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Barnes shouldered open the door to his shitty little long-term motel room and got caught up thinking about how it was probably the salt air that warped the door jamb. He was not expecting someone to catch him off guard with an uppercut to his nose and fast enough hands to snatch his gun from the hidden pocket in his jacket before he could even reach for it.
He threw out a knife towards the intruder, but it hit some kind of protective gear and clattered away. He reached for the can of mace in his holster but a hand reached out to grab his wrist. “Don’t,” the intruder said and then yelped in the next second as Barnes twisted their wrist before the word registered.
He frowned and stood straight. Despite the probably broken wrist, the intruder kept their hand on Barnes’ wrist. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to give you food.”
Barnes took a step back, towards the light of the open door.
Sam Wilson stepped forward.
He’d pulled what files he could on Wilson after DC. He’d taken two months to sort his own head out. (It wasn’t very sorted out but he needed to do other things and didn’t have the time to undo decades of damage. He knew his name. He could eat. He had money. That’s all that mattered.) Since then, it’d been four months of continent hopping and pulling up what files he could. HYDRA systems imploded fairly quickly after DC, not that Barnes had half the access codes for them. There were the files the Widow made public, which were helpful in identifying history, threats, and techniques of both HYDRA and SHIELD. It also told a lot about Steve Rogers, which in turn jogged parts of Barnes’ memory. Information about the Avengers and Rogers was easy enough to find with a quick search.
Digging up information about Rogers’ new right hand was another story. There were a few pages about active duty soldiers, VA officials, a FOIA request that had been published in some Op-Ed that didn’t have much to do with Wilson at all. It was all very preliminary. Where he did basics. His scores on certain tests. His aptitudes. Hell, there were even old snippets of a small newspaper from a place called Delacroix that had run tiny celebrations of Wilson’s graduation from high school, his Airman promotions, his finishing a degree at LSU, every medal he got through his first tour. Then, all of a sudden, his trail went cold. Every mention of his name was behind nineteen different walls Barnes couldn’t get into from a public library or internet cafe or electronics store.
Wilson, it seemed, had very fast hands and a quicker mind. Barnes recalled being more concerned with his legs and feet when he was in the air.
“I don’t need food,” he said. His voice scratched in his throat. He’d been trying to speak more frequently, but six months was not enough time to get over seventy years of silence. And he’d also just been hit in the face. “There’s an open stall market down the road.”
“I know there is,” Wilson agreed. “You like to settle down somewhere with fresh food.”
Barnes did. He hated that Wilson had figured that out. He didn’t respond.
“But, look man. I just followed you some two thousand miles and I don’t think you ate anything but a candybar that whole time. Take these.”
He held out small, foil packets. MREs. HYDRA used them sometimes, especially in safe houses that had a tendency to get snowed in. Which were all of them in the winter time. Barnes pushed them back.
“I don’t want these,” he said.
“Trust me, I know they suck, but these aren’t so bad. I picked my favorite dinners. And I promise they’re a shit ton better than whatever you had in the 40s.”
“We had SPAM.”
“A shit ton,” Wilson repeated. “Come on, Steve eats them all the time.”
“I’m not Rogers,” Barnes snapped.
Wilson held up the hand that wasn’t holding the MREs. “Fine, fine, you’re right. You’re not.” He set the food down on the small greeting table by the door.
“I’m not leaving with you. Either you walk out now or I put you out the window,” Barnes warned. “I don’t see those fancy wings of yours.”
“I’m not wearing them,” Wilson conceded. “And I’m not trying to make you come back. Just wanted to make sure you were eating.”
“You wanted to hit me in the face.”
“I really wanted to hit you in the face,” he agreed. “But I also wanted to pawn off some of these things. I mean, they’re overflowing in my grab bag.”
“Are you gonna tell Rogers?”
Wilson shook his head.
Barnes reached for the MREs and stepped back from the door.
Wilson stepped towards it.
“We’re not friends,” Barnes said.
“Hell no,” Sam agreed. “Hey, don’t eat those all in one place. They’re good for long car trips or getting stuck someplace without electricity. Or your fancy markets.”
He stepped outside the doorway and Barnes kicked the door shut.
Three months later, Barnes was ready. He ducked under Wilson’s swing and got him around the middle, taking him off his feet. He stopped himself from going full suplex but still bodied him up against the alleyway wall.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” he snarled over Wilson’s shoulder.
Wilson squirmed against the wall and stepped back against Barnes’ ankle hard. If Barnes wasn’t wearing his good boots, it probably would’ve hurt. The longer he wasn’t acting like a machine, the more things tended to hurt.
“Stark’s in your room,” Wilson finally confessed when it was clear Barnes wasn’t going to let him have this conversation eye to eye. “You see the news? Those diplomat’s kids?”
Barnes had and he cursed himself for not following his gut and cutting out as soon as things got dicey.
“Yeah, he thought it might’ve been you. I gave them the alias you used in Spain. I didn’t think you’d use it again.”
Bucky cursed himself again. He’d told himself to scrape the name from his mind. It just wouldn’t leave. He’d been working on a full 53 hours without sleep and it was the first thing he said as he tried not to pass out on the receptionist’s desk.
“Why didn’t you just say my name or grab my arm? What is it with you and these fists?”
“You woulda shot me if I’d done that!” Sam hissed back. Bucky turned him around and pressed him back against the wall. For the first time, he realized Wilson was shorter than he was. He knew it logically, that much was in his files, but Sam held himself with so much confidence and poise and he was such a threat in a fight, Bucky forgot he barely hit six foot. And that was probably a recruiter being nice to him on the papers.
It was probably the wings and the whole flying thing skewing Bucky’s perception.
“Why did you warn me in the first place?” Bucky asked finally.
“Because you’ve already had all your choices taken from you,” Sam said evenly. “If I let Steve or Stark or whoever drag you back to Manhattan, you’ll never get to stop fighting. Clearly you don’t want to be that guy anymore.”
“You don’t think I should be held accountable for what I did as the Soldier?”
“That’s not my decision to make,” Sam said. “And I plan on keeping my hands clean out of it until the last second I can. But before that, you deserve to hunker down and figure out who you are now. ‘Cause the guy who did all of that and the guy who goes to the fish market ain’t the same guy. You’re not . But maybe you need that accountability to come to terms with what other people made you do. Red in your ledger and all that. I don’t know, man. It’s not really a situation that comes up very often. You might be the first brainwashed assassin I’ve come across.”
“And you call yourself a professional.” Bucky let go of Sam’s shoulders and took a step back. “How long is Stark going to rummage through my things?”
“Lucky for you, Stark doesn’t know you the way Steve does and you travel light. So long as you didn’t leave pictures of yourself laying around, he won’t have much to work on. I’ll try to distract him this afternoon and give you some time to get out of here.”
Bucky nodded. “Thanks,” he eventually remembered to say.
“Don’t mention it. Literally. Don’t tell anyone I’m working with you.”
Six weeks later, Sam hit the door instead of Bucky. Bucky had been trying to watch TV without jumping at every noise and this did not help. Looking out the peep-hole revealed nothing and he nearly shot Sam when he finally did open the door. Instead, the gun was set aside hastily and Bucky pulled Sam into the small apartment by the armpits.
Sam was wearing a grey hoodie that was stained through with blood, but his uniform pants were still on. Which was probably bad. The jetpack was part of the jacket combo. If he’d taken that off somewhere and left it behind, anyone could have it. If someone had taken it off of him…
Bucky pulled the knife from his thigh holster and cut through Sam’s hoodie jerkily. Just once he needed this stupid metal arm to be smooth and this once it felt like a normal arm, shaky and unsure.
“Fuck, that’s the only one I brought,” Sam mumbled and then spit out blood.
“Shit, Wilson,” Bucky breathed. He pressed his hand to Wilson’s cheek and couldn’t gauge a temperature, which made him panic more before he realized it was his metal hand. He quickly switched to his other hand. He didn’t need to. Sam was clammy and lined with sweat already. “What happened?” he asked, pulling the hoodie away and laying Sam down on the hardwood.
“Dunno,” Sam said and tried to curl up on his side. “There was a fight and I went down to clear civilians and…”
“How did you get here? When did you change?” Bucky asked as he pushed Sam back onto his back.
“Walked here,” Sam said. He started to tuck an arm under his head, hissed in pain, and gave up halfway through. That was fine by Bucky, it gave him a better look at the gash in Sam’s side. “Changed...Changed...in the safe house. Everyone...everyone left,” Sam said. “And I was bleeding so I… I came here.”
Bucky grabbed the medical kit from his go bag and emptied it over the floor by Sam. “The Avengers are in Estonia?”
Sam shook his head, scrunched up his nose in pain, and then whimpered in a different sort of pain. Bucky didn’t have enough hands to fix everything. “Not the Avengers. They sent me out with a Strike team.”
“And that team left you without checking for injuries?” Bucky asked from between his teeth.
“I-- said I was fine,” Sam breathed. His body tensed and Bucky put his hand on Sam’s chest.
“Hey, be easy, alright? I’m gonna give you… well, it’s a tranq, I won’t lie. But you’ll be okay. You’ll just sleep for a while. Then I’m gonna put some stitches in this side of yours.” Sam’s eyes closed and Bucky smoothed his metal thumb over one eyebrow. “Hey, look at me. Are there any other wounds? There’s blood in your mouth.”
“Bit...my lip,” Sam said and prodded his tongue against a hole in his lower lip.
“Disgusting,” Bucky acknowledged and stabbed the tranq into Sam’s thigh.
A few seconds later, Sam was out cold.
A lifetime later, he was laying in Bucky’s bed, side wrapped very well, if you asked Bucky. He’d already mopped the floor three times and eventually the smell of blood drove him from the room. He was certain there was more bleach on the floor now than there’d ever been blood, but he couldn’t get the tangy iron smell from his nose. He’d pulled Sam’s boots off and undone the fastens on his pants so they weren’t biting into his sides. He’d even dug out a sweatshirt of his own and left it on the bed next to Sam. So now there was little more to do than sit on the floor and stare at him. Technically, Bucky slept on the floor every night, so giving up the bed wasn’t a huge burden. But he still didn’t think he’d be sleeping any until Sam sat up and talked and made some terrible joke.
He did fall asleep.
He woke up to Sam staring at him, unblinking.
“Je-sus H,” Bucky cursed and brought his hands up to his sleep swollen eyes. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I was trying to make sure you were breathing. You were barely moving,” Sam said. “Thought you’d left me with some realistic statue. Like one of those fake owls they put in restaurant outdoor seating to keep birds away.”
A knot untied in Bucky’s chest. “Yeah, I bet you take real personal offense to those.”
Sam threw a pillow at him. “I guess I don’t have to ask, but did you call Steve?” he asked when Bucky threw it back.
“No, I didn’t call Rogers. I don’t even know if you brought your phone or not.”
Sam gingerly sat up in the bed and put his hand to his side, prodding through the bandages. “It feels like you did a good job on these stitches.”
Bucky waved his metal hand. “Machine embroidery,” he said, like his arm had cooperated in the least last night.
Sam snorted and then cringed and clutched at his side again. “I have to call someone to get me out of here.”
“You could… You could stay,” Bucky offered.
Sam raised his eyebrows and looked like he was actually considering it for a split second before he shook his head. “Nah, I got people worried about me back home. Fans and stuff. Gonna throw out the first pitch at a Yankees game.”
“Fuck the Yankees,” Bucky spat.
“The Dodgers are in California now,” Sam answered, like the response was queued up.
“The fuck they are.”
“They are. They were sold in the 50s or 60s or something.”
“There may be a team in California called the Dodgers, but they ain’t the Dodgers.”
Sam rolled his eyes and laid back down in the bed. “Y’know, maybe a few more days here wouldn’t be so bad,” he suggested. “Shouldn’t fly with an open wound like this anyway.”
“Is that really a rule?” Bucky asked.
“No,” Sam laughed. “But it sounds like one, right? Pressure and high speeds and all that?”
“God, you’re still high on that tranq,” Bucky said, shoving his hand through his hair. “Go back to sleep. I’ll bring you food when you wake up.”
Sam stayed three days before Rogers tracked him down.
Bucky thought that was far too long. He’d have gone after Sam as soon as he didn’t return with the Strike team.
Sam pointed out that Rogers knew to give people space too. “You never know,” he said while Bucky wrapped new bandages around his side. “I coulda got lucky and been having a really long one night stand.”
“Is that not what we are, doll?” Bucky asked drily, shoving a pin into the bandage to hold it.
“You do know how to treat a man, Barnes. But I like to get luckier than this.”
“You’re plenty lucky. Lucky I didn’t kick you out for bleeding all over my floor.”
Three days and Bucky was stuck looking at blood stains on his cabinets and nothing else.
Two months later, more than a year since DC, Bucky let himself into Sam’s apartment through the balcony door. He’d already left him a note telling him to put a lock on it. He assumed Sam’s blatant refusal to do so was invitation enough. The apartment smelled like Italian food and some old crooner that Bucky missed by a decade or so played on the record machine in the living room.
This was a typical night, Bucky had figured out. Even when he was at the compound, Sam let music play and cooked something hearty and real that did not come liquified in a foil packet.
Sam’s back was to Bucky, standing in the kitchen, ribs deep in the fridge. Bucky knew this routine as well. He’d spend way too long choosing a chilled wine that he’d have all of a glass of throughout the night.
Two months later, Sam’s sides weren’t wrapped anymore, but he still had a square bandage around what was left of the gash in his waist. The white gauze and the shimmery tape stood out starkly on his dark skin. Bucky blinked himself back into consciousness when he realized he could see this because Sam wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“Sam, you picked something out yet? This ice cream’s gonna melt!” Rogers called from down the hall. Rogers who was not supposed to be in DC and certainly not in this apartment but was nonetheless very likely in Sam’s bedroom.
“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses,” Sam called back and finally turned around.
But Barnes was gone, back out the door and over the balcony.
A week later, he tried again. This time, Sam had a wok on the stove, but the heat had been off long enough for the smells and temperatures to even out in his apartment. He was still standing with his back to the living room, in the freezer this time with an absurd number of ice cream pints lining the door.
This time, he paid attention for the tell-tell sounds of anyone else in the apartment and made sure Rogers was not in the damn state. Sam was alone. It was Etta James tonight. Barnes crept across the floor and grabbed Sam around the ribs, trapping his arms down, and clamped his metal hand over Sam’s mouth.
Sam jumped so quickly he smashed his nose against the top of the freezer and then cursed against Barnes’ hand before his teeth came down on it with an oddly non-metallic sound.
“Fuck,” he said emphatically into Barnes’ palm.
Barnes let go of him.
“You coulda just said hey.”
“We’ve got a lot of ground to make up for. You broke my nose back in Spain.”
Sam pinched his own nose. “I think we can call it even.”
“No, you did it this time too.”
Sam glared at him and then leaned forward to rest his forehead on Barnes’ shoulder. Barnes, unsure what to do in the slightest, stayed still. “You shoulda stayed last week. Thought something mighta happened to you.”
“I can take care of myself,” Barnes said and ignored the uncomfortable twisting of sentiment in his stomach. “Besides, you looked busy.”
“I woulda hung up my call. Not every day a ghost shows up in your apartment, y’know.”
“Your call?” Barnes asked. “Rogers was in the bedroom.”
Sam sat back and stared at Barnes. “Wait, did you think we were sleeping together? Did you think that was a date?”
Barnes shifted from foot to foot. “I heard him. You made food. You were getting wine.”
“Oh my God, you tricked history into thinking you were smart.”
“Watch it, Wilson.”
“Steve’s dealing with HYDRA bases. He happened to have a night in. We were watching a movie together on a video call.”
Bucky was a fucking idiot.
“How did you know I was here last week?”
“You left the balcony door open when you dashed out. Like I said, you’re not exactly living up to legend.”
“I could throw you off another plane, if you want,” Bucky offered.
Sam rolled his eyes and turned back to the freezer. “Come on, pick out an ice cream. I know you ain’t tried nothing from this century yet.”
That was not true. Bucky had tried Italian gelato from a food truck in Texas. It was...not very good. Nothing like real gelato and he’d had that gelato during a war. Which could’ve made it better or worse in equal measure, he wasn’t sure.
He reached for a tub of chocolate chunk something something something. It was the least complicated picture. “Good choice, classic,” Sam said and handed over a chilled spoon. “Come on, I’m rewatching X-Files. I think you’ll like it.”
Bucky had seen episodes of X-Files, it was all one of the BBC channels seemed to play and half of what played on SyFy past eleven pm. Still, he nodded and crossed to Sam’s couch, which was possibly the comfiest couch he’d ever sat on. Sam joined him a few seconds later and sat far enough away that he could kick his feet over one of Bucky’s thighs and dig his toes under the next.
“How’s your side?” Bucky asked as Sam scrolled through episodes to find one he liked. “Jose Chung’s From Outer Space is good,” he said absently.
Sam clicked on it and then lifted his shirt to reveal a fine scar. The edges were still a little angry and a few bits of scabbing lingered over soft spots. All in all, though, it had healed very well. “Luckily, I had a very precise surgeon and good scar cream.”
“Can I?” Bucky asked, holding out his right hand.
“Go for it, man. You’re the one who put it back together.”
Bucky smoothed his fingers over the scar and felt the edges carefully. “Do you remember what happened yet?”
“Nah. It was so crazy out there. And sometimes I feel the impact in the suit but don’t notice that it’s actually cut through. It could’ve been anything.”
“You should be more careful,” Bucky said.
“I know the guy who ripped his arm off isn’t lecturing me about being careful.”
“That’s so not the same thing.”
“So is.”
“Is not.”
“Is to.”
Bucky pinched Sam’s side and sat back, dropping his hand to Sam’s ankle instead.
“How’s that head of yours doing?” Sam asked eventually.
“No, wait, this cold open is great.”
“It’s not.”
“Shhh.”
Sam waited for the reveal of the second alien monster and asked again, “How are you feeling up in the brain?”
“Don’t talk over the opening theme,” Bucky hushed again.
Sam dug his toes into Bucky’s thigh but took the hint.
Another two months came and went and Bucky trudged up the concrete stairs to his one-room in Bucharest. He’d been here longer than he’d been anywhere since DC and people on the street knew his alias and coffee order. It was...nice.
Seeing Sam sitting outside his door, legs slightly bent, arms over his knees, forehead on his arms, was nice too until the worry set in.
“Wilson,” he said with a nod.
“You know you’ve got the loudest boots on the continent?” Sam asked without lifting his head.
“You try hauling around thirty pounds of metal all the time,” he shot back as he got the door open. He kicked Sam’s foot and stepped inside. Sam followed a few seconds later.
“So this is what it’s like when you settle down, huh? I really like the newspaper over the windows. Not suspicious at all.”
Bucky rolled his eyes. “Shut and lock the door behind you.”
“How many of these should I do? All thirty? Every other one? Two, then one, two, then one?”
“You’re pushing it, Wilson. Say what’s on your mind.”
Sam half heartedly locked several locks and then sat down on one of the dining room chairs heavily. “We had a bad mission. Bad intel. Strike team got hurt.”
“Your friends just wiped a country off the planet, literally. They’re upset about a few injuries?”
Sam’s gaze was sharp and judging when he found Bucky across the room. “All injuries are a disappointment.”
“You’re a soldier. You know you can’t think like that.”
“The hell I can’t. That’s what makes the difference between a soldier and a monster.”
“Be a little more obvious, Wilson. I don’t think I’m getting the point.”
Sam let out a harsh breath and brought a hand up to his face. “It wasn’t the Avengers. I was leading the mission. I had gathered the intel. I put the Strike team where they were supposed to be. It’s my mission failure.”
Bucky moved to sit in the other chair, knocking a coat and pair of boots out of the way. Up close, he realized Sam wore all the signs of a bad mission. Or any mission. He was bruised and had a fresh cut wound over his brow bone. Lines had etched into his handsome face and exhaustion was plain in the set of his shoulders and the weight of his legs. His arms still rested on his knees, wrist and hands limp between them, fingers tangled together.
“Are you in trouble?” Bucky asked.
Sam shook his head. “That’s the worst part. I’d prefer the accountability. Things went wrong and people deserve answers but no one’s going to give it to them.”
“Not that I’m the person to be telling you this, but you could be that person.”
Sam shook his head. “I can’t. It’s just like the military. Once the brass decide something’s done, it’s done.”
Bucky put his hand on Sam’s knee and Sam fell forward, half climbing into Bucky’s chair to hide his face against Bucky’s shoulder. Unlike in Sam’s kitchen, Bucky knew what to do. His arms came up around Sam’s ribs and he held him tightly.
“There’s answers out there and I’m never gonna know them,” Sam whimpered softly.
“What do you mean? You were there.”
Sam shook his head and Bucky wished he’d thought to take off his jacket when he walked in the door to give Sam something softer to lean on. “Not...not this mission. When...when…”
“When your second EXO-7 pilot went down?” Bucky guessed. In the year and a half they’d been playing cat-and-mouse, the EXO-7 Falcon project had been published in a redacted form. Something to do with superhero accountability and visibility. There’d been nothing specific about the second pilot’s death, or really even a confirmation of it. There were months and months of information about Sam and a second pilot, a final mission, and then the closure of the program. Bucky could fill in the blacked out blanks.
“You wanna know something I found out that they never told me, even once I started all this superhero bullshit?” Sam asked. He’d rested his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder but was looking towards the wall instead of Bucky. “It was a Stark weapon that shot him down.”
“Je-sus,” Bucky breathed. But he’d be lying if he said a weight hadn’t lifted in the same instant. He’d been getting worried he’d been the one to pull the trigger with how little information seemed to be out there.
“They never said his name anywhere. He never got any kind of award. His family got compensation for loss and discretion .” This, Sam spat out like venom. Bucky’s arms tightened around him again. “God, I’m so tired, Bucky,” he breathed.
Bucky sucked in a breath he couldn’t quite hide. Sam sat back quickly, removing his weight. “Shit, sorry, I didn’t even think about your ribs…”
“No, it’s not that.” Bucky had barely even really registered his weight as anything more than warmth. “It’s just...no one’s said my name in a long time. Not while I’ve been clear headed like this.”
Sam looked at him, one knee still propped on the chair between Bucky’s. He reached out to brush his fingers down his cheek. Bucky closed his eyes. “Can I sleep here?” Sam asked.
“You can stay as long as you want,” Bucky said honestly.
“No, I can’t,” Sam answered honestly. “I wouldn’t risk them tracking you down and I’ve still got people and responsibilities back home. Maybe one day we’ll be in the same place. To stay.”
Bucky stood and pulled Sam into his arms. The apartment was not large enough to really make a point of carrying him towards the bed. There wasn’t even a designated bedroom, just a thin mattress on the floor. But he carried Sam to it and dropped himself on it, making sure to keep Sam as protected as possible.
Sam laughed. If it was a little wavery, Bucky didn’t point it out. The mattress was not large enough for the two of them to comfortably lay shoulder to shoulder, but Sam was already turned towards Bucky’s chest. His knee went back between Bucky’s, his arms curled against his chest. Bucky could damn near feel their heartbeats. He put his face back to Bucky’s shoulder and his eyelashes brushed over Bucky’s skin as he closed his eyes.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
Bucky rubbed his hand up and down Sam’s back. “We’re still not friends.”
“Nah, definitely not,” Sam agreed again. His breath was warm on Bucky’s collarbones. Bucky shivered. This, he thought, was much better than friends.