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Sam Wilson lets himself into Steve and Bucky’s building, juggling his grocery bags until he can reach the keypad with his Avengers ID. Glass bottles clink as he rights himself and heads for the elevator, entering the code for Steve’s secure floor. This many six-packs is probably a little excessive considering Sam’s the only one who can actually get drunk, but with the recent discovery of “mix-and-match your own six-pack” at Wegman’s, Steve and Bucky are eager to see how 21st century beer options hold up against their WWII samplings. With forty-eight different bottles cutting off the circulation to his forearms, Sam figures there’s probably one that’ll be a hit.
Faint piano chords greet Sam as he steps onto Steve and Bucky’s floor. The pair of them are always listening to something new, so Sam’s not surprised to hear the music get louder as he approaches the door. This tune is familiar, especially once he’s close enough to hear the swelling strings and a raspy male voice. It’s not a genre Sam has much of on his iTunes, but he’s heard it before.
Don’t you draw the queen of diamonds boy,
She’ll cut you if she’s able,
The queen of hearts is always your best bet.
Now where does Sam know that from?
“Just a second!” Sam can hear the heavy footfalls of a super soldier who enjoys not having to be stealthy in the safety of his own apartment. The footsteps pause and for a second the depressing music is drowned out by Steve blowing his nose like a trumpet.
“Hey man, you got a cold or something? I was just at the store I could have picked you up some-“ Sam’s words dry up when Steve opens the door with a very un-Cap-like sniffle.
“Dude.”
Wrapped up in a ragged US Army hoodie, Steve is a hot mess. His eyes are red and puffy in a way that only results from lengthy and shameless crying.
“Steve? Whoa, are you-“
“Hey, Sam!” Steve pulls him into a one armed hug, slapping him on the back and offering a watery grin, “Come on in, man.”
“Thanks,” Sam follows cautiously into the apartment, “Is this a bad time? Cause I can take a walk if you need-“
“No! No,” Steve assures him, wiping his eyes with the back of one large hand, “Buck and I were just-“
…and it seems to me that some fine things,
Have been laid upon your table,
But you only want the ones that you can’t get…
The music is even louder inside the apartment.
“What the hell are you guys listening too?” Sam interrupts, leaving his bags on the counter to seek out the source of the melancholy piano. An iPod docked at the entrance to the living room answers Sam’s question and solves the mystery of Steve’s tearstained complexion in one fell swoop:
“Desperado” –the Eagles
Play mode: Repeat 1
“Lord almighty,” Sam curses under his breath. “Did Tony make you guys another playlist?” He’s gonna have to have words with his team members about giving out mix tapes to two guys with no emotional music immune systems post- 1945.
Steve’s answer is interrupted by a wavering call from the living room floor.
“Saaaaam…you gotta hear this song…we think it’s about cowboys. Or somethin’…but Jesus…”
Bucky is strewn half off the couch in a nest of tangled fleece blankets, surrounded by a sea of used Kleenex. He and Steve could have a contest for Most Crying Induced Facial Redness and it would be too close for Sam to call.
“The Eagles? Really, Barnes?” Sam wonders, kicking aside an empty box of tissues, “All that effort for your terrifying assassin routine and this is what finally makes you crack?”
“It’s such a downer,” Barnes muses, staring in to the middle distance, “But at the same time…it speaks to me.”
And freedom, oh freedom,
That’s just some people talkin’,
Your prison is walkin’,
Through this world all alone…
“Yeah I can see why that would be the case,” Sam drawls, “How long you two been at this?”
Bucky just shrugs, pulling an American flag fleece tighter around himself and sniffling. “An hour. Maybe. Steve likes it too.”
“I’ll bet.” There’s a Cap-sized impression in the blanket nest next to Barnes, and a matching array of used tissues. All the signs of an interrupted pity party.
“Don’t your feet get cold in the winter time…the sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine…” Steve’s singing from the kitchen is strangled and off key. Bucky’s answering warble is the last straw. Sam hits the pause button cutting off the haunting lyrics, and Bucky jumps, glowering at Sam from his bizarre perch.
“Okay, I’m taking over this jam session,” Sam declares, rolling up his sleeves and shoving Barnes off the couch, “Rev up Pandora. Start with Jackson Browne. Steve, get your pathos ridden ass in here and for god’s sake bring the beer.”
It’s gonna be a long night, but Sam has a civic duty to guide these two knuckleheads out of Sad Seventies Hell.