sam Wilson as child, hugging a pregnant woman. A man stood by his other side. These must be Sam Wilson’s parents, then.

It's a nice picture but it makes Asset’s chest hurt. Traitor reaches out with Asset’s hands and takes it. Is this what we're doing, he thinks. Traitor sure likes taking things, but Asset can't talk. He’s been taking things, too.

He resolves to himself that he won't take any more pictures. But then he sees the next one, of Natalia and a blonde man Asset doesn't recognize. Natalia looks very different from what he last saw of her. Shorter hair, more layers of clothes that don't particularly match. Traitor says, she's a spook.

A spook?

Yeah, a real dog biscuit.

Traitor makes no sense. Most things he says are foreign to Asset, but this, especially, confuses Asset. He doesn't ask again.

Asset doesn't take that picture of Natalia but he does take the next one. She wears a white dress with lace and has hair so long it goes to her back. Sam Wilson stands next to her, wearing Air Force blues. Traitor uses Asset’s hands again to steal that picture and tells Asset, now there's a drooly.

Asset takes back his hands and shoves them in the pockets of the jeans he's wearing. No more stealing. It's already going to be obvious someone was here, no need to make it look like a robbery.

There's another picture of Sam Wilson and Natalia’s wedding, this time with Natalia standing between Steve and Sam Wilson. Steve wears army beige. It's a nice picture. Asset can't help but notice that all three are smiling. Sam Wilson has tears in his eyes, the kind Traitor says are the good kind. Asset hadn't known there's more than one type of crying. The only type he is familiar with is crying because of pain. Surely their wedding wasn’t painful. Natalia looks so happy, grinning at the photographer. Steve is happy, too, body looser than Asset had seen it. Traitor doesn’t know who to look at -- Asset feels the same way.

Asset takes it before Traitor can even think to.

There are more pictures, of Sam Wilson in the Air Force, growing up, with his siblings. There is one picture of Steve, sitting in a photo booth with Traitor. They're both young, no lines or pain on their faces. Traitor wants it. Asset doesn't want to look at it.

He doesn't take any more pictures. Traitor tells him to turn around and shove them all in his bag.

Asset says no but somehow finds himself taking a picture of Sam Wilson wearing a black shirt with a red hourglass on the front.

He isn't sure why he takes the pictures. They don't tell him much of anything about Sam Wilson.

Now that he thinks about it...why did he come here? The mission is over. Why does he need to find out about his targets?

Traitor says, I wanna know about them, isn’t that reason enough? But...Asset doesn’t trust Traitor. Did he really come here on Traitor’s word? Somehow it’s always someone else telling him where to go, what to do. Traitor has used his hands to do things today and Asset has just let it happen.

He drags his flesh hand through his hair, which he notices immediately is dusty and smoky and greasy. Traitor hates it, kicks up a fuss. Asset, coincidentally, prefers his hair this way. No, Traitor, it’s not because of you. Except it really is.

Asset decides then he must leave. He has no reason to be here and though he didn’t check the whole house, it doesn’t matter. He’s stolen from his targets, he’s gleaned ultimately useless information, and now he has to go.

Would it be best to go out the front or the back? Those children could still be looking. The old woman will definitely notice and tell the occupants of the house that someone broke in. Dammit, why did he come here?

The door clicks as a key turns in the lock. Asset’s programming screeches to a halt. Handler, who has been silent this whole time, shouts, kill them!

Asset doesn’t listen. He doesn’t hide -- it’s obvious he’s been here and even unprotected as he is, he’s not easily taken down. Unless you’re Steve, that is.

Statistical probability says it’s either Sam Wilson or Natalia. Steve is still in the hospital; Asset broke several bones in Steve’s face, and no one, not even a supersoldier can walk away from their fight perfectly fine. Asset himself is in need of repair. Clearly , he thinks. There’s a threat and all he’s thinking about is Steve Rogers. He forces his attention back to the present.

It’s Natalia who steps through the door, Natalia who immediately crouches down to fight.

Handler points out a way to kill her -- he’s nearer the kitchen, where there are knives. He could fight hand to hand to subdue her long enough for him to reach a knife or get one of the guns out of his bag. Knife is better. Guns are loud, will definitely catch attention even if all the police in the area are at the Potomac. Then it’s just a matter of getting information out her -- where is Steve Rogers -- and slitting her throat once he has it. Sam Wilson will come home to find her body.

Traitor hates this idea. Asset hates Traitor but dammit, he’s right in this case. Asset can’t kill Natalia and he can’t listen to Handler, either. Handler wants to know where Steve is? Steve’s at Medstar Washington Hospital Center in Washington DC, room 310. The mission is no more, so Asset doesn’t need to kill him. Asset has no need to find and kill Steve. Handler must think the mission is still going. At least Traitor knows it’s over.

I don’t give a damn about any of that , Traitor says, I care about Sam! God, he’s already with Steve in the hospital, you want him to come home to his wife lying dead on the floor? How loony are you?

I’m not loony, he spits at Traitor. To Natalia, he says nothing, just raises his hands in a gesture of peace.

She straightens out slowly, asks, “You surrendering?”

“No.”

“Why are you here, Yasha?”

“Who the hell is Yasha?”

Natalia rolls her eyes. “ You are Yasha. It’s a nickname. Short for James.”

“James?” Traitor says, James Buchanan Barnes, just like Steve said. Bucky. Yasha. They’re nicknames.

Natalia nods. “Your name is James.” Asset isn’t sure if he likes that name but has no time to decide. “I’m gonna ask again -- why are you here?”

Traitor takes over his tongue and says, “I didn’t know where else to go.”  One of these days, Asset is gonna fucking smother Traitor. He corrects, “I required more information about my targets.”

“Hmm.” Natalia takes him in, looks right through him. “Your mission should be over. Hydra fell. You’re free.”

Asset is uncertain what to say. “Yes.”

“So you’re here for Sam.”

“Yes.” Let’s go with that.

“What’s in the bag?”

It doesn’t sound like an order, but Asset answers anyway, “Weapons.” He doesn’t want to say anything about the other things he took. He doesn’t want her to know.

She glances at the wall, sees the missing frames. “Uh-huh. Yours or did you find them in my armory?”

“Yours. Sorry.” A flicker of surprise shows on her features but she shuts it down quickly; Traitor hums. No wonder Sam married her. Asset isn’t sure what he means and doesn’t ask. “What?” he snaps. Why is she surprised about him apologizing.

She scoffs but it doesn’t sound mean. “Nothing. Apology accepted. You find everything you need?”

Asset wants to say yes and get the hell out. But the truth is, he hasn’t. He says, “No.”

Natalia smirks, shifting her weight on the balls of her feet. She sets her bag down on the couch and beckons him towards the other bookshelf that Asset hadn’t looked through yet. There are less normal books and more photo albums on this one.

“I’m gonna go get something to eat. These,” she points to all but one of the photo albums, “have Sam in them. This one,” she points to the last one, “is Steve and I’s combined. If you want to know more about Sam, look in those.”

Then she moves to the kitchen and studiously ignores him. Asset is aware she’s watching him closely -- it’s been only four point seven hours since the last helicarrier went down, and he hasn’t become less of a threat in that time. But he appreciates her pretending.

He slides the first album out and stands with his back to the corner where the walls meet. The first page has no pictures, just cursive writing that says, Samuel Thomas Wilson, born September 23, 1978. Weight: 7.7 lbs. Length: 19.1 cm. Below that, it says, YEAR ONE.

Asset turns the next page. There’s three pictures on this page -- one titled “Darlene holding Sam for the first time”, one titled “Paul holding Sam for the first time”, and one titled “Sam aged 1 hour 22 mins”. The ones with Darlene and Paul don’t show much of Sam Wilson. In them, Asset takes note of his parents’ expressions. Overjoyed and smiling. The one of just Sam Wilson shows him lying in a clear bassinet, wrapped up in a blanket and with a hat on his head. He’s asleep, eyes shut peacefully.

Traitor wants desperately to steal the book and run. Aww, he coos, look at ‘im. So small. God, do you remember Becca? She was tiny compared to Sam. S’a toss up who was cuter, but she was definitely smaller.

Asset does not remember Becca. Traitor shows him a flash of the little girl with dark hair skipping rope. His stomach twists and he hurriedly turns to the next page.

Two pictures, this time. One titled “Sam coming home” and one titled “Darlene breastfeeding Sam”. In the first, Sam Wilson is in some sort of carrier than neither Asset nor Traitor recognize. The carrier sits on a couch and Darlene sits next to him. Sam Wilson is awake but not crying, looking off to the side. Assessment: curious. In the second picture, Sam Wilson is almost asleep, or perhaps just enjoying the moment. His eyes are half-lidded. Darlene is smiling down at him with such emotion that Asset has to turn the page again.

He remembers a woman looking at him like that. He doesn’t know who she is but it’s like a knife to the gut. Mom, Traitor says softly. Mom looked at us like that. Asset ignores the way his throat tightens.

He looks through the rest of the pictures. Most of them are of Sam Wilson staring at things and sleeping. Eventually Sam Wilson sits up on his own. His hair doesn’t grow much but he still pulls at it in some pictures. His clothes are dated, and Traitor makes comments about them every time. Corduroy? Really? Traitor has lots of opinions about the smallest things, Asset notes. Asset doesn’t have many opinions.

He goes through all the albums there, watching Sam Wilson grow up. Report cards appear alongside the pictures, drawings and notes. Asset carefully examines each new item, stores them away. Natalia stands in the kitchen and eats, watches him.

When he finishes looking at the last one, he puts it back carefully and looks her way.

“What?” she asks, stepping into the living room. “You can’t have those."

Traitor whines, why not . Asset rolls his eyes at Traitor and tells Natalia, “Okay.”

“Okay. You need anything else?”

Asset says nothing.

She bites her lip and sighs. There are papers on the kitchen table; she takes one and writes something down on it. Then she opens a drawer in the kitchen and moves items around until she finds what she was looking for. When she hands him the items, he takes them without hesitance. A piece of paper and a hair tie.

“Do you know how to put your hair up?” He shakes his head. She reaches out a hand and curls her fingers expectantly twice. He hands her the hair tie. She demonstrates, three times. The last demonstration shows him how to make his hair into a bun. Asset takes the hair tie back. “That’s my number. Let me know if you need any help.”

“Help,” he repeats, uncertain of what she means and why she’s doing this.

“Yeah.” Her demeanor is soft when she says, “Yasha, I know -- well, I know a lot. I know what you’re going through. I’m on your side. I don’t know where you’re going from here but as long as you don’t go killing innocent people, it doesn’t really matter.” She reaches out and presses a hand to his chest. Asset flinches but she’s not pushing him or hurting him. Her hand just lays there. “Like I said -- call me if you need help.”

He opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Traitor takes over, rustily promising, “I will.”

Natalia smiles, perhaps genuinely. Traitor sighs dreamily. “Good. Now get out of here before you’re caught.”

Asset nods. She moves back and lets him move to the door. He opens it -- the children are no longer sitting by the door but the old woman is watching intently. Natalia presses a kiss to his cheek and gives the old woman a strong look. Curtains flutter around the old woman’s face as she turns away.

Asset starts walking away, disoriented. He has no idea what just happened.

The last thing Natalia says to him before closing the door is, “And stop stealing our shit!”

Steve doesn’t leave the hospital for three days.

Sam goes home day two and takes a shower. He’s so tired he doesn’t notice until he comes back four days after the fall of Hydra that shit’s missing around the house.

What really happens is that Sam and Steve come home, find Natasha not there, take quick showers and fall into bed. Sam takes his shower first and when Steve finishes up with his, he finds Sam already asleep over the covers.

Steve pulls the top blanket out from under him and they sleep under it, curled up together. Sam sleeps like a baby and in the morning, he doesn't really wake up until he's downed two and three quarter cups of coffee.

Then he sits on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table just this once, and stares at the wall. There are a few spots that look oddly empty. His eyes move on, going to the muted TV.

Then -- wait.

“Steve?” he shouts to the kitchen.

“What?”

“Where'd the pictures over the TV go?”

“I dunno!” Steve steps gingerly out of the kitchen. Sam watches him carefully; he's not supposed to be straining himself but with Steve, it's impossible to stop that from happening. Sam's waiting for him to do it so he can lecture Steve. “Maybe Nat took them?”

Sam shrugs; he hadn't thought of that. “Lemme call her. I left my phone upstairs.”

“I'll get it,” Steve says, giving Sam a quick kiss. Sam reciprocates of course; any chance to kiss Steve and also not go upstairs is a good one. His legs still ache like hell from all the hard landings. Steve is quick, so quick Sam only gets in two sips of his drink. The TV is still going on about Bucky. “Here. Put her on speakerphone, will you?”

“Yeah, sure.” He quickly pulls up her contact and calls, putting on speakerphone. It takes a few rings but she does pick up.

“Hey, Pumpkin.” She’s affectionate despite the background noise -- maybe because of it. He can’t imagine that she’d call him that where people could hear. To this day, Tony has no idea about the pet name.

“Hi, Nat.”

“Hey Nat!”

“‘Sup?”

Sam makes his voice casual, not accusing. Really, if she took the pictures, it’s no big deal. He just wants to know. “We were just wondering where the pictures over the TV went?”

Natasha answers flippantly, “Oh, Yasha took them.” Sam’s brain sort of...shorts out. Yasha is a name he hasn’t heard in a long time. He’s only heard part of the story, the part where he was Natasha’s first love and how he was forced to leave her. Still, he’d thought Yasha died. Nat had made it sound like he’d died,  or something. Apparently not.

Steve asks, confused, “Yasha?”

“That’s what I called Bucky when I knew him. Yasha’s a nickname for James. Anyway, is that all you were asking about?”

“Bucky was here? When?” Steve demands. Sam is more concerned about Yasha being Bucky -- if Nat knew Bucky the whole time, how had she never put the pieces together? Or, if she did, why didn’t she tell him? -- but he wants to know the answer to this question, too.

Nat hums. Sometimes Sam loves her mysterious personality. Times like these, he’s not so fond of it. “Yeah, just after it all went down. He stole some stuff and I haven’t seen him since.”

“Did he try to fight you?”

“No, he just looked at your baby pictures and left. Didn’t really say anything. I wouldn’t worry about it. He has my number and he said he’d call if he needs anything. Right now, just focus on getting better, both of you.”

“You got hurt, too,” he reminds. She’d been electrocuted . Which, despite what she seems to think, is a big deal.

“I know that. I won’t be gone much longer. Dmitri’s pretty close to getting me what I came to Kiev for.”

“Kiev?” Sam asks, looking to Steve. Steve stares at the phone, face ashen.

“Yeah.” She doesn’t elaborate. “I should be home soon. Don’t go looking without me,” she teases.

“Of course not.”

Sam spends the next six months following Bucky around, Steve at his side and Nat a phone call away.

He doesn’t like living on the road, isn’t too fond of following Bucky’s trail of dead bodies. But what else is there for him to do? He could go back to the VA but once you’ve had a taste of the superhero life, it’s hard to get out. Plus it’s obvious that Bucky doesn’t want to be found.

Sam’s convinced he wants nothing to do with Sam, Steve, and Nat. Every sighting they’ve had so far has led to immediate running away on Bucky’s part. He’s certain, absolutely sure.

But then Bucky calls. He calls Nat, not Sam, and only does it once.

They’ve talked a lot about Bucky and decided that he gets to do pretty much whatever he wants and gets to control things such as phone calls. Sam has to let him talk for as long as he wants (within reason, of course).

Nat picks up and barely gets out, “Hello?” before he says, rushed, “Can I talk to Sam?”

Nat glances first at Steve, who sits on the couch on their shared floor in the Tower, then at Sam who’s trying to make the stupidly futuristic TV work. “Sure, here he is.”

She hands the phone to Sam; he takes it and holds it with his shoulder while he pokes at the TV. “Hello?”

“Sam?” Bucky rasps. Sam straightens immediately, opens his mouth to say something, but then Bucky continues, “Steve said…. Steve said you’re my soulmate.”

Sam blows out a breath, sits on his ass too close to the TV. “Yeah. I am.”

There’s a pause. He’s still rasping when he says, “I’m sorry I took your stuff.”

“It’s fine.” Sam can deal with a few missing things, honestly. He wants the pictures back but Tony has all the movies he could ever want so he doesn’t mind that. The shirt Bucky took and the socks would also be appreciated but he doubts he’ll ever see them again.

“You have really nice stuff,” Bucky explains. Finally his voice lightens, a teasing undercurrent buried deep. Or maybe he’s being sincere and he really thinks Sam’s got nice stuff.

Sam scoffs -- he can’t be for real -- and shakes his head. “I know I do. How’re those movies treating you?”

Bucky ignores him. “I can give it back. I know you’re in New York. I can...go to New York. To give it back.”

Sam bites his lip and looks to Steve and Nat, who are listening intently with their advanced hearing. Steve nods frantically, mouthing, ‘say yes!’ Still looking their way, he says, “If you want to, sure.”

Bucky says nothing.

Sam adds, “I mean, where would we meet? How would you get here?” Where are you, he wants to ask. He and Steve have already gone looking, at abandoned Hydra safe houses and burnt-to-the-ground Hydra bases. He’s glad for this break, even if it means Tony won’t stop breathing down his neck asking about his sex life. Laying in a bed, even one softer than he likes, is a lot better than sleeping upright in a quinjet.

“Rendezvous point.”

“I don’t know any rendezvous points, man. How about a Starbucks?”

Bucky makes a noise in the back of his throat,  high pitched and defensive. Sam decides he hates it instantly.

“Okay, Starbucks is a no.”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“No,” Bucky groans. “No Starbucks. Rendezvous point.”

Sam drags a hand down his face, slumps a little. “Bucky. Dude. I don’t know where that is. You want to meet somewhere you gotta tell me where, alright?”

“Call me Bucky again,” he requests, voice gone quiet and raspy again. Huh, Sam thinks. He can do that. He’s real good with names.

Sam doesn’t pause or hesitate, just asks, “Bucky, you gonna let me know where to meet you?”

Bucky lets out a shuddering breath. “Yes. Yes I will.”

“Cool. Um, anything else you-- I mean, you want my number? So you can call me instead of Nat.” Sam doesn’t give out his number to just anyone, but he can’t think of anyone he’d want to give it to more than Bucky. That kid in him that was in love with a blurred Name, a person with no qualities except that they were his soulmate, wants desperately to talk to Bucky. And it’s pretty obvious to him that Bucky wants to talk to him, too.

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay, I’ll text you my number.”

“Okay.” Bucky doesn’t say anything else and Sam stays silent. Bucky’s breathing comes through clearly over the line; Sam feels himself relax, soothed by the sound. Bucky’s alive, breathing, awkwardly making conversation. “Um. I saw…. There’s a coupla TVs in a window. Nearby. They aren’t as big as your TV.”

Sam laughs through his nose. This is Bucky trying to talk to him. Odd comments about things he only knows ‘cause he broke into Sam’s house. “No, probably not. I paid a lot for that thing. Window TVs generally don’t cost too much.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” A thought strikes Sam, so he continues, “Now, you don’t have to tell me where you are, I won’t ask again, but it’s at least safe, right? And it’s got a roof?” It’s gotta have a roof, at the very least.

“Yes and yes. Safe and has a roof.”

“Good. That’s good.” Sam looks up to the ceiling, rocking back and forth a few times. This is so awkward.

Bucky adds, “Even has a bed. A nice one.”

Some distant part of Sam’s brain wonders what Bucky considers a nice bed. The larger part of his mind focuses only on the part where Bucky just said he has a nice bed. A nice bed. Choked, he asks, “Was that a come on?”

“A what?”

“A-- you know what, never mind.” Is he supposed to mention the bed? What does one say to that? Goddammit, Bucky.

“You’d like it,” Bucky says innocently. This asshole knows exactly what he’s doing, doesn’t he. Fuck. “It’s warm.”

Sam’s brain craps out. He breathes out heavily. Married, he reminds himself, I’m married. Don’t let your soulmate seduce you, Sam. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

Sam doesn’t want to do this, but -- “Anything else or can I…?”

“I’ll be in New York soon. And I’ll call you. So I can give you your stuff back.”

“Alrighty.”

Bucky replies in kind and then doesn’t hang up. Sam doesn’t want to hang up, and if Bucky doesn’t do it, they’re gonna be sitting here a while.

“Okay, man, time to go,” he coaxes. Steve gives him the stink eye; Sam rolls his eyes, fluttering his eyelashes so he says, whatever.

“Wait,” Bucky blurts. And then doesn’t say anything. Sam silently drops his forehead onto his palm. This is painfully awkward, and he has to just ride it out. Ugh.

“Yeah?”

“Um. I. You’re.” He clears his throat and says, “You’re a hunk of heartbreak, Sam Wilson.”

And then he hangs up. Sam flops onto his back and wonders if what he thinks just happened really happened.

Bucky texts the next day, a simple, hello.

Hey, Sam texts back, because if Bucky wants to talk, they’ll talk. Plus it’s four am and it’s not like he’s got anything better to do.

The bubbles pop up several times over the next few minutes, finally culminating in, I have a question.

Sam: Go ahead.

Bucky: Where is my Name

Bucky: I mean what does it look like

Bucky: On you

Bucky: Your body

Sam chuckles, you want a pic?

Another few minutes go by and then Bucky replies, yes.

Sam shuffles off to the bathroom, shifting Nat off his shoulder when he gets up. Once he’s in the bathroom, he closes the door and turns the lights on. He winces at what he sees in the mirror -- his abs look great but the bags under his eyes are huge. Plus these boxers aren’t very cute. He’s not about to send Bucky a mirror pic -- he’s not that type of guy -- but he still wants to look good.

Butterflies start flying around in his stomach, which is just ridiculous. He’s taking a picture of his wrist. That’s it. God, he’s acting like he’s sending nudes for the first time. Which he isn’t.

Shaking his head at himself, he pulls up the camera on his phone and takes a picture of his forearm, getting just a sliver of leg and foot. He sends it and heads back to bed. Nat blinks at him when he settles down, now acting as Steve’s little spoon. “Sexting Bucky?” she whispers.

Steve groans and closes his eyes tighter. “No sexting Bucky.”

“I didn’t, don’t worry. Go back to bed.”

“‘Kay,” Steve mumbles, snoring right after.

Nat smirks, soft and affectionate in the cover of early morning. “Bad dream?”

He shrugs. Riley turning into a duck and squawking at him isn’t that bad, even if it makes him a little sad. He misses Riley horribly. Talking to a stone is nothing like talking to the real person.

“C’mere,” she says, beckoning him with an arm raised up in the air for him to slide under. “Little spoon.” He turns over and backs up so she can wrap her arm around his waist and pull their hips together. Her nose, for once not cold, drags over a tendon in his throat. “Night, Pumpkin.”

“Night.”

He waits until she’s asleep to check his phone. Bucky’s texted back, you’re heaven sent, Sam.

Asset takes his time getting to New York. Slow and steady, the blonde woman used to say. (Traitor says she’s Steve’s mom, Sarah. Asset believes him but he can’t make himself say her name.)

It’s warmer, now, and his gloves are suspicious. Luckily, Traitor says sarcastically, you look like a creep. Everyone’s suspicious of you, anyway.

Asset tells him, shut the fuck up. Asset has found that he likes curse words. Traitor hates them. That makes Asset like them more.

He likes lots of things Traitor doesn’t. He likes things period. It’s a new feeling, one he enjoys. Traitor grumbles and makes comments but Asset knows Traitor is happy.

Asset is still thinking about renaming Traitor. And also maybe himself. He was James Buchanan Barnes, once. Bucky. Yasha. Asset isn’t a name. The issue is, he doesn’t feel like a James, a Bucky, or a Yasha. He feels like an Asset. But then, Asset is the name they gave him. Handler only calls him Asset and tries to shut Traitor up. Asset doesn’t want the name they gave him anymore.

Maybe Sam Wilson can give him a new name.

Asset likes Sam Wilson. He trusts Sam Wilson to give him a good name. He trusts Sam Wilson, period. Sam Wilson didn’t try to kill him, just shoot him. And Sam Wilson is Asset’s soulmate -- he’s checked. The brown haired woman ( Mom, Traitor reminds) always said his soulmate would be an amazing person, his best friend, a loyal companion. Asset wants those things, and he believes the brown haired woman ( Mom ).

That’s why he’s willing to meet Sam Wilson in person again.

Plus, Asset has learned in the months since the helicarriers that he can be attracted to people. He can want them, close enough to touch and even closer than that. He can want people like Sam Wilson. And want he does.

Embarrassingly, Traitor likes to control his fingers and type out things like ‘I wanna hug you so bad’ and ‘I wish you weren’t married so I could -- ‘. Asset never sends those texts. The tamer ones, he lets Traitor send. The ones like ‘I learned how to use Facebook and I searched for you. That picture of you and your mom is nice.’

He sends, I’m in New York. It’s an odd thing, to give away his location. But then, New York is a big place and he didn’t specify where exactly. It should be fine. He doubts that Sam Wilson would be able to pinpoint his exact location based off his text.

Sam Wilson texts back immediately, Gotcha. Let me know where you want to meet.

Asset texts the address and tells Sam Wilson to delete it, as soon as he’s memorized it. He doesn’t want anyone else to come with Sam Wilson. He’s not ready to face Steve and Natalia. He wants Sam Wilson all to himself (or as himself as Asset can get, with Handler and Traitor hanging around).

Though really, Asset thinks as he swiftly walks to the rendezvous point, this isn’t a place for that . Traitor is appalled at the idea of touching Sam Wilson like that in anything but a bed, but Asset has no such compunctions. He just wants to touch Sam Wilson, however and wherever he can. Even in this old restaurant that hasn’t been open since the nineteen nineties.

It’s dusty and dark when he gets there, which is what he wants. But what if the dust makes it hard to breathe for Sam Wilson? Maybe he’s like Steve and has asthma. Nothing about it has come up in Asset’s research but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

Traitor tells him forcefully -- more than Asset is used to from him -- that Sam cannot come here without everything clean. If not clean, then less dusty. Mom would kill me if I let my soulmate breathe in pure dust.

Grumbling, Asset goes and looks through the closet to see if anything was left from the last owners. Sure enough, there’s a mop and a few washcloths. He grabs one and moves to the counter first. Traitor takes over and wipes every inch down, coughing at the dust floating around even though it doesn’t bother Asset. “Ugh,” Traitor says to the counter. “I hate cleaning.”

“Let me do it, then,” Asset snaps, taking back control with ease. That’s the only reason he allows Traitor such free reign over their body -- he knows he can take back control and Traitor won’t put up a fight. If Handler got control, Asset would never get his body back. He wipes down the tables, of which there are only a few left, quickly and efficiently. He doesn’t cough or react at all but to gripe to Traitor about having to do everything.

Traitor rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. Yeah, sure, pal. At least I can text Sam without being all weird.

Asset bites off a curse word. Traitor doesn’t know what he’s talking about, he reminds himself. Leave Traitor be.

That’s right, leave me be, Traitor taunts. I’m making sure Sam likes us.

Asset throws the washcloth back at the closet. Traitor moves their feet and forces Asset to pick up the damn thing.

By the time Asset gets around to texting Sam Wilson when to come, the whole place is cleaned up. Asset has found he likes cleaning, which Traitor finds scandalous. Cleaning is for people who got nothing better to do and are really that bored.

Well, I like it, he says, more concerned with typing the right message. The phone he has, some small, cheap “burner phone”, has tiny buttons. His fingers are too big to text easily.

Of course you do, dweeb.

Says you, science nerd.

You are science.

Damn right I am. He hits send telling Sam Wilson to come now and then looks around. He’s done good; warmth rushes through him at the thought. He cleaned and made sure Sam Wilson will be able to breathe. He’s finally done something good.

He sits at the nearest table and waits. Traitor wants to kick their feet but Asset doesn’t let him. He doesn’t want to look stupid in front of Sam Wilson when he gets here.

So he sits still in his seat, listens to Traitor tell a story about a boy named Jacob who hadn’t invited Traitor to his bar mitzvah. It’s an interesting story, one with Steve in it. Steve when he was small. Traitor likes Steve being small. Easier to take care of, he says. Asset doesn’t really know either way. He’s never had to take care of anyone, except keeping targets alive long enough for interrogation. Traitor says that doesn’t count.

He knows exactly when Sam Wilson gets near, because Sam Wilson texts, this place? Really man?

It’s safe, he replies. Plus there are no other people to stare at Asset, no superhero friends waiting to put him down. There’s never been Hydra in this place unless they came here to eat pizza; it’s safe.

He stands and moves to the door. It’s easy to slip out and sit on the stoop, head hanging low. Everyone that walks by avoids his eyes. They all do until a pair of boots comes into Asset’s view. He looks up, squinting as the sun, just beginning it’s descent, shines in his eyes. It’s Sam Wilson, alright, standing tall and proud and looking at Asset apprehensively. Traitor’s mouth drops open. Asset can’t help but notice that Sam Wilson is wearing clothes that fit the season, a t-shirt and shorts. Asset can plainly see his arms and legs. Sam Wilson has muscles. Big ones. Ones Asset wants to touch.

“You wanna do this outside?” Voice analysis: confused. Assessment: Sam Wilson’s voice is attractive, too.

“Uh.” Asset says. What are words. He does manage to scramble to his feet but that’s all he’s able to accomplish.

Amusement gradually quirks up the sides of Sam Wilson’s lips. He seems to know exactly what Asset is thinking. “Is it even safe to go in there?”

Traitor says, “Yes. I cleaned.” Even though that asshole didn’t clean anything.

“Oh?” Sam Wilson crosses his arms, but it doesn’t seem like he’s angry. Asset hopes he’s not angry. Has he done something to make Sam Wilson angry? Traitor says, no. “You cleaned, did you?”

“Wanted everything to look good for you,” Traitor says flirtatiously. Where did that come from? How is Traitor so much better at this than him?

Sam Wilson’s face blanks out. Asset thinks, oh you’ve done it now. What if Traitor scares off Sam Wilson? Not everyone likes being talked to that way. Asset doesn’t. Maybe Sam Wilson doesn’t either.

“Bucky,” is all he says. Asset likes that Sam Wilson calls him Bucky but would also like some more words. What’d he do?

“What?”

Sam Wilson rubs at his forehead. “Look, we’re soulmates, yeah, but I’m married.”

“So?” Asset doesn’t care. What does flirting have to do with being married? For his part, Traitor can’t make up his mind -- half of him says Sam Wilson being married means he’s off limits, while the other half says that Sam Wilson’s Name is on his body and therefore he is Bucky’s, not Natalia’s. Or Steve’s. He’s Bucky’s.

“So you’re not supposed to flirt with me.”

Asset looks at Sam Wilson for a long moment. Time to do something he’s uncertain will end well. “Do you want me to flirt with you?”

Sam Wilson’s eyes widen. “Uh -- I mean -- yeah, I don’t -- you’re -- “

“Yes or no, Sam Wilson.” Traitor makes a horrified noise at the sound of Sam Wilson’s last name. You’re really gonna full name him like that? You’re not his ma. Asset doesn’t respond, just watches Sam Wilson.

Sam Wilson’s eyebrows come down immediately, creases between them appearing. He mouths his own name, but doesn’t end up asking. He visibly steels his resolve and says, “Yes.”

Sam and Natasha have talked at length what constitutes cheating and what doesn’t. When Steve entered the picture, all three of them talked about it. Flirting had been a case by case thing, where it sometimes is cheating and sometimes isn’t. For instance, Natasha has to flirt on missions a lot, which is her job and therefore not cheating.

Sam’s considering this to be one of the times it isn’t considered cheating. This is his soulmate, after all, and anyway, isn’t Steve always going on about letting Bucky do what he wants? If Bucky wants to flirt with Sam, who is he to say no?

Bucky nods to himself, looking down. He brings his eyes back up seconds later, forcing eye contact. Using his flesh hand, he pushes the door open and steps through, making space for Sam to step past him. Sam’s shoulder brushes Bucky’s chest as he walks in -- electric zings shoot through Sam, something in his brain clicking and saying yes a hundred times over.

He forces himself to keep walking. He has no idea what he’s doing here, really, except that Bucky wanted him to come. He suspects they’re going to talk, which means he can acknowledge that later.

For now, Sam looks around and takes in the place Bucky said is safe. He hadn’t looked up the address for fear that Jarvis would tell Tony who would tell Steve. So Sam has no idea what this place is...but it looks like a restaurant. A counter with rusty metal stools he’d expect to see in a Steak ‘n Shake, a couple booths -- one without a table -- along the wall, a few tables near the other wall. Random stuff lies on the floor -- cardboard, the pole of a stool, a couple spray paint cans. The windows are boarded up, and the door locks from the inside. No wonder Bucky thinks it’s safe.

Bucky still stands at the door, though it’s closed now. His eyes follow Sam as Sam steps around the junk to get to one of the booths. The seats are ripped and old but Sam has sat on much worse. He sits sideways, his legs hanging out the side. “So, any reason you wanted me to come here?”

Sam watches as Bucky blinks at him, gaze lowering not in an up-down but to the floor. He shakes his head minutely, changing before Sam’s eyes. When he looks up, he looks so much like the Bucky Barnes Sam spent his life trying not to love that it takes his breath away. “Wanted to see you again. When I’m not, you know.” He steps closer to the table, getting close enough Sam has to look up to see his face. “Should I -- “

“Yeah, go ahead, sit.” Sam swings his legs under the table -- surprisingly not dirty, but then, Bucky had said he’d cleaned, hadn’t he? -- and grins. Bucky doesn’t smile back but Sam didn’t expect him to. He does sit down, though, which makes Sam’s grin widen. “So, Bucky, uh -- what do you want to talk about? I mean, I assume we’re here to talk.”

“Yes. We are. I want...I want to talk about….” He casts his eyes around, looking for something. He seems to find something, because he turns back to Sam a little more confident than before. “Cleaning.”

Sam tilts his head, a tad confused. Bucky wants to talk about cleaning? Not exactly what he was expecting but he can roll with it. “Alright. You said you cleaned this place up?”

“It was dusty.” He shrugs.

Sam nods, unsure what he could add to that to keep the conversation going. When he can’t think of anything, it’s him casting around for something to talk about. Then -- “D’you like cleaning?”

Bucky gives him that stare again, like he’s seeing right through Sam. It lasts only a second before Bucky’s relaxing into the seat. “I do.” He pauses, steels his resolve. Sam straightens out of habit. “And...and I like when you call me Bucky.” Defiant eyes meet Sam’s.

Sam bites his lip, doesn’t offer his hand, and says, “I’m Sam. You don’t have to call me my first and last name, by the way. Just Sam is fine.”

“Sam,” Bucky tries out, and Sam has to pointedly tell that shiver up his spine to fuck off. “Sam, um.”

After a minute of Bucky not saying anything, Sam prods, “Yeah?”

He huffs out a breath, shaking his head again. “When we first met, that wasn’t...I was….”

“It wasn’t you, I know,” Sam soothes. His stomach is full of butterflies again, all of them flapping their wings happily at how near Bucky is, at the sound of his voice.

Bucky makes a frustrated noise that he cuts off immediately. “It was me. A part of me, at least. But either way, it was me there and I. I’m sorry. For what I did to you. For your wings. I shouldn’t -- I’m not supposed to hurt you. You’re my soulmate,” he says helplessly, begging Sam to understand.

Sam doesn’t want to be the one to tell Bucky Barnes that sometimes people you love hurt you. He doesn’t want to be the one to tell Bucky Barnes that you can’t just trust your soulmate right off the bat anymore. “Bucky -- “

Bucky cuts him off, looking down at the table and trembling. “Sam, this is important. Please. I’m so sorry. I’m supposed to keep you safe and happy but I hurt you. I almost killed you.”

Well, shit. There’s a lot to unpack there. “Bucky, listen, it’s not your job to take care of me. I can take care of myself. I’m not happy that you did that, no, but I can forgive you for it. I do forgive you.” Sam’s spent these last few months thinking about it obsessively and though it was awful and traumatizing, he has forgiven Bucky for it. He’s learned so much about what Bucky went through and it’d be hard for Sam to not forgive the guy. Any leftover bitterness goes away in the face of Bucky apologizing.

“But - “

“No but’s, Bucky. You and I are soulmates, yeah. But soulmates doesn’t automatically mean we’re responsible for each other or one is completely dependent on the other.” He looks Bucky in the eyes as best he can, but Bucky doesn’t want to look up. Sam adds, “Thank you for apologizing.”

Bucky swallows and nods. He’s silent, for a while. Sam takes a good look at him -- he’s pale, thin, washed. His hair is greasy but his skin isn’t dirty. His clothes are made for warmth, thick and dark colored. His fingers move endlessly, curling and stretching out. He’s a ball of nervous energy; the bags under his eyes tell a different story. Sam’s gaze turns to Bucky’s face -- his bitten-red lips, his crooked nose, his wide eyes that see everything. His skin is dry, and lines criss-cross over patches on his cheeks and forehead like he scratched them.

“Are you gonna be staying in New York long?”

Bucky’s eyes cut to Sam’s, assessing. There’s no suspicion, no distrust. That, coupled with Bucky’s actions -- reaching out to Sam, being vulnerable in front of him, apologizing and really meaning it -- brings Sam to one conclusion. Somehow, Bucky trusts Sam when he doesn’t trust anyone else. He suspects it’s because they’re soulmates. Steve’s said before that Mama Barnes hailed soulmates; he’s said Bucky has wanted his soulmate since he got Sam’s Name. So it makes sense, then, that Bucky trusts him. Sort of. Sam can’t pretend to know what goes through Bucky’s mind.

“I don’t know.” He taps his fingers on the table, one at a time. “I don’t have much of anything left. I have you. And Steve and Natalia, I suppose. I don’t know what’s next.”

“That’s alright. I was thinking, uh, maybe you could stay…? Maybe at the Tower or in an apartment?”

“An apartment?” He sounds confused.

“Yeah, like your own space, right? Permanent shelter? Doesn’t have to be with anyone if you don’t want it, but if you don’t want to be alone...you could come to the Tower.” Sam, suddenly, really wants Bucky to come to the Tower. He’s never really thought about it, but having Bucky that close? Even a floor away would be amazing. He’d be close enough for Sam to see and touch whenever he wants. He’d be right there . God, that sounds like a dream come true. Bucky, within arm’s reach.

Bucky’s eyes lighten, just enough to be noticeable. Similar thoughts to Sam’s almost visibly flit through his mind. “Where would I live in the Tower? With you?”

He chuckles, quirking his eyebrows. “Well, you could if you wanted. But I live with Steve and Natasha on Nat and I’s floor. There’s an extra room with your name on it, if you want it.”

Bucky’s eyes widen with every word, mouth dropping open just a little. “You’d let me do that?”

Does he really think this soulmates thing goes one way? He can take care of Sam but Sam can’t take care of Bucky? Sam has to fight an eyeroll. Steve’s the same way.

“Yeah, Bucky. Of course. Like you said earlier, we’re soulmates. I’ll do what I can to help you.”

Bucky swallows, lips curling up at the corners. Sam abruptly realizes just how good looking Bucky is, even with his greasy hair. He’s known, for a long time, but it’s different in person. “You’d be doing more than anyone has in a long time.”

Sam smiles back at him, gentle if a bit bittersweet. “That’s what you deserve.

Asset -- no, Bucky -- Bucky follows Sam Wilson -- just Sam -- home to the Tower that day.

There’s a man in the ceiling who Sam says is JARVIS, all capitals. He’s not really a man in the ceiling, he’s a computer. Ass-- Bucky asks if he’s like Zola, if JARVIS was once alive. JARVIS says no. Bucky isn’t sure he believes JARVIS but Sam pats the wall and speaks very fondly to the ceiling. Asset -- Bucky -- decides he’ll be civil for now.

JARVIS makes him do a few checks. His eye gets scanned -- he holds very still and waits for pain but none comes -- and then his fingerprints. Red light passes over him in a wave, declaring him armed. JARVIS says he can’t go upstairs if he’s armed.

“Override, code A7-SFW,” Sam replies.

“Yes, sir,” JARVIS mumbles, allowing Sam and Bucky onto the elevator. Bucky presses his back against the wall and doesn’t look away from the doors.

Sam reaches out, pulling his hand back after a few seconds. Asse-- Bucky watches him very carefully. He doesn’t want Sam to touch him anywhere, but he also wants Sam to touch him everywhere. “It’s okay, no one else is gonna come on this elevator.”

“That’s not the issue,” he bites out, saying more than he probably should. It’s hard to think, though, hard to find the words to say. Traitor’s too busy thinking about the bedroom Sam’s just giving him to help.

“What’s up, then?”

Might as well tell him, Bucky thinks. “Too closed in. It’s too much like cryo.” He shivers, curling his fingers in the pockets of his jacket. Already, he’s cold. He’s always cold but even just mentioning cryo makes it worse.

Sam just looks at Bucky; it makes him uncomfortable. He wants people to stop looking at him. Eventually, long after Bucky’s looked away, shifted, looked to his feet to escape that gaze, Sam says, “Is that why you stole our clothes? ‘Cause you were cold?”

“I am cold,” he snaps, harsher than he means to. He calms himself with a deep breath, reminding himself that he has his journals in his backpack and will be able to get to them soon. He just has to face Steve and Natalia and somehow keep himself from bolting. If he can get through that, then he can curl up in whatever bed Sam says is his and read his journals.

Again, Sam doesn’t seem to know what to say. They’re quiet for the rest of the ride to Sam’s floor, which the number on the wall says is 74. Floor seventy-four. A-- Bucky is going to be sick.

Sam doesn’t mind it, clearly, as he steps out easily and doesn’t look even a little pale. Bucky steps after him, irrationally fearful the floor will fall out from under him.

He doesn’t look up for a few steps, not until he’s sure. When he does, he finds that Sam’s watching him and that there doesn’t seem to be anyone else around them. The sudden relief he feels makes his knees weak. He moves quickly to the bar and sinks onto one of the stools. Sam follows.

“I never gave you your stuff back,” Bucky says, just remembering that that was why he’d come to New York in the first place.

Sam shrugs magnanimously. “I just want the pictures back. You can keep the rest of it if you really want it.”

He does want it. Traitor blurts, “But I want the pictures.” Ass-- Bucky winces. He knows better than to take advantage of kindness, and it is kindness. Bucky stole Sam’s belongings and now he’s saying Bucky can keep it. Bucky can’t let himself or Traitor make Sam mad; he can’t do anything that would make Sam change his mind about keeping Bucky around. “I mean -- I’m sorry, I’ll give you the pictures. I kept them in the frames so they wouldn’t get ruined. Nothing happened to them.”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. We can make copies and you can have those. But I need the originals.”

“Okay.” They’re in his bag. But he doesn’t want Sam to see inside, so, “Where’s the bathroom?”

Sam springs up, beckoning Bucky to follow him down the hall. There are a few doors, one of which is open and reveals a bedroom. Two cats, one white and one black, lay curled up in the middle, tails flicking. The bed is bigger than any Bucky has ever seen, bigger than the one in the house in DC. It looks soft, too. Is his bed going to be that big? That soft?

The next door is closed, and they don’t stop. The third door, across the hall from the bedroom, Sam opens. They stop just inside the doorway. “Here’s your room. The bathroom is through that door right there,” he says, pointing. “I’ll be right back, alright?”

Bucky nods and waits for Sam to go to the bedroom down the hall before he closes the door and locks it.

The bed isn’t as big, but is still bigger than he expected. He can spread out on this bed and still have space. Sitting on it reveals that it is soft; suddenly, Bucky wants to sleep. He hasn’t slept since he got to New York.

But, he reminds himself, he can’t. He has to get the frames out of his bag.

The trash bag with his clothes is full, now, mostly with dark clothing and his kevlar. There are a few brighter things, from when Traitor couldn’t help himself and swiped them. The bright green socks Asset stole are on his feet. That Bucky stole, not Asset.

He pulls that bag out of his backpack and shoves it under the bed. He’ll have to find somewhere better to put it where no one will be able to find it, but it works where it is, for now. He leaves his journals and the other things he’s found and taken in his bag, but pulls out the framed pictures and the shot glasses. Every time he took out a Hydra base, he’d buy a shot glass from the nearest town. It was Traitor’s idea.

He shoves his backpack under the bed with the trash bag, and leaves the room, creeping down the hall to Sam’s bedroom. The door is closed, now. “Sam?” he calls.

The door opens in seconds, and there’s Sam, a flush on his cheeks. “Hey! Hi, Bucky. What’s up? Need something?”

“...are you okay?”

Sam blinks and scoffs. “Yeah, I’m fine. What d’you got there?” He changes the subject.

Bucky hands him the pictures, first, and holds the glass souvenirs close to his chest. He feels, out of nowhere, that he shouldn’t have gotten these little trinkets for Sam. Why would he want shot glasses? Why would he want reminders of all the times he chased Bucky and Bucky ran away? Why would he want reminders of all the times Bucky killed people and burned down buildings and generally wreaked havoc?

And anyway, they need to be washed after all the times he used them.

Either way, he’s...embarrassed. Maybe Natalia will like these. As far as he remembers, Natalia likes to drink and will appreciate the shot glasses. But how can he get them to her without Steve or Sam seeing?

“Thanks, man. What else you got?”

“It’s just...some shot glasses. I got them for you.” Shyly, he hands them over to Sam. Sam takes them with a smile, turning them around to see the places.

“Havana, Frankfurt, Beijing…. Did you get these in all the places you took out Hydra bases?” A curious look is on Sam’s face, one Bucky can’t read. He shifts on his feet nervously, nodding. Sam chuckles and shakes his head, “Wow. Well, thank you.”

“You gotta wash ‘em,” Bucky blurts.

“Why?”

“I used them.”

“Oh. Alright.” Sam moves to the kitchen and Bucky follows, a few steps behind. “Steve and Nat are gonna be back soon. I didn’t tell them you’re here -- didn’t know if you’d want me to -- so uh, yeah.”

Bucky settles on the stool he sat on earlier, watching as Sam washes out the glasses and opens a door under the counter that has two racks. Sam puts them on the lower rack, the one closer to the floor. Frowning, he asks, “What is that?”

Sam looks over his shoulder. He pushes the racks in without looking and closes and the door. “What’s what?”

Bucky points. “That.”

Sam’s lips purse. His eyebrows draw together and the look in his eyes is something akin to anger. His voice, though, is calm and not condescending. “That’s a dishwasher. It cleans the dishes so you don’t have to, basically.”

“Oh. Real convenient,” Traitor drawls. “Didn’t have anything like that when I was growing up.”

Sam’s eyebrows scrunch together even more. “You remember that?”

“Yes.” Why wouldn’t he? He remembers a lot. When he was a baby and when he was in cryo are beyond him but that’s all. Everything else is jumbled but it’s there. Traitor tells him what the stories behind memories are when he can remember them. Most of the time, he has details but not all of them.

“But -- nevermind. What’re you gonna do about Steve and Nat?”

Bucky pauses. It’s nice that Sam’s letting him decide. It’s really nice. Bucky should do something nice back, probably. Traitor, help.

Traitor sighs, I don’t know. Maybe do a few chores for him? But that made Steve mad…. Don’t do chores. Would it make Sam happy if you said hi to Steve and Natalia?

But… I don’t want to say hi to them.

It’s just Steve and Natalia! You know them. Traitor softens his voice, tells Bucky, they aren’t gonna hurt you.

Bucky knows that. But they’ll know him and he doesn’t want to be known. He doesn’t want to be Steve’s Bucky or Natalia’s Yasha. They’ll expect him to be those people and it’s already a struggle to be this Bucky for Sam, who didn’t know Bucky before.

You’re nothing like me, Traitor says. Sam can tell, I think. He knows when it’s you and when it’s me that’s talking. They’re smart, they can figure it out.

He sighs, body loosening just a little. Dammit, Traitor. That’s a good point. “I’ll say hi and go to the room.”

“Your room,” Sam corrects, leaning up against the counter. Bucky wants to pounce on him and bite kisses into his throat. He wants to clutch Sam tight and fade into him. He also kind of wants to curl into a ball and cry, or maybe go kill some more Hydra agents.

His head hurts. He doesn’t dare press a hand to his head, doesn’t dare show any weakness. Not after what he pulled earlier in the pizza place. “My room,” he repeats quietly.

Sam nods encouragingly. His smile is soft and gentle and it makes Bucky want to cry. “Yeah, your room. You’re my soulmate, Bucky, not my guest or something. Like you said, I’m supposed to keep you safe and happy. Giving you your own room is how I can make sure of that.”

Bucky’s throat tightens. Goddammit, Sam. “Guess that’s not a one way street, huh?”

Sam shakes his head. “Nope. Never gonna be, either.”

A smile -- a genuine, honest-to-god smile -- blooms on Bucky’s face. He’s not a lucky man by any stretch but boy, did he luck out on this one.