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Summary
“Holy shit, you got us a murder cabin.” Sam shakes his head, backing away from the stain. “Somebody died right here, in this goddamn murder cabin, and you want me to make coffee next to where it happened. In the murder cabin,” he stresses. It’s worth it.
“It’s not—that’s not a thing, and that’s not blood. It’s rust.”
“How do you know?”
Bucky gives him a look that manages to convey asshole, I spent seventy-odd years in the murder cabins I won’t admit exist, I know from a goddamned pool of blood on the floor with a couple eyebrow furrows and a little shake of his head.
“Riiiiight,” Sam draws the word out, watching Bucky step the eyebrows up into motherfucker, you have got to be kidding me territory. “Probably seen your share of giant pools of blood in your day. Bet you visited all the best murder cabins.”
OR
sam and bucky, trapped together in a (not) canadian (not) shack.