Chapter Text
Steve got kidnapped. Steve got kidnapped and Sam didn't know about it until the next morning, when he spent a good 15 minutes hollering through his motel room door. Of course, someone called the police after he broke down the door and found Steve's shield left behind, so he got to be the black man to tell them that Captain America had disappeared under mysterious circumstances. So that was fun.
When the police let him go thirteen hours later, his wrists were sore and he had twenty-two urgent messages and a long walk back to the motel awaiting him.
In the parking lot, Bucky was waiting for him, too.
His head was completely shaved; he'd lost some weight. He looked pretty bad.
"Y'know, you've got a funny sense of timing, man," said Sam. His gun was at the motel, hidden under his bed - there was nothing he could do but try to keep talking. "Haven't seen you and Steve in the same place for a long time...are you Supermanning me?"
Bucky blinked. Man, his face was so bleak - even plain old confusion looked like anger. Lucky Sam was used to dealing with this kind of thing.
"I was asking if you and Steve were the same person. Just a joke, man," said Sam. Bucky made an unamused face. Sam shook his head with a sigh. His humour was wasted here.
"I'm not Steve," said Bucky. "I'm James."
"Yea," agreed Sam, shrugging slightly as he walked past him. It near about killed him to present his bare back to an ex-robot super-assassin - but if he didn't stay calm and act like everything was perfectly ok, he really might get killed. "James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky."
"James," James insisted, planting his feet. "I go by James."
"Hey, don't get mad at me, I was given faulty intel," Sam said, holding up his hands. "But now I know --" he made a slight, sideways waving motion "-- you go by James."
James didn't reply - Sam thought he might've disappeared into the wood but decided not to turn around to check. Soon enough, he heard the sounds of James plodding after him. Sam wasn't sure yet if he preferred the silence.
The heat provided a minor distraction - three minutes outside and he was already sweating like a dog. Nothing like the damn Georgia heat to keep your mind off of imminent death.
The night was heavy and sweet, like wading through a peach cobbler swamp. The mosquitoes were having a grand old time, feasting on Sam's neck. Sam could've stood to eat, too: unfortunately his wallet was sitting on the bedside table of his motel room, 3 miles away. He could run that in under 20 minutes, but it was generally not a good idea for a black man to be seen running frantically on the side of the road. At night. In the deep South.
"Samuel Wilson," mumbled James, after a moment, a little bit nearer this time. "That's you, right? The Falcon." Sam slowed down and James sped up at the same time. They both stopped in surprise.
Sam tried not to stare at the deep, curious unhappiness on James's face. "You can just call me Sam," he said, in a careful voice.
James wet his lips, opened his mouth to say something -- then he pulled his robot hand back and punched Sam in the stomach.
What the fuck, man! "What the-- fuck, man," wheezed Sam, dropping to the ground. Pain narrowed his world down to a single, sharp cacophony.
Above him, James started backing up slightly. "I-- fuck. Fuck," he hissed, before darting away into the darkness of the trees.
So. All in all, not one of Sam's better days.