He's been assigned to assassinate one Samuel Thomas Wilson. Target has been easy to locate, doesn't keep a low profile at all; the target is very obviously unaware that he's even a target. No one with a bullseye on their back walks around greeting every street vendor in a five-mile radius from his home. 

Other targets he's been assigned to eliminate have been hard to track down. He's had to smoke them out of their hidey holes, catch them in a dark narrow alley, or sometimes chase them down for miles before he makes a hit. 

Sam Wilson, however, is not hiding. He comes strolling out of his sunlit apartment at exactly 8:30 am every weekday, he stops at the florist and picks up a bunch of yellow tulips for the old lady next door. After that, he gets a coffee and two toasted cheese sandwiches from the corner bakery, one of which he gives to the homeless man outside his building. 

Last Wednesday, he rescued a little gathering of ducks about to become roadkill and returned them to the pond in the park. On Sundays, he cooks one huge pot of curry and donates it to the homeless shelter on 5th Avenue. 

The only fault James finds with the guy is that he scooped some curry out for lunch the next day.

What the fuck could this guy possibly have done to warrant an assassination?

They never share details with him. It's a simple briefing: 'Target needs to be removed from society, and you need to do it.'   He never asks questions because these targets are always garbage, and he can see it a mile away. Sleazy businessmen cheating on their wives or smacking them around, power-hungry politicians, the odd mad scientist about to turn the world into ash. 

He gets those. He rejoices in those even, but this guy? With his warm smile and charming nature… this he doesn't understand; can't justify a bullet between the eyes even if he has a perfect shot. 

He's perched behind the ledge watching Wilson through his scope when his comms crackle to life. 

"Mission Report," says his commanding officer into the earpiece.

Shit. He's had at least seven opportunities to shoot the guy today. "Clear shot unattainable. Civilians at risk." he lies because he knows that is one rule they abide by: Don't draw attention. 

He needs more time, needs to see Wilson fuck up somehow, James needs a motive for that shot. 

Pierce sounds despondent, "Alright. Well, make it quick. He's becoming dangerous."

James watches Wilson pet a street cat, feeding it cheese from his sandwich. "Yeah. I see that." 

"Report back tomorrow morning, Agent Barnes."

"Yes, sir."

He watches Wilson for the rest of the day and thinks about how he's going to do this. He follows him home, listens to him cook up dinner, and take a plate over to his neighbor- a young nursing student about to work the night shift. Goddamnit, who is this guy? He's a literal saint, is what he is, James can't understand for the life of him why the government wants Wilson dead.

When Wilson's finally asleep, James sneaks in from the balcony window and looks around his apartment. His bookshelves are filled with textbooks, encyclopedias, literary novels. Wilson sketches birds; he's even got a few books about birds. 

In fact, now that James really pays attention, Wilson's whole apartment is full of birds. Ornaments, paintings, the kitchen curtain, there's even a red parrot plushie on the couch.

"Heeeey pretty boy!" comes this cracky, tin can voice, and James lurches backward. 

"The fuck," he whispers, tries to find the source of the voice, gun drawn but pointed at nothing.

"Big gun, pretty boy," the voice repeats, and this time James' head jerks to the couch; to the red plushie. Is he losing his goddamn mind? 

He thinks maybe all the years of killing have finally mangled his brain, and he's started to go insane but then the plushie—that is obviously not a plushie—shifts, blinks and perches itself on the arm of the couch to fluff its feathers out. 

"What the hell?" he whispers, standing as still as he can while the bird stares at him.

"Language pretty boy." the bird yelps.

"Hey, shh man," he says and starts backing toward the balcony window again just as Wilson calls from his bedroom, "Go to sleep, Red, jesus, it's two a.m!"

"Pretty boy!" the bird—Red— answers, then louder, "Pretty boy!" 

"No!" Wilson yells. "No pretty boys for you. One squawking parrot in the middle of the goddamn night is enough."

James doesn't know whether to duck out of there or stay for this lively exchange. Wilson's sleep voice is kind of hot too. Not that he thinks Wilson—his target—his hot, that would be insane and entirely beyond protocols.

When he slips out the window, he tells himself it's because he's practicing his self-preservation instincts, not because he doesn't have it in him to murder a man who talks to his parrot as if he's an actual person, in cold blood. 

James Barnes is a highly trained assassin. He's very, very capable of cold-blooded murder, thanks. 

He is also definitely not smiling when Red squeaks "Pretty boy stay! !" as James scales his way down the building, or when Wilson yells at it to stop being a 'disruptive gay bird'

He has got to get his shit together. He's got a mission to complete, and bad things happen to Agents who fail missions. He's not talking the-back-of-Pierce's-hand bad; he's talking vanishing-off-the-face-of-the-earth bad. And that's only after due torture.

So the next time Wilson steps out of his building—in shades and a ballcap and those goddam blue jeans, gah…—James is totally ready to take the shot; he'll ruin Wilson's white Henley, and it's a nice fuckin' Henley, but this has got to happen. The guy has to go. 

Christ, but then Wilson bends down, and a little girl runs into his arms, after which he greets a woman in a flowy summer dress while holding the little girl. He kisses the baby's cheek, makes a fuss about her hair, and her t-shirt, and he's smiling… and oh god. 

"Okay. Okay. That's fine." he tells himself. "It's fine. Let them have coffee, let the woman and child leave, and then it's showtime."

Like clockwork, his comms buzz to life. "Mission report, Agent. The Board wants to know why Target is still active." Pierce is annoyed, clipped, getting impatient. He usually allows James sufficient time to make the hit, so why's he so anxious to get it done this time?

"Sir. What is the status of this target?"

"Excuse me?" 

"I'm sorry, sir, I just mean he seems pretty regular, harmless. I just—"

"Are you questioning orders, Agent?!"

"No, sir. Target doesn't seem to pose a threat, is all, sir."

"He is a code amber, Agent," Pierce spits out, James hears him tapping a pen against his glass desk, "He is meddling in government files, he's two searches away from uncovering every single one of your identities and spilling it to the world. Is that what you want?"

Fuck. How? How is the man with a cheeky parrot and sunflowers as his phone's background a threat? James does not get this at all. But he has to. 

"Understood," he says even if it rings against everything he thought he knew. 

"Good," Pierce says. "Mission report in twelve hours, or we'll take care of it ourselves." Pierce doesn't say "and you too," but it is thoroughly implied. 

So when Wilson next emerges and sees his companion and her child off, James has him in the crosshairs, his finger feather-light on the trigger. If he pulls it now, it's a clean-center headshot; if he waits five point two seconds, the bullet will enter Wilson's temple, seven more seconds, and it'll enter the back of the skull… ten more seconds, and Wilson will be out of range. 

Eleven seconds pass.

James sags and leans his head against the ledge, sighing. "Fuck." he groans, "fuck fuck fuck." and kicks the brick wall. What is it about Sam goddamn Wilson that makes him impossible to kill? Why is this so hard? What is this guy up to? 

He needs answers because for the first time in his life, he can't pull the trigger and do the job. He can't look at his Target's face and shoot him; he likes that face, that face is kind and gentle and sweet and feeds stray kittens. That face does not deserve to be assassinated. 

James takes his earpiece out and drops it on the rooftop, crushing it under his boot. He sticks the rifle back in his duffle bag and removes the mask from his face. He can't exactly go back to base, he'll be executed on the spot, he also can't leave Sam to his own defenses- the guy won't even see it coming. 

There's a little diner not far from Wilson's building where James goes to sit and think. He orders nothing but cup after cup of coffee and stares into space. The waitress seems mildly concerned already. 

It's while she's pouring what must be cup number six that the doorbell chimes for the first time. It's late, and there's no one else dining there but him. He tiredly lifts his head to look who entered; it could be them—Pierce and the SWAT team—ready to bring in the rogue assassin who refuses to finish his mission, refuses to comply.

But instead, Sam Wilson comes walking down the narrow little path that leads to the two booths in the back. James just stares.

Wilson does a double-take when they make eye contact, causes James' cheeks to glow. He sits down across the aisle, nods his head. "Hey, man. Late shift, huh?" he says and smiles at James while he plugs his laptop into the outlet. 

"Oh," James says blindly, a little shocked, he's even more attractive face to face, "Yeah. You know how it is." 

He must look worse for wear because Wilson gives him a sympathetic look. And now, up close, Wilson looks the kind of tired you get when you neglect sleep for a couple of nights in a row. He wonders if it's Red keeping Wilson up, or if it's something more intricate, more dangerous. Perhaps something on that laptop's playing on his mind, perhaps that's the reason why he's working from some lonesome diner in the middle of the night. 

Of course, he thinks while watching Wilson set up and order coffee, using public wifi if he's busy with illegal business, is a great move. It also means he probably changes locations at random so he won't be detected. James decides to test his theory.

"Come here often?" he says casually and sips on his coffee. 

Wilson angles the laptop away from James, "Sometimes. I like to change it up," he says just as James expected. He sighs. So Wilson is involved with something. 

"Right," James says, and points to the laptop, "Work?" 

Wilson smiles, kind of stiff but still warm- James doesn't know how he manages it. He replies with, "Something like that. Special project of sorts." 

The waitress comes back with Wilson's coffee, and he looks over James' empty cup. He bites his lip, looks kind of nervous. "Share a pot with me?" 

It's an understatement to say James is surprised, so surprised and probably enchanted by Wilson's easy grin and the hopeful anticipation on his face that he agrees and goes to join him at the table when he motions for James to come over.

"Have you eaten? I'm starving. This place has some delicious pancakes." Sam dumps two sugars in his cup, "Wanna have pancakes with me?" 

James thinks it's out of pure shock that he nods and pushes his cup over for Sam to pour sugar in that too. He watches Sam with a careful eye as he types away on his laptop, and if Sam notices, he doesn't let on. James thinks it must be his usual way with strangers; he's seen it with his own eyes the way Sam treats everyone like they're his family.

The waitress brings over two plates stacked with pancakes, dripping with golden syrup, and sprinkled with a fine white sugary powder. There's an arrangement of blueberries on top. Sam rubs his hands together, licks his lips, grins at James, and it does an incredibly strange thing to his insides, like a vibration deep in his core, something that shakes him.

"This," James says, slicing his knife through the stack of hot pancakes, "is pure junk. You should be eating vegetables."

Sam, with his cheek full of pancakes and blueberries, mumbles, "Figured these are fruits, right?" he holds up a blueberry between his fingers, "Must count for something." 

It makes James smile. He shakes his head, "It's dripping in syrup, wise ass." 

Sam's nose crinkles up, and his eyes are alight with laughter. He's a handsome man, sucks you in without trying. 

James, now more than ever, knows he could never pull that trigger.

They talk for another hour after the pancakes are finished, Sam's special project long forgotten. He's sitting with his one arm on the back of the booth, his other hand curled around a cup of coffee, and he's telling James of his days as a pararescue airman, how nothing is the same after you come back. There's something haunted in the way he talks about it, but James doesn't prod; it's not his business. 

His time is running out, and soon, SHIELD will be hunting them both down like a wolf does a lost deer in the woods. He's got to let Sam know; they've got to get out of there. 

Sam is still talking when James interrupts him.

"Sam, there's something I've gotta tell you," he says and dares to lift his eyes. 

Funny enough, Sam sighs the way you do when you've finally gotten someone to admit something they've been denying. He sits up straight, and his one hand disappears under the table, undoubtedly curled around his own weapon. So does James'. He's an assassin after all.

"You're here to kill me," he says, flat and without inflection. 

James blinks, "I…"

"I never told you my name," 

James sits back, brings his hand back up to his cup. "I've been watching you for a while. Was gonna do it… probably fourteen different times." he shrugs, "Couldn't." 

Sam doesn't say anything, just looks at James. "And I'm not gonna do it now, but someone will." 

At that, Sam leans forward and cradles his head in his hands. 

Softly, James asks, "Why do they want you terminated. I can't… I watched you… and there ain't a single goddamn thing… What've they got on you?"

Sam sighs again, rubs his eyes, "My wingman, Riley, got killed on a standard, routine fly-out. There was no reason for those RPG's to be there, not in a training zone. So I started digging, found a hard drive full of dirty transactions, funding human experimentation in the military like they're trying to build some kind of super killer. Riley saved it all on his computer the day before he was gunned out the sky. They knew he knew." 

Sam opens his laptop and presses Enter then steadily downs the rest of his coffee. 

"And now I guess it's my turn," he says. He turns the laptop to James to reveal endless data being splattered onto the web. Names—big names—organizations, the White House, SHIELD… not that the last one is any surprise. It won't be long before they trace the source of the leak to this diner. 

"Jesus." James rakes his hair back.

"What happens now?" 

"I want out," James tells him. He does want out, he's been on autopilot for far too long, walking mindlessly out of one mission and into another, numb inside, but then this guy comes along and tips it all upside down and how the hell is he supposed to go back now. "I'm hitting the road, getting the fuck outta dodge." he wants to live again. He looks up at Sam, "I got space in the van." 

"You expect me to trust you, the man who was sent to murder me in my plate of pancakes—"

"I am a professional. Would have done it in your sleep." he tries for a smile.

Sam rolls his eyes, "—and just pack up all my shit and run off with you?"

"You can stay here and wait for them to finish the job." 

"I don't even know you, man." 

James smiles, then leans over the table and sticks his hand out toward Sam. "I'm James Barnes, ex-assassin for the U.S government, people who are nice to me get to call me Bucky."

Sam smiles back, and there's no reluctance when he reaches out to shake James' hand. "Hey, James. I'm Sam Wilson. Thanks for not killing me, I guess."

"It's not permanent. We'll come back as soon as all the shit dies down, but for now, we gotta lay low since you just outed everyone and their mother."

"Yeah. Look, I knew they'd come for me once I started digging. Didn't expect to get bailed out, though."

Sam is a little hurried now, his movements quick and urgent as he follows James out of the diner. James tips the waitress off, and they leave the laptop just there on the diner's table for the authorities to find. 

James waits outside Sam's apartment while Sam collects his things, he hears him cooing at the bird, "Good boy. Hush now." all soft, murmuring tones. James guesses the bird's coming too. 

Sam appears in the hallway a second later. The parrot goes, "Pretty boy! Pretty boy!" and Sam gives James this look of utter disbelief. "It was you!" James rolls his eyes and starts dragging Sam downstairs, "That night when he wouldn't shut up, it was you!"

"I'm not proud of any of this, alright," James hisses as they make it down the last flight of stairs and to the front door. 

Sam says, "Well, he ain't wrong."

James stops under the streetlamp where his van is parked. "What?"

"I said he's not wrong," Sam repeats, and James notices the quick sweep of Sam's eyes across James' face, lingering on his lips.

Red pipes up, "Pretty Boy!"

James laughs, feels his cheeks go a little hot because Sam's standing awful close to him, looking at him, some sort of anticipatory glimmer in his eyes.

Sam's fingers curl around one of the leather straps of James' gear, and he pulls him closer. "This is gonna sound crazy, but…"

He smirks briefly then closes his eyes before kissing him. 

James thought it was a fairytale or some imagined romantic notion that your world spins off its axis when you kiss The One. But now he knows it is absolutely true. Everything around him tips sideways, tumbles over, and floats around them in orbit. He's drunk with it, engulfed. 

He kisses Sam back with every bit of fervor, holds him close, so the warmth builds between them, and when he pulls away from the soft wetness of Sam's mouth he says, "This is totally nuts yeah,"

Sam laughs, nips at James' bottom lip, "Yeah, well, mama always said I had a taste for danger."

They drive off and slip down the first highway, street lights passing in a blur as they head further and further away. James drives until sunrise, and Sam takes over until noon, where they stop to rest at a roadside motel. 

Sam's place and the diner must have been raided by now, they've probably found James' earpiece on the roof, and they'll be hunting already, there's no doubt, but Sam's sleeping with his head on James' shoulder and he thinks: Target acquired, mission complete, protect at all costs. 

eighteen months later

Sam wakes up before any sign of morning light arrives, drags his feet across the cool cabin floor to open the door for Alpine. She shoots past him and out into the wild outdoors. He yawns and folds his robe over his chest against the crisp, snowy air, and watches Alpine dig a hole in the sand to go about her business.

"Stupid kitty," Red squawks and comes to sit on his shoulder.

He says, "Uh-huh, don't let Buck hear you."

Red nuzzles his beak under Sam's ear, "Pretty boy!"

Sam chuckles quietly and scratches the parrot's head, "Yeah, he is." He whispers.

Alpine moans about the cold, wet ground all the way back to the cabin, "Sorry, girl, I know." He says and throws a towel out for her paws when she steps inside. Red gets upset about all the movement and hops off Sam's shoulder to go torment Alpine while she tries to eat.

Sam hears the bed creak a little way down the hall, then Bucky's quiet footsteps follow. Sam is still staring out at the endless expanse of pine trees and greenery that they now call their front yard, when Bucky loops his arms around Sam's middle, face in his neck.

"It's goddamn freezing, shut the door," He mumbles and squeezes Sam tighter.

"You sound just like your cat," Sam says. Bucky pinches him but comes around so he can kiss Sam right on the mouth.

"My cat is amazing," Bucky smiles against Sam's lips, lets his hands slip into Sam's robe, and sweep up his sides.

"Stupid kitty!" Red chirps excitedly. Bucky and Sam both turn to look and find him sitting on Alpine's back. She meows pitifully and makes big, round eyes at Bucky for help.

Bucky snorts, kisses Sam's nose, and goes to help his cat get rid of Red.

Sam's watching from the doorway as Bucky sits down on the floor with Alpine in his lap and Red perched on his knee, petting both their heads.

Red catches him looking, starts flapping his feathers, bopping his head up and down. "Love, pretty boy!"

Bucky goes red—he still does after so long—and laughs.

Sam's smile almost hurts it's so wide, and he says, "Hell yeah."

Who said running off with an assassin you barely know in the middle of the night was a bad idea?

Certainly not Sam Wilson.