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Sam swirls the dregs of beer in his glass with a bitter smile. He hoped a night out would be just what the doctor ordered, but, so far, the local dive bar is failing to lift his spirits. Most nights he wouldn’t mind the pockets of chatter and the beat-up jukebox spitting out 80’s rock ballads, or the circle of TVs silently playing five different channels while the bartender passed drinks over the slightly sticky counter. It was part of the experience.
But tonight the stench of old beer and lingering cigarette smoke is a little too forward, over-enthusiastic drunks sing along to Don't Stop Believin' in just the wrong key, and the juxtaposition of cheering sports fans against news stories of white men “protesting” while holding torches and Nazi flags leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
It doesn’t help that at the other end of the bar a man with hungry gleam in his eyes keeps glancing Sam’s way. His demeanor and dress say paparazzo rather than spy, but Sam isn’t in a mood to entertain. He’s about to throw in the towel and leave when someone slides onto the stool next to him.
“I don’t think they serve sentient racoons in here,” Sam jokes, a little halfheartedly.
“I’d ask what Rocket did to deserve that, but...” Bucky briefly makes a face at the pap—and his poorly hidden camera—before visibly forcing himself to relax.
“Nah, he’d probably get a pass, dunno about you, though.”
Bucky puffs up in feigned offense. “You know what, Wilson?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam notices the news anchors have moved on to a different story and Bucky’s face is splashed across the screen alongside a short clip of him decking a man. What isn’t obvious in the clip is that the man is a known neo-Nazi, as some online have pointed out.
It feels like old news by this point, Twitter having already churned out twenty different memes about it by the time Sam could check his phone post-mission, but the twenty-four hour news networks didn’t seem keen on letting go of a chance to speculate on the former Winter Soldier’s mental health and stability.
Bucky sighs. “You punch some goon in a mask and you’re a hero, but if it’s their coworker Frank, who mutters about Social Darwinism and goes to ‘alt-right’ demonstrations on weekends, well, now, you’re the bad guy. I didn’t like Nazis much in 1942, I like them even less now.”
“Frank is more sympathetic. He’s not some terrorist in a mask or a uniformed man goose-stepping in black and white. You can put a face to him,” Sam says bitterly.
“Where’s the sympathy for the people he hurt?”
“Amen to that, brother.” Sam raises his glass at Bucky. “You can’t sympathize with the Franks out there. They’re no different than the goons in masks. Even if they never do a thing themselves, it’s because people like them exist that Hydra and whoever else think they can get away with it.”
“Heard about the mission. That’s some messed up shit, man, even for Hydra.”
“We got everybody out, mostly.”
“One of those ones, huh?”
“Yeah...one of those ones.” The stink of smoke and rotting flesh clung to the back of his throat. He gulped down the last of his beer to wash it away. “Did you think about it?”
“A little...I don’t know...all those years...I’ve done enough, don’t you think?”
“You saw the news. They’re giving you a hard enough time without me hanging around.” Bucky dragged his thumb across the peeling edges of the cheap coaster advertising Miller High Life.
“They’re going to go after me either way, I’d rather have someone I can trust backing me up.”
“I’m not sure that should be me.”
A moment of silence hangs heavily between them—somewhat undercut by the crowd wailing the lyrics to Carry on Wayward Son alongside the jukebox.
“How’s it”—Bucky nods to the shield sitting in a bag at Sam’s feet— “treating you so far, Cap?”
Sam forces a chuckle at the nickname and goes along with the change in subject, not much in a mood to dwell on this shit either. “I’m still finding my feet, but it’s a rush tossing that thing around.”
Bucky snorts. “What’s with people and that thing?”
“It’s a legacy, man, a symbol people can look to for hope. They need that.” Sam crosses his arms and grins. “You grow up seeing it everywhere— comic books, movies, tv, lunchboxes, you name it, and it’s this cool thing that Captain America carried around with him, but eventually you realize it’s more than that. It’s not really a weapon; it’s a shield . It’s a promise to protect the people that need it.”
“I’m pretty sure it was for preventing Steve’s ass from getting shot.”
“You’re a real charmer, you know that?” Sam shakes his head in mock disappointment. “Have you even had a date in the last seventy years?”
“Never heard a complaint from your mom.”
“My mama wouldn’t even give you the time of day, and I’ll prove it by beating your dumbass at pool.”
“Sorry? You think you’re going to win?” Bucky hops to his feet with a laugh.
“The VA I used to work at had a pool table. We’d play every week, even held a few tournaments. You’re looking at the champion.” Sam aligns the rack and hands Bucky a cue. “Standard call shot rules, shots on the eight go clean."
Bucky just smirks and gestures for Sam to break. Sam accepts with raised brows, spotting the cue ball a few inches off the rail and forming his bridge. He takes a deep breath as he draws the cue back before driving it forward with enough force to hit the front ball full face, scattering the balls, and pocketing one.
“Not bad...for an amateur,” Bucky says, lining up a shot. “Five ball in the corner pocket.”
Bucky takes his shot. The five ball does indeed sink into the corner pocket—along with two others.
“Is that how it’s gonna be?” Sam crosses his arms and puts on an air of unconcern.
Bucky shrugs. “You started this.”
Sam leans over, considering his next shot, when someone bumps into him from behind.
“Stay out of my way, asshole,” sneers a tall white man as his buddy glares at Sam from over his shoulder. The two of them don’t seem to recognize him, because they simply push past Sam to head for the bar, but not before Sam is able to clock the red laces on their workboots and the hate symbols on their jackets.
Sam swears under his breath.
“Who let them in?” Bucky practically growls as he comes around the table to stand next to Sam.
The bar’s patrons show no sign of noticing or minding the goddamn neo-Nazis in their midst, at least until they start arguing with the old man behind the counter. A whining voice carries over the noise of the crowd. “Come on, just one beer. No trouble.”
Sam doesn’t hear the response, but the voice’s tone turns nasty. “I have the right to be served! I’m a paying customer!”
A hush falls over the bar as everyone watches to see what will happen. Bucky makes a pained face, clearly hating this as much as Sam. He glances at the pap still eagerly photographing them, but Sam has already decided that it doesn’t matter. Sam sets his cue aside and steps forward in one purposeful motion.
Sam stands behind the two shitheads and crosses his arms. “Get out.”
They turn to look at him in incredulity.
The loud one pipes up, “What? Do you own the place? This is none of your fucking business.”
"Yeah, the hell's your problem, man?" his buddy adds, getting in Sam’s face.
Sam doesn’t even blink. “I said get out.”
Loudmouth pulls his friend back and says in a faux-conciliatory tone, "Look, we just want a drink. Until this asshole started acting like our money’s no good, we weren't causing any damn problems."
“Dressed like that, you’re already a damn problem. SS bolts, Aryan fist, even a little Hydra skull, did you think I missed that? It makes shit as clear can be and the man's got no patience for it."
The friend sneers at that. “So much for the tolerant left. They’re just some dumb patches.”
“We’re not hurting anybody,” Loudmouth says, elbowing his friend to shut up. “What kind of place tries to throw people out over some political differences? This is discrimination.”
Sam rolls his eyes at the audacity of it. “You try to put a respectable face on it, but I’ve seen what your ideology leads to, and I will not allow you to poison other people’s minds with it.”
“Fuck you!” Loudmouth snaps and reaches for something in his pocket. “You can’t push us out of here! We have a right! You can’t replace us! We won’t let you!”
Sam moves quickly, nailing him with a right hook. The bastard falls with a thud, and the bar erupts in confused and excited shouts.
He looks up at Sam from the ground, tears and disbelief in his eyes. “Son of a bitch! You punched me!”
Perhaps realizing the situation doesn’t look good, his friend bolts, but he gets no more than a few feet before Bucky blocks his path. The coward trips over himself backing away, landing not far from his friend. They search the crowd with desperate eyes, but there isn’t a friendly face in the bunch.
“You don’t get to do this, sit here and spread your poison. Not on my watch. Now get out .”
They scramble to their feet and run. The crowd helps them along with shoves, clearly they couldn’t wait to see the last of them. Sam breathes a small sigh of relief once they are out the door.
“That’ll be everywhere in under an hour,” Bucky says.
He is probably right. It wasn’t just the pap, half of everyone in the bar had taken out their cameras to film. Some, Sam isn’t sure how many, had caught on to who he and Bucky actually were and started asking each other if they see the shield.
“Yeah, I’ll deal with it later. Besides, I think I’ve made my point: I’m not just going to step aside when I see something wrong.”
Bucky squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “You were right. People need a symbol to get behind, but it’s going to be you, not the shield.”
Sam grins. “I’m growing on you, aren’t I?”
“Yeah, shut up.”
A drink slides across the counter, and the bartender nods to Sam. “It’s on me.”
Sam accepts the beer gratefully and looks out over the bar. The people have gone back to shouting at sports teams on the TVs and badly singing oldies piped in from the jukebox, but when Piano Man starts up, Sam hums along and eventually adds his voice to the chorus.
Sing us a song you're the piano man, Sing us a song tonight
Well we're all in the mood for a melody, And you've got us feeling alright