Work Text:
Natasha had "borrowed" Bucky, partly because she needed a sniper that did not have a magnetic attraction to dumpsters and mostly (Sam suspected) she wanted someone to sit in the back of sketch Russian cafes and silently consume pelmeni with. Also Bucky, as far as Sam had been able to tell, liked dressing like a Russian gangster, complete with aviators and loud prints.
"Bucky's always had wild taste," said Steve.
"His sister saved his suit," said Sam flatly. "I saw it. It's navy blue serge. It's at the Smithsonian."
Steve just looked at him and shook his head, slowly and sadly, as if mourning the ignorance of the rising generation.
Anyway, so for a week Bucky and Natasha had been off being terrifying and broken people together and Sam and Steve had been rattling around the brownstone. It felt bizarrely empty considering that Bucky spent most of his time wedged into a sort of nest he had built himself in the attic, where he chewed his way through his daily allotment of protein cubes and read pulp novels, or following the patch of sun as it moved through the living room and glowering when Sam almost tripped on him and then made a pained involuntary sound at the sight of white dude penis.
It was probably good for Steve.
Sam was making chili for supper and Steve was hunched over his laptop, chuckling low and spiteful in his throat as he composed replies to conservative family groups inviting him to speak at their events.
"You're going to do something to your back," said Sam, sniffing at the steam rising from the pot. "You have a standing desk, why don't you use it?"
"'I would be happy to speak at your function if, of course, it is opened by a priest'," read Steve out loud. "I don't like the desk, it's too far away from everything."
"What type of priest?" said Sam, briefly diverted, even as he promised himself another talk with Steve about his anxiety levels. Like, usually he was fine, and then he would turn around and either avoid people or be octoSteve, clinging with every sucker he had.
"I was thinking one that could say prayers in Latin, if they take me up on it," said Steve. "They think the Jesuits are going to produce the anti-Christ."
"Jesus," said Sam, appalled, and then, "What if they find one?"
"I think they believe in the headship of men, so I should be fine if I ask for a female priest," said Steve.
"What the fuck is wrong with people?" said Sam.
"It's okay," said Steve. "They said I should do a talk about the differences between now and when I was born."
Sam started to reply and was interrupted by a pounding on the door. Steve looked at him and tilted his head. Clint was, as far as they knew, safely in the hospital with Kate explaining to him with small words and diagrams why people who were pushing forty should not be attempting to slip the surly bonds of earth, and Sam's family rang the doorbell like civilized humans.
Sam put the lid on the chili and went to the door. Steve followed a casual distance behind, hovering just close enough to a convenient pointy sculpture to grab it if he had to. They had a lot of pointy statues all around the house, because Natasha was justifiably paranoid and also loved hideous Brutalist shit, almost as much as she loved the way Steve reeled back from her latest finds like he smelled rotting dog poop. When Sam opened it, Tony Stark burst in, making a noise like an enraged weasel, and almost knocked Sam over.
"What the hell?" said Sam.
Steve stepped away from the mosquito and relaxed a little.
"BARTON," hissed Stark. "BARRRRTOOOOOOON."
"What?" said Steve.
"He beat me!" screamed Tony, almost frothing at the mouth with rage.
"Tony, I've told you before not to play poker with him," said Steve tiredly. "I know you can count cards but your poker face is for shit and he's ten times better at sleight of hand."
"I don't care if he beats me at poker!" snarled Tony. He actually probably didn't; Clint had money in some mysterious way but he was a pauper compared to Tony, and Tony had an itchy wallet when it came to people he liked. Also he was extremely offended by Clint's flophouse in Bed-Stuy. Everybody was except Steve and Bucky, who thought that as decrepit apartment buildings went, it was at least ten times better than the one Bucky had bullied Steve out of after his mother died. "The asshole beat me at Prime/Not Prime!"
There was a silence. Sam looked over at Steve, whose eyebrows were up and whose mouth was tucked up just slightly into a smile, like he wanted to laugh but was resisting.
"I don't even want to know how this even came up," said Sam finally.
"I visited him in the hospital and I brought him new arrows out of the kindness of my heart," said Tony sullenly, "and he beat me. Me!"
Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and started Googling.
"8,081," said Sam.
"Prime," said Steve, followed by Tony about five seconds later.
"9,179."
"Not prime." Steve was again a little faster, and Tony looked annoyed.
"104,911."
"Prime," said Steve.
"What the fuck!" said Tony.
"It's not that hard," said Steve. Sam and Tony both stared at him and Sam coughed a noise like "SERUM" at him. "No, really. Bucky and I used to do it, when I was sick, I mean."
"If this is one of your poor little matchboy stories I'm going to go turn the chili down," said Sam. "You want a soda, Stark?"
"I don't know why you call us the poor little matchboys," said Steve, following Sam into the kitchen. "I never saw my grandmother by the light of a single match on Christmas day."
"Your knowledge of that shit disturbs me," said Tony. "Both of you disturb me."
Sam turned down the chili and got out the bowls and the ingredients to make cornbread. "Okay, Gramps, tell us about your sad childhood playing math for fun with your best friend."
"You think you're funny," said Steve, "but there wasn't a lot to do during winter, you know? We couldn't afford much lighting and I wasn't allowed to read after dark because of my eyes, and there's only so much knitting you can do at once."
"Knitting," repeated Stark.
Steve gave him a look that dared him to make something of it, and Stark solemnly zipped his lips, locked them, and threw away the key.
"So … math games?" said Sam.
"Yeah," said Steve. "Or, you know, chess or checkers. It's not like we had that 2048 thing."
"I bet you cheated," said Stark darkly. Steve was a rotten and confirmed cheat, although he said it was 'just luck, Sam' and 'why would I bother to cheat at Go Fish, Sam, I'm Captain America'.
"I would never," said Steve, looking at him with huge and innocent blue eyes, probably the same look he'd perfected on suspicious nuns and priests. Sam bet it hadn't worked so well on them, either. "I'm just really good at chess. I had time to practice."
"Uh huh," said Sam.
"I can't believe Dad was in love with you," said Stark sourly. He shoved his hands in his pockets and glowered at nothing in particular.
Oh, boy, thought Sam. He'd known this was going to come up eventually.
"Well, he wasn't," said Steve, calmly. "Not really."
Stark didn't even justify that with a reply. He just stared at Steve and let his eyebrows go up.
"He's got a point, man, it's pretty famously a part of the thing where his dad spent a jajillion dollars looking for you in the deep freeze," said Sam, pulling his bowls out.
Steve hesitated. It was easy to forget how observant he was sometimes, how carefully he thought about stuff. It was a weird thing sometimes to see the person who spent most of his time going off in a rush to hit people's fists with his face explain why he'd thought it was the right thing to do. Of course some of it was basically "I have a martyr complex and a death wish and I've seen too many people I love die" but sometimes. Sometimes Steve came out with stuff like:
"I know he liked me," said Steve. "I think he was attracted to me. But if he was in love with me, it was because he was in love with Captain America."
"But you're Captain America," said Stark.
Steve shook his head. "I liked Howard an awful lot but we didn't really spend that much time together. We met the day of the Vita-Ray experiment and then I didn't see him again but once or twice until the day he flew me to rescue Bucky, and after that I -- I don't think he really saw Steve Rogers, you know?" He twisted his mouth in a shape that wasn't quite a smile. "Not like Peggy or Bucky, or Dr Erkstine. They loved me before I was like this. Howard might have liked Steve Rogers okay but what he was really in love with was the -- idea of it, I guess. Falling in love with something he'd created. He was pretty romantic sometimes."
"Jesus," said Stark. "Every time I wonder how much more ---"
"It was fucked up," said Steve. "How Howard turned out after the war."
The room was silent for a while, and Sam mechanically measured out the flour and cornmeal and put them in a bowl. He pulled the buttermilk and eggs from the fridge and started the cornbread.
"It wasn't your fault," said Stark. He looked much older than Steve suddenly, tired and resigned. "You know that."
"It was still fucked up," said Steve. "I'm sorry for that."
The silence was much shorter this time before Stark blew out an annoyed breath. "It still wasn't your fault," he said. "Christ. I'm done with it. Let's talk about the way you're a dirty cheating asshole and I hope you took my old man to the cleaners."
Steve said, "I felt bad about it sometimes."
"Lies," said Sam.
"Maybe a little lies," said Steve.