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It’s alarmingly easy for chaos to erupt in this world than the previous. A well-timed explosion, not close enough to the playground to be sadistic, but enough to cause chaos and get people running screaming from the apartment building. It was a tricky thing, knowing when to set the bomb off. Sarah Wilson kept a fairly tight eye on her little brother as he raced around the jungle gym with the other kids. He was tiny, but prone to overestimating his jumping abilities at the most inconvenient of times.
Just like his Sam did, back in his original world. Stupid, foolish, brave Sam.
Bucky walked through the chaos quiet, and quick - moving like the ghost he used to be known as a lifetime ago. It felt natural to slip into that roll, calculating and dangerous. Sarah had gotten up as soon as she heard the sound, but the smoke billowed out of the windows and doors and spilled onto the playground. The children had screamed, running for their parents and caregivers, but their fear and confusion made things worse.
It was so easy to find Sam, trembling underneath the tube slide, clutching the arm of a red-haired girl who was crying into her knees. For a moment, he could have sworn there was a frisson of recognition in those big, brown eyes before instinct seemed to kick in and Sam shrunk away. Bucky tried to smile, but he knew it probably came out half-hearted at best.
It had been such a long time since he smiled. Not since Sam, stupid, lovely Sam had--
Bucky reached down and grabbed Sam, pulling him out of his hiding place. The girl was so distraught she didn’t even bother looking up at who had grabbed her friend. Bucky let her be as he carried Sam away. The boy kicked and squirmed in his hold, screeching as he fought the veritable stranger. Bucky was so proud of him. Even in this peaceful world, his Sam was smart, he was a fighter. You won’t need to fight anymore, birdie. Bucky rocked the small body in his arms as he squeezed his tiny neck until Sam went limp in his hold.
Then, quietly and quickly as he had come, Bucky disappeared well before the smoke was cleared.
x x x x
“You are such an idiot.” Bucky said as he pressed the ice pack to his boyfriend’s shoulder.
Sam just grinned lazily up at him with one eye, the other swollen shut and his lips cracked and split. He looked like hell, even though he was trying to put on a brave face. The mission had been a success, though Sam had barely made it out alive. He and Bucky barely took two steps onto the jet to take them home when Sam had collapsed.
Internal bleeding, bruising, cuts and a busted shoulder.
“You sure know how to sweet talk me, babe.” Sam slurred just a little. It was clear how much he hurt that he couldn’t keep up his signature smile. He sighed, his face going lax as he watched his boyfriend. “You know I can handle it.”
“I know you think you can handle it.” Bucky allowed, frowning as he sat on the edge of the bed, unsure of where he could touch his boyfriend without him feeling pain.
It happened more and more lately, as people learned they could depend on the new Captain America. As more people accepted him, the more they expected him to do, not seeming to care that he wasn’t hopped up on super-human serum. Sam’s body was breaking more and more with each mission he took. But he couldn’t stop. The world needed him.
Bucky closed his eyes and sighed, leaning forward to try and take some deep, calming breaths.
“Hey, baby.” Sam said suddenly, his leg shifting against Bucky’s back to get his attention. “I’m okay. You know I don’t take on more than I can handle.”
Bucky looked over at him. His boyfriend looked so sincere, trying to put on a brave face for his sake. It made Bucky’s eyes sting, feeling like he was staring into the inevitable. “I know.” He reached over and carefully grasped Sam’s hand. “I just don’t know what I’d do without you, love.”
x x x x
Bucky smiled as he entered the house, the muffled sounds of Mozart playing from the second floor. He carried the paper grocery bags to the kitchen, humming a long with the familiar notes as he set the bags down and took off his coat, gloves and hat. He’d left early enough that morning that Sam had still been asleep, the fourteen year old generally slept in until around 9:30am. And while Bucky preferred they eat breakfast together, he’d wanted to go out and get some shopping done.
He tried not to leave where Sam could see him. The boy was young, and curious and while he rarely asked questions, Bucky tried not to tempt him.
There life was good here. Sam was smart and sweet. He wasn’t the same as Bucky’s Sam, but he managed to soothe the wounded part of his soul that Sam had left when he--
Bucky slammed the refrigerator door loudly as he put away the last of the groceries. His hands shook a little, he needed to see Sam.
He hustled out of the kitchen, practically running up the stairs two at a time. The boy’s door was open a crack, and the music was louder there. He pushed the door open, and was instantly relieved upon seeing Sam reclining on his bed the Russian language copy of Les Miserables covering his face.
Bucky cleared his throat, leaning against the door as he watched the boy slowly lower the book and peak at him over he top of it.
“Studying hard?” Bucky asked. He took Sam’s education seriously. Even isolated and off the grid as they were, there was no reason to deprive him of learning . Sam was whip smart, with amazing problem-solving skills. He reminded Bucky of his Sam in that way.
“Reading about the sewers in Russian is just as boring as reading about them in French.” Sam sighed dramatically. “Can we do something fun next, please?”
Bucky folded his arms over his chest, smiling softly. For a moment, he didn’t answer, just glad to see Sam safe and comfortable. The place where Sam’s absence had left a hole ached a little less when he looked at him like this. Young, full of life and brilliance.
Not beaten, not broken down by an ungrateful world.
“I’ll consider it.” Bucky said quietly, knowing he would do anything to make this Sam happy.
x x x x
Bucky sighed, letting a long breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding in. It had been a good week, no fires to put out. Right now, they were on a well deserved leave. He sort of felt bad that it was mostly because of Sam’s broken arm, laying neatly in a sling against his chest.
Still, Bucky glanced over at the other man. He seemed relaxed, feeding the birds with birdseed in the bag balanced on Bucky’s thigh. After spending the week inside, letting Bucky hover, Sam had insisted on getting out. A walk in the park seemed like the easiest thing to do, it was a little more anonymous then going to a restaurant and having someone recognize them.
Sam looked less tired than he had in the months since he’d taken up the shield. And it was times like this, watching the tiny smile curl at the corners of Sam’s lips, his eyes warm and his posture lax, that Bucky hated Steve for putting this burden on Sam.
“Our friends want to know if that look on your face is because you're constipated.”
Sam’s voice snapped Bucky out of his reverie. His brow knitted together as he looked at his boyfriend in confusion.
“Our ‘friends’?” He looked up, the only people around where an older couple power walking and a young woman chatting on a cellphone as she pushed a stroller.
“So rude, Barnes.” Sam sighed, mock-annoyed before tilting his head towards the legion of pigeons that had gathered at their feet. “They wanna know why you’ve got ‘predator-face’ and if they should be worried.”
Bucky rolled his eyes and pulled out a bit of bird seed to throw on the ground. He knew Sam was full of bullshit, because the pigeons immediately started pecking around his shoes like they didn’t have a care in the world.
“You better not let anyone hear you talk about birds out-loud like that.” Bucky leaned back and carefully put an arm around Sam’s shoulder. “Can’t have anyone thinking Captain America is crazy.”
Sam laughed, his face blossoming into a wide brilliant smile, the sun shining off his high-cheek bones. It took Bucky’s breath away, and he was so enamored he didn’t even react when Sam flicked a few kernels of birdseed at him.
x x x x
Sam, the young Sam, was quieter than his Sam ever was.
Bucky himself wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and it seemed to have rubbed off on the boy as he got older. Sam used to ask a lot of questions when he was young. Where were his parents? His sister? Why couldn’t he leave? Why was Bucky keeping him?
Dead. Gone. It isn’t safe. To protect you.
Easy answers that Bucky repeated dutifully until the child remembered and stopped bothering to ask. He got quieter after that, but he seemed more open to the activities Bucky suggested to him. Sam was brilliant, truly, he flew through Math and Reading lessons. Picked up languages with astonishing speed and loved to tinker and build things.
He also loved birds. God. It was almost eerie how alike Sam and his Sam were in that aspect.
They didn’t get a huge variation in their backyard, but Sam was almost obsessive in cataloguing them. He studied each bird’s markings, keeping a record of which ones came and went and when. He named them all, drawing their particular markings in a notebook Bucky had bought for him when he noticed Sam’s interest. One summer they’d spent a few months building and painting a veritable city of birdhouses.
Sometimes Bucky would catch Sam sitting out in the yard in the grass, talking the birds.
And of course he would. The boy was probably lonely with only Bucky to interact with. Even so, it reminded him so much of his Sam that his gut twisted and tears burned at the corner of his eyes. If it had been his Sam, he would have badgered him, made a joke about ‘talking with tweety’ being Sam’s superpower.
But he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt the boy. It didn’t matter anyway, Sam could talk to the birds all he wanted. There was no one but Bucky there to see it.
x x x x
Bucky couldn’t bring himself to go to the funeral. Steve had come by to try and convince him and it took all of his self-control not to plant his fist in the man’s haunted face.
Steve didn’t deserve to feel sad. He didn’t deserve that hopelessness, the tears prickling at the corner of his eyes. He was as much at fault for Sam’s death as anyone.
Something shook in Bucky and he made his way to the gravesite, watching the interment from far away. There was a massive turn out, and these are just family and friends. Sam’s state funeral had shut down Washington. Hours upon hours of testimonials on television, on the radio, in the papers.
The civilian who had become superhuman just my sheer force of will and determination.
So many people mourning. The same people who would say Sam wasn’t strong enough, wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t good enough.
The world had never deserved Sam Wilson. And Bucky would never forgive them for taking him away.
x x x x
Bucky rolled over in bed, his eyes wide open in the dark.
He had gotten too comfortable, he should have noticed before - but he’d let himself believe after ten years nothing could possibly go wrong. He unlocked the drawer on the bedside table, pulling out the hand gun stored there and slid out of bed. The house was quiet, too still, and Bucky could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
He crept out of his own bedroom, and looked down the hall to Sam’s room. The boy’s door was carelessly wide open, different than the way it had been when he’d gone to bed last night. Bucky felt his jaw clench, trying to calm the fury rising in his chest. He locked that door every night, no one should have been able to get past it.
If Sam was hiding, he was doing a good job of it and Bucky was almost impressed. Even if the boy managed to get out of the house, he wouldn’t get far on his own. They were miles from civilization and the boy would be clueless about how to survive out on his own for that long.
Bucky crept down the stairs, gun leveled at the floor as he went toward the kitchen. He was almost too late to stop the punch thrown at his head. There was a scuffle in the dark, and Bucky could tell from the build that the intruder was much too large and too strong to Sam. Before he could click the safety off and fire his weapon, the assailant managed to wrestle it from him and then aim a kick to his chest sending him stumbling back into the refrigerator.
Groaning, Bucky looked up and found that he wasn’t at all surprised to see Steve, his Steve staring at him with a mix of disbelief and betrayal. He was wearing all black, and while he had wrinkles, he wasn’t quite the old man who’d come back to them before.
“Jesus, Buck.” Steve sounded horrified, his voice quivering in a way that suggested he still couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “What did you do?”
Bucky’s ground his teeth together, barely holding back a snarl. This Steve didn’t know, though. What he had ended up causing, the pain he’d left in the wake of his own selfish decisions. For a moment, Bucky glanced over at the counter where he knew the kitchen knives were. He was out a practice, but most likely so was Steve. But as he pushed himself up against the fridge, he felt his shoulder knock something to the floor.
He glanced down to see a picture next to his foot. One of the many drawings Sam had done over the years, this one couldn’t have been from when Sam was more than nine. Only two years after Bucky had taken him. The two of them, crudely drawn stick-figures standing in an outline of a house. ‘Bucky keeps me safe’, Sam had written to the side in surprisingly clear handwriting.
He didn’t realize he was shaking, too caught up in the picture when he felt a hand grip his upper arm tightly. He pulled his gaze away from the drawing and looked up at Steve. His old friend looked exhausted, the circles under his eyes were pronounced, and there was silver shining on the edges of his hair. Still his grip was strong and unforgiving.
“How could you.” Steve whispered. “Do you know what his family has been through? What I’ve--”
Steve choked on his words, emotion thick in his throat. Bucky felt that familiar anger rising in him, because Steve knew how the Shield could destroy someone’s life and yet he’d given it to Sam. Brave, generous, human Sam. And yet he had the audacity to stand in front of Bucky and act like it was his fault. Like Bucky wasn’t doing everything he could to save Sam from a fate that Steve had thrust upon him.
I saved him. Bucky didn’t say the words, Steve didn’t deserve explanations. The damage was done anyway. He let the other man cuff him, pliant as he pressed his cheek against the cold refrigerator. Steve led him out fo the house, his grip tight like he thought Bucky might try and fight. Outside there was a fleet of black vehicles, Shield agents waiting, guns at their sides.
Bucky kept his eyes forward, focused on the direction he was being pushed. He was so caught up in his own head that he almost didn’t notice the man standing slightly off from everyone else. His hair was lush brown, and cut short - blue eyes watching them every step of the way. And there was Sam, the teenager’s face was buried in the man’s chest, seeking comfort from the familiar face even in a stranger. The sharp glint of metal curled around Sam’s shoulders was the last thing he saw before being pushed into a truck and locked away.