Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It is not the first time that a gang of bullies, bigger than he is and faster and crueller, have got him. It won’t be the last. They seem to make a point of waiting for him, like they have nothing better to do than wait for him down an alley and then chase him up to the corner by the streetcar stop. The names they call him had stopped hurting long ago but the punches still do. He is smaller than them and weaker and that makes him fair game.

The dog days of summer have left the air thin, given it a metallic quality that tears at his lungs so that he can’t help coughing when the first blow catches him in the stomach. Steve doubles over, tastes faint copper in his mouth. He swallows hard, pulling in air that feels like it has already been used by a thousand other people and studies the dusty toe of one worn down shoe. Another hard shove in the middle of his back and he sprawls on the ground, cheek hitting the edge of the sidewalk and he wheezes, tries to tug in a breath and his ears roar with the effort. It blocks out the catcalls and the jeers at least.

Lying on the ground he can feel vibrations, the streetcar trundling towards him and he thinks of the movie he saw on Saturday, the short before the big picture came up, and there’d been a girl tied to the railroad tracks waiting for the hero to rescue her.

He’s small and skinny, even for eight, and it isn’t much of a life but it’s his and he doesn’t want to end it under the wheels of a rattling old Brooklyn streetcar. The sidewalk is gritty grey, rough under his fingers. Steve concentrates on getting his hands and feet under his body, bracing himself until he can push himself up. He takes a swing, a wild lashing-out with a closed fist that has no hope of landing and it doesn’t. He misses, of course, tripping over his own feet and collides with another body, something solid and sturdy and a pair of hard little hands grasp his shoulders, holding him up.

‘Hey!’ There is a note of outrage in the voice that sounds out above his head. ‘What goes on here?’

The air is split by the screech of metal on metal as the streetcar comes to a tortuous stop, windows and too-old woodwork all shaking together. Steve makes a move towards it and gets propelled up the steps. He can hear that same voice, muffled now but clear.

‘Go on, hit me! I dare you!’

Slumped in his corner in misery he picks at the frayed cuff of one sleeve, worrying at the thread, rolling it between his fingers. The car lurches into motion and he’s knocked against the window and the back of his hard seat. And then another thunk as something lands half on his lap and half on the seat. He ventures a sideways glance and recognises his book bag.

‘You dropped it.’

The other boy wriggles onto the scant half-seat that’s left. Unruly dark hair falling into his eyes, shirt half-pulled out of his waistband and an unconcerned smudge across one cheek. He roots in his pocket and retrieves a slightly grubby paper bag that was once white and shoves it under Steve’s nose.

‘Want a candy?’

He shakes his head, pulls his book bag onto his knees and wraps his hands around the straps.

The bag gets given a shake, rustling. ‘They’re sours. I don’t like ‘em too sweet.’

‘No.’ He shakes his head again. ‘Thanks.’

One shoulder gets lifted in a shrug and then there comes the serious business of selecting which of the identical sweets is the most desirable. The boy pops his selection into his mouth, sucking thoughtfully for a moment before saying, ‘I’m Bucky.’

He allows his spine to unfold fractionally. ’I’m Steve.’

‘I know.’ Airy. ‘I’ve seen you around.’

Steve cringes slightly but the blue gaze is candid and clear and there is no mockery in it. ‘I wasn’t scared of those guys.’ His voice is defensive. He releases his grip on the cracked leather straps of the satchel, leaning forward slightly. It feels important, somehow, that this should be understood.

Bucky nods. ‘I know.’ He settles in his seat, running candy-sticky fingers through his heavy hair and blows out a breath. ‘Gee, but those guys are dumb.’

‘They’re bullies,’ Steve mutters. ‘I hate bullies.’

‘Me too.’ Bucky rolls his sour candy around his mouth, seemingly enjoying the sound of it knocking against his teeth. ‘And they’re cowards.’ The pronouncement comes with all the wisdom of his few years. ‘My Ma says that all bullies are cowards, that’s why they’re bullies. Makes ‘em feel good.’

Steve manages a huff of a breath that carries a trace of defeated laughter. ‘They must be real cowards if they pick on me.’

He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him. It’s an appraising gaze, something watchful and thoughtful. Then he shrugs again. ‘Nah. They’re just dumb.’

A quiet smile pulls at Steve’s mouth against his will and he can feel the breath that has been stuck somewhere in his throat finally sink down and the leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach lessens. His nose has started to run and he scrubs the back of his wrist against it and stares out of the grimy window, unfamiliar shops and rackety houses leaning against each other. The sun has struggled through the clouds and a feeble shaft hits the window, barely breaking through the built-up patina of sticky dirt.

‘So, where’re we going?’ Bucky’s voice is cheerful and curious.

‘I…’ Steve squirms awkwardly, not really wanting to say it, unwilling to let his new frien- his new acquaintance down. ‘I dunno. I just… I just ride the cars sometimes. Y’know… ’Til it gets to the end and then … and then it turns around and goes back.’ He takes a breath and looks at Bucky squarely, chin lifting. ‘You can get off whenever.’

Bucky is staring past him like he hasn’t really been listening and then his eyes come back to Steve and there’s a glint in the blue. ‘I like riding the cars. I don’t know where this one goes but it’d be neat finding out. I guess I’ll stay on with you ’til the end of the line.’ He grins, a gap-toothed smile. ‘It’ll be an adventure.’ He retrieves his bag of sweets from the depths of a pocket. ‘Sure you don’t want one?’

The sweets have stuck together and have a slightly dusty look as though they’ve spilled out and been scooped back up again by a young possessor utterly unwilling to part with them. Steve takes one and when he feels the fizz against his tongue his eyes widen and Bucky emits a sharp bark of laughter. For a moment Steve is still and stiff again, the old familiar misery tangling itself around him because of course, at some point, he would just be the object of mockery again. But then he looks at Bucky and the other boy’s face has puckered involuntarily and his eyes are bright, watering, and he’s blinking hard.

‘Just wait ’til you get to the middle.’ His voice is coloured by laughter, cheeks dimpling. ‘Then your mouth goes really weird.’

The simplicity of it makes him feel like he’s going to cry but he doesn’t. He returns Bucky’s wide grin and feels his own laughter shake through him and it feels good, this shared moment. And later on, much later, Steve reckons it’s probably the first time in his short life that someone had laughed with him instead of at him.

Chapter Text

Laughter rises on the air, mingling with the slap of water against the dockside. They should be eating at the house, maybe setting up the table out under the line of old sycamore trees but after the time that they’ve had out on the water and the whole community rallying round just like the old days this feels more natural. Something deep in the root and branch of the place.

Plus the fact that Sarah never seems to be happy unless she is feeding approximately a thousand people, so there is no reason why today should be any different. Most of them have drifted away, bellies full, and Sam would be ordinarily fine with all of that except for the fact that Sarah has pushed the last piece of roasted corn that he’d been eyeing up onto Bucky’s plate.

He spreads his hands, palms flat up to the darkling sky. ‘You not gonna even ask?’

Sarah raises her eyebrows and settles herself back in her seat. ‘The man spent all day on that old boat.’

‘I spent all day on that old boat.’

His sister is unimpressed, blowing a breath through her lips and tossing long braids over her shoulder. ‘He did most of the work.’

Which is, annoyingly, something that Sam can’t argue against. If not for Bucky they would probably still be arguing about how to get the engine off the truck. Carlos and his friends are still taking bets on which Avenger he is and failing miserably.

But working on the boat is, Sam surmises, not so much the reason for Sarah’s giddy softness so much as when Cass, intrigued by the exotic stranger in their midst, had managed to slide his finger nails under the plates of Bucky’s vibranium arm and he had-

Bucky starts suddenly, the pull he’d taken of beer from the sweating bottle in his right hand mingling with a sharp in-drawn breath and he laughs. It’s an unfamiliar and unexpected sound and Sam feels his scalp prickle because he’s only ever heard Bucky actually laugh once before and that was when they’d had him secured in an industrial vice and he’d been too exhausted to do anything but take it. Now his face is slightly flushed and he looks young and uncertain and amused.

Cass is tiny next to him but he stares up at Bucky, eyes round and mouths ‘sorry’ at him and one half of Bucky’s lips turns up in a smile and he is soft and open and warm. 

‘It’s okay,’ he says, puts his bottle down on the trestle table that is already straining with dishes of rice and greens and seafood and everything else that can be thought of. He flexes the dark metallic fingers, the inlaid gold glinting under the lowering Louisiana sun. ‘It just tickles.’

Sam stares at him, incredulous. ‘Tickles?’

Bucky meets his eyes, calm, one hand light on Cass’ shoulder. ‘Yeah. Shuri was very particular-’

‘Shuri?’

‘Yes, Shuri.’

‘Like a royal princess that y’all just calling Shuri.’

‘That’s her name,’ Bucky says, reasonably, and it makes Sam want to punch him.

‘Any-way,’ he draws out and there is an amused glint in those blue eyes that Sam doesn’t trust at all, ‘Her Royal Highness, Princess Shuri of Wakanda-’

‘You know a princess?’ A.J. now, his eyes wide and he is fixated on Bucky.

‘I know her too,’ Sam says and he objects to how petulant his own voice sounds.

‘Princess Shuri was very concerned about censors and receptors so yes. It tickles.’

And the boys gaze up at him with patent adoration, which is fine. Just fine. It’s good, in fact.

But it’s still no reason to give the man the last piece of roasted corn.

‘Don’t get too gone on him,’ Sam tells her. ‘Your white boy there don’t like Marvin Gaye.’

‘I like Marvin Gaye,’ Bucky says, resigned.

Sarah drops her fork, her head coming to rest in her hands. ‘Oh my God.’ She peers across at both of them. ‘Oh my God!’ When she looks up it’s at Bucky, sitting across the table from her and the lines of his face slowly blurring into the soft indigo of late evening. ‘Don’t tell me - Trouble Man.’

‘That’s the one,’ Bucky confirms.

‘It’s a great album!’

Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘Okay, fine. It’s good.’

Cass and A.J. sit between the three of them, quiet and gleeful and taking in all of the strange new permutations of these grown-up relationships that they don’t really understand but they know that they love their mama and their Uncle Sam and are more than ready to love their brand new Uncle Bucky who can lift up a truck all by himself and that whatever this is, it will all be fine.

‘Good?!’ Sam’s eyebrows climb. 

‘All I’m saying,’ Sarah says, her words heavy, ‘is there are other singers, Samuel.’

‘Yes, Samuel,’ Bucky adds, gleeful and deadpan with it, ‘there are other singers.’

‘He’s telling the black experience,’ Sam says, rallying himself.

‘Uh-huh,’ Bucky nods. ‘Like no-one ever did that before? Like, say, Billie Holiday?’

Sam’s mouth works, silent, and then his hand rises, one finger extended and he jabs it in Bucky’s direction. ’Oh no, nuh-uh, no, you do not get to do that!’

Bucky is all innocence. ‘Do what?’

Sam’s mouth tightens and he sets his elbows down hard on the table. ‘That is not an argument. Everybody loves Billie Holiday.’

There’s a moment of finality, an argument won and Bucky takes a pull of his beer, waits until Sam is settled back and then drops into the silence,

‘Steve didn’t.’

He catches Sarah’s eye and winks, takes a pull on his beer. The look on Sam’s face is so comical that Sarah disappears into her napkin, trying to stifle the giggles that rise faster than she can stop them. 

‘Wha-’

‘I mean, he liked her but he didn’t adore her.’ There is every sign that Bucky is really enjoying this and Sam wonders if he could feasibly chain the man to the boat’s propellor and then just … turn it on. 

‘I adored her.’ A pause. ‘I had to physically drag him out to some tiny club in  Harlem to see her.’

Sarah’s giggles stop and she raises her gaze to him. ‘You- you saw her?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Shadows have lengthened about them, coolness rising after the heat of the day. Everything has found its place and there is an ease here, in the platters of wholesome food weighing down the table, in the small bodies of children curling themselves into larger adult forms, in the glint of metal fingers resting with gentle protectiveness on a curly head. Sarah sits forward, eyes widening fractionally. 

Bucky nods.

She is rapt, her eyes on him and for the few seconds they have where no-one else is talking it might as well just be the two of them in the universe. Something shifts and Sarah catches her breath. She feels like she’s run a marathon but she’s still just sitting on the dockside here in Delacroix but it feels like nothing will ever be quite the same again. ’What was she like?’

He might be thinking about a night somewhere back in ninteen-thirty-or-forty-something but his eyes don’t leave Sarah’s face and when he speaks his voice is slow and heavy and there’s a touch of wonder to it that seems to be something added rather than a long ago memory.

‘She was magnificent. She was a goddess.’

Sam sees the flush high on his sister’s cheeks and rumbles in his chest, his dark eyes hard and narrowed and fixed on the unrepentant ancient cyborg man sitting on the bench opposite Sarah. 

‘Fish-food, man,’ he reminds him.

Bucky nods, takes another pull on his beer. Across from him Sarah’s brown eyes are bright and sparkling, her face bright and he thinks that there are women in this world worth becoming fish-food for and that Sarah Wilson is probably definitely one of them.

Chapter Text

Steve blows into his hands, trying to instil some warmth before shoving them deep into his pockets and hunching his shoulders against the light dusting of snow that has appeared over everything in the wake of the suddenly plummeting temperature. The wind finds its way though the meagre layers of thin clothing, biting against his skin.

Lights from shopfronts spill across the sidewalk, offering at least an illusion of warmth. Steve pushes a door open, stamping his boots, a bell jangling over his head. He shakes the wet snow out of his hair, wiping his feet carefully on the mat before edging between the cluttered shelves. Every surface is covered with books, piles of prints and old photographs. The air smells of dust, old leather and paper. It is also freezing and except for the lack of wind, Steve is sure that it's colder inside than out.

He pulls his coat closer around himself and presses forward through the stacks until the store opens up onto a small semi-circle of relatively free space. And it is here that he finds Bucky, sitting on top of an up-turned packing case, chin propped on one hand and his eyes fixed on the pages of a book. An open toolbox abandoned at his feet, piles of books and pieces of wood stacked against each other.

Steve cranes his neck, taking in the title and frowns slightly, wondering if the title is supposed to actually read The Habit and the author is just really bad at spelling. 

‘What’s a hobbit?’

‘About yea high,’ Bucky says after a moment, still reading, holding a hand roughly three feet in the air. ‘Y’know, kinda you-sized.’

‘Very funny.’

Bucky glances up at him then, eyes crinkling with amused affection, and makes space on the crate. Steve eases himself up and thinks that he still can’t feel his cheeks, his face stiff with cold.

‘I’ve never heard of it.’

‘It’s not out here yet. It’s British.’ He affects an atrocious accent and manages to mangle it just on the one word. ‘It was in the consignment we opened this morning.’

‘Makes a change from Amazing Stories,’ Steve remarks, tracing a finger through a layer of dust on the edge of the counter by the cash register.

‘Buck Rogers is a legend,’ comes the reply.

‘Even if he stole your nick-name?’

His reward is a light punch on his shoulder.

‘At least he stole it from the best.’

Steve suppresses a smile. ‘See, they only think that ‘cos they haven’t met you.’

‘Jerk.’

‘Bucky!’ A figure in the doorway behind the counter surveys the wreckage and his voice is querulous. ‘You are supposed to be putting up shelf, not reading book!’

Bucky slides to his feet. ‘Sorry, Mr Z.’

The old man shuffles forward. He is thin and stooped, wispy white hair standing up at odd angles and he blinks at them through thick glasses. But his eyes are still bright and alert. ‘Hello, Steve.’

Steve raises a hand. ‘Hello, Mr Zimmerman.’ 

He can feel the storekeeper’s eyes on him. The old man studies him, sucking on his teeth and then shakes his head. ‘So skinny,’ he pronounces, poking one bony finger into Steve’s chest. Which is ironic, Steve thinks, considering that Mr Zimmerman is even thinner than he is; the skin on his hands is dry, papery, blue veins showing through. He looks as though a too strong gust of air will blow him away. Even so, Steve shrugs uncomfortably under the examination, feeling a burn across the back of his neck and horribly aware of his frayed cuffs and the threadbare coat that’s starting to develop a hole in one elbow.

‘I’m okay,’ he mutters.

‘Too thin,’ Mr Zimmerman tells him, his heavily-accented English stretching out the vowels.

‘There’s a sandwich in my bag,’ Bucky calls over, repositioning the wooden slats on the brackets he’s attached to the wall.

‘I’m fine,’ he repeats, a little louder than intended.

Bucky sighs, places his hammer carefully on the new shelf, marches himself across to the bag slung haphazardly in the corner, pulls out a neatly-wrapped packet and thrusts it into Steve’s reluctant hands.

‘Just eat the sandwich.’ Gruff. He applies himself to hammering more nails into the wall.

Bucky’s entire range of sandwich-making is PB & J, so today is no exception. Thick slices, filling oozing out. Steve bites into it and feels his stomach give a little contraction of pleasure in anticipation. Mr Zimmerman wanders back into the depths of the backroom, muttering to himself under his breath about the stubbornness of American boys.

There is silence, broken by creaks of wood on wood. Steve, sandwich in hand, reads the gold lettering along the spines of leather-bound books and imagines the luxury of a life where you could own as many as you wanted and had the time to read them.

’You still coming Friday?’

‘Uh…’ Steve pulls in a breath and lets it out slow. ‘I dunno.’

‘Oh, come on! You’re going to let me go to Harlem on my own?’

He squints across at his friend. ‘On your own? I thought you were going with… Who is it this week?’

‘Sally!’ A note of indignation. ‘You’re going to let Sally and me go to Harlem on our own?’

He takes a bite of sandwich and talks through it, indistinct. ‘I think she’ll prefer that.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ Flat. Just like every time. Bucky would not have it that any girl would object to having Steve along with them. The girls objected plenty but the smart ones kept it to themselves: their desire to step out with Bucky Barnes overcame their disdain for his pal.

‘Maybe she’s got a friend.’

Steve rolls his eyes. ‘You always say that.’

‘Buddy, there’s got to be a girl out there for you somewhere.’ Bucky twists, looking at him over his shoulder, a grin plastered across his handsome face. ‘Maybe we could advertise?’

‘I will throw what’s left of this sandwich at you.’

‘Hey, you ruin anything around here it’s coming out of your pocket.’ He pauses, jerks his chin at the toolbox. ‘Hand me that wrench, will ya?’

Steve shoves the remaining crusts into his mouth, picks up the wrench and dutifully carries it across. Bucky has finished with the bookshelves and is crouched in front of the ancient radiator, examining it thoughtfully. A thumbnail rubs back and forth across his lower lip and his eyes are intent, studying the problem and working it out. Given tools and time Bucky can solve just about any problem just by looking at it. 

‘You should go to college, Buck,’ Steve says soft.

Bucky glances at him sideways, one eyebrow lifting. ‘Who’d pay the bills?’

He lets out a breath. So much that isn’t fair. Bucky’s a good man. Kind. And he has brains along with his big heart. ‘Okay, not now maybe. When your sisters have grown up-’

‘My sisters will never grow up,’ he says, agile fingers working at valves and twisting bits of piping. ‘You know ‘em, they’re all still six years old.’

‘Becky is eighteen.’

He grunts, all of his strength aimed on getting a rusted nut to budge under his wrench. ‘Becky’s worse than any of them. She’s two. Here, hold this.’

Steve holds the wrench in place while Bucky fiddles with more bits of ancient piping and then turns a valve. There is a loud rattling clunk and the whole heating system rattles alarmingly and then quietens. Bucky holds his hand palm flat against the radiator and then smiles. ‘There. That’ll stop Mr Z from turning into a popsicle for a week or so.’ He straightens up, stretches out his shoulders. ‘Hey, Mr Z! We’re going.’

He’s almost packed up when the old bookseller shuffles back through the doorway. He looks at the new shelves with the neatly stacked books and raises both hands in the air, a slow smile spreading across his face. ‘It look good. Now we have finest book shop in Brooklyn.’

Bucky blows a breath of laughter into his toolbox and snaps the catches shut. He straightens up. ‘I got the heating on. If it goes out again, you let me know.’

Mr Zimmerman tilts his head back to look at him and then picks up the book that Bucky had left so carefully on the counter. ‘Here. Take it.’

Instinctively Bucky rubs his hands against the rough fabric of his coat, aware of the oil smears and dirty fingernails. ‘But it’s new,’ he says and he barely holds it between his fingers.

Mr Zimmerman reaches up to pat his cheek. ’You’re a good boy, Bucky.’

‘He used to be an altar boy,’ Steve says and has the pleasure of seeing his dearest friend’s ears turn red.

‘Shut up,’ Bucky groans between his teeth.

‘Ruffled collar and everything.’

The old man waves his hands at them. ‘Go on. Get out, the pair of you.’

They spill out onto the sidewalk and the wind has picked up, swirling flurries of slushy snow around them. Bucky turns up the collar of his coat and then one hand lands, companionably, on Steve’s shoulder. The pressure is warm and familiar.

‘So, Friday.’

Steve’s breath frosts on the air. ‘Fine, okay, Friday.’

His shoulder gets a squeeze.

‘I just don’t get why you like her so much.’

Bucky shakes his head, wraps his arm closer around Steve’s shoulder as they plough on through the snow. ‘Pal, there is something wrong with how your ears work. Okay, let me explain to you again why Lady Day is the greatest…’

Chapter Text

It’s only with the slam of the front door of Bucky’s apartment and the ensuing stillness that pours in that Sam realises his ears are ringing. It’s been an hour, at least, of flashes going off in his face, microphones shoved at him, crowds surging in and now that it’s stopped the only thing that he’s really aware of is the hand in the middle of his back that pushes him forward slightly. The light turns on and Sam blinks, slow, eyes taking seconds longer than normal to process.

The apartment is so sparse that it’s hard to imagine that someone actually lives here. He’s seen hotel rooms with more warmth and personality. But it’s clean and quiet and closed off from everything else and right now that feels like something precious.

A low murmuring and he shakes his head. Bucky’s face appears in front of his, a crease between his eyebrows, blood still staining the side of his head, trailing down his cheek. 

‘Your phone,’ he says. ‘It’s ringing.’

A moment and then he becomes aware of the buzz-buzz as it vibrates and it’s another moment before he traces it to the relevant pocket. Sarah. He takes a breath and then another and presses the green icon.

‘Sam… Oh my God… Are you two okay?’

‘Fine. We’re fine.’

‘It’s all over the news. It’s everywhere. That poor girl- Jesus, Sam!’

He hears her voice break and he shuts his eyes.

‘I know. I know. I just-’ He drives his fingers into the hollows of his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I can’t, Sarah. Right now, I just- I just can’t.’ A moment. ‘How are the boys?’

He hears her breath shake through her and when her voice comes again it is strong and clear. ‘They’re good. We’re all good. Everything’s fine. They really want to see you.’

He nods. ‘Tell ‘em we’ll be home soon.’

After she rings off he stands for a moment and then slowly peels himself away from his patch of floor. The suit that Shuri has made for him is lighter than his previous rig, even with the wings, but right now it feels like he will never be able to hold up the weight of it. He can though, and he does, and he makes it across to the breakfast bar and leans against it heavily. The phone’s screen is blank staring up at him and he sees Karli Morgenthau’s empty eyes and his stomach roils. He mutters something, feet stumbling and a pair of strong hands propel him forward, through a door and he makes it to the bowl before he starts retching.

Cool ceramic pressing against his forehead. He feels the sweat beading across the back of his neck and running down his spine. He pushes himself up, roots himself on the tile floor then crosses to the basin and turns on the tap. Cold water against his face and he rinses out his mouth.

When he goes back into the living room Bucky is pouring hot water into two mugs and he pushes one towards Sam.

‘Ginger tea. It helps, after.’

He nods, takes the mug and the warmth seeps into fingers that he hadn’t realised are cold, so cold. He shivers, involuntary, takes a sip. The spice hits the back of his throat and he gasps slightly. It’s normal, he tells himself. After the rush of adrenaline and the high of dopamine, the come down is normal. It’s normal to feel this way. They’ve had a win, a big one. But he can’t help feeling that they could have had a better one.

He looks up and Bucky is appraising and calm. ‘It wasn’t your fault, Sam. She wouldn’t have stopped.’

He nods. ‘I know.’

‘Yeah.’ Bucky takes some of his tea. ‘Hearing it wasn’t my fault never made me feel any better either.’ The mug gets placed back on the bar and he runs a hand over his head. ‘If you’re not gonna use the shower, I am.’ A pause. ‘There’s food in the fridge, if you want.’

Sam nods and there’s a brief moment when Bucky passes him and lands a hand on his shoulder, warm and heavy, and then gone and the door slams shut. Silence pours in again. Sam makes a circuit of the room. His own place in D.C. isn’t exactly what he’d call homely - functional, convenient - but even so it has more to it than this. It’s like Bucky is a ghost in his own home, just sliding through and hoping that no-one will notice him. It was easy telling himself that all of Bucky’s outrage and giving him a hard time was just Bucky being an asshole just because he could; it was easier to do that because when he thinks about all that has been inflicted on one person, all that has been endured, it is unbearable.

There is a solitary luxury, sitting in splendid isolation on a low table in the corner. A turntable and a pile of vinyl records. Sam shuffles through them and smiles to himself, recognising the expected names. Louis, Ella, Billie Holiday, Lester Young and-

‘Son of a bitch.’

Marvin Gaye smiles up at him from the album cover. Sam shakes his head, a breath of laughter blown down his nose; he replaces the records where they came from and heads towards the kitchenette. He had not expected to feel hungry but is suddenly starving. When he pulls open the fridge he expects little but there actually is actual food. He pulls out a loaf, ham, a bag of salad, builds it all haphazardly but it still tastes like the best sandwich in creation when he bites into it.

Another circuit of the room while he eats and then he sinks onto the couch. It is, he decides, probably the single most uncomfortable piece of furniture that he has ever sat on. It is all hard planes and angles and he thinks this really is taking self-recrimination a step too far and then remembers that Bucky was raised a Catholic, which probably explains a lot of things. He finds the TV remote, flicks it on and keeps the volume low. Every channel is news, the events of the night endlessly replayed through CCTV footage, news cameras and clips that people have sent in from their mobile phones. 

His own face, slightly goggle-eyed by the end of it when the millionth journalist had shoved a microphone at him to ask him the same question. He had been aware through it all of Bucky’s presence but seeing it now is different. At Sam's side but very slightly behind, eyes watchful and appraising. When a question is directed at him the answers are either so monosyllabic or so wilfully esoteric that it’s funny and Sam is convinced, after carefully considering all of the evidence, that a key factor to the complex personality that is James Buchanan Barnes is that he really enjoys messing with people’s heads.

He clicks through the channels. Talking heads nodding gravely and dissecting What Has Happened and What It Means. Click. Crowds in Times Square waving flags and hastily made placards celebrating the new Captain America. Click. A group of college-age girls hold up a photograph of Bucky and scream ecstatically. Click. A red-faced man in a news studio is angry, a vein throbbing in the side of his head. 

‘…age gets the heroes they deserve. But is this really what we deserve? Straight Outta Compton Cap and his Commie assassin sidekick?’

He turns the TV off and at the same time:

‘Now, that’s not fair. You’re not even from Los Angeles.’ Bucky pads noiselessly across the floor and Sam wonders, not for the first time, how a man of his size and musculature can move so quietly. Grey sweatpants, a faded oversized T-shirt and skin still flushed and slightly damp from a red-hot shower; it’s one of the few times Sam has seen him where he doesn’t look braced for a fight. It looks well on him. ’And I wasn’t actually a Communist. I don’t think.’

His tone is calm, conversational and Sam watches him for a moment. Bucky reclaims his mug, takes a sip of ginger tea. It’s gone cold and he winces, throws it out. Sam feels his shoulders sag, something constricted in his chest release.

‘No. You just live like one.’

Bucky looks around the apartment. Computing. Sam can almost hear it. ’I lived  in a Hydra cryo-pod on and off for seventy years. This is pretty luxurious.’ He leans against the breakfast bar, light glinting off the water droplets caught in the dark plates of his left arm and in his sleek wet hair. His eyebrows rise slightly.  ‘Y’know, when I was growing up this would have been a big place for one person.’

Sam raises his hands. ’I’m not saying anything against your place; it’s a nice place.’ He looks around. The bare floor, the exposed brick wall, the solitary wooden chair that looks like it might actually be even more uncomfortable than the couch. ‘Well, it would be if you actually had, y’know, stuff.’

‘I have stuff.’ He sounds slightly offended.

‘Of your own.’

‘I bought…’

Take your time, Sam thinks.

‘The turntable.’ There is a distinct note of triumph there.

‘Oh, yeah, right. Just in case anyone forgets that you’re a thousand years old.’

‘Vinyl sales are actually on the increase, Samuel. It’s a growth market.’

‘You should eat something.’

‘Not hungry.’

He pushes himself up. ’I’m going to take my shower.’

The bedroom is, if possible, even more impersonal. One bed, made with military precision and a mattress that looks about as yielding as a rock, one bedside table, one lamp. There is a pile of creased paperback books on the table and he resists the urge to investigate them, carries on into the bathroom which, like everything else, is small but tidy and spartan. Fresh towels and clean sweats have been laid out and he feels his eyes sting. Sam brushes his hands across his eyes, counts ten and peels off the vibranium-infused suit. When the hot water hits his body he becomes aware of all of the cuts and abrasions that he hadn’t known he has. He hisses against the sting and when it recedes he relaxes into the feel of hot water pounding against his muscles. 

When he steps out he feels more awake but slightly shaky, his limbs heavy. He wipes the condensation from the mirror and peers at his reflection. He still sees him, just the same old Sam Wilson from Delacroix that he’s always been. And someone new. It’s a terrifying thought but somehow the panic that should arise doesn’t. He feels anchored. Exhausted, conflicted on some points and very clear on others but certain that whatever else comes next he’s doing the right thing with the right people. He isn’t alone. And he thinks about that for  long moments then opens the bathroom cabinet, takes in the shaving cream, razor, toothpaste, unexpectedly fancy hair gel and closes it again.

The sweatshirt is a little too big across the shoulders and the pants a little too long but they are clean and comfortable and he goes back out into the living room. Bucky is sitting on his appalling couch and there is some kind of sports game on the TV. 

‘Do you have any ibuprofen or … something?’

Bucky looks at him, blinks, and then points of colour appear in his cheeks. ‘No, I- Sorry.’ He starts to get up. ‘There’s an all-night chemist on the corner-’ 

Sam waves his hands. ‘Stop. It’s fine.’

Lips pressed together, eyes slightly narrowed. ‘I’ve got vodka.’

He tilts his head. ‘I’ll take it.’

The bottle, almost full, and two glasses are retrieved. While Bucky is busy trying to remember what to do with guests, Sam flops down on to one half of the couch. There’s a sheet and a blanket folded over the arm and when Bucky comes back over Sam looks up at him quizzically.

Bucky hooks his solitary chair over and uses it as a table, setting the pair of glasses on it and then jerks a thumb in the direction of the bedroom. ‘You take the bed. I’ll sleep here.’

Sam glances around, examines the six feet of his host and the conspicuously less-than-six-feet of the couch. ‘Where?’ There’s a look that he doesn’t trust  in Bucky’s face. ‘Do not say the floor.’

The hand that isn’t holding the vodka bottle is held palm-up. ‘Well, most nights I-’

They look at each other and then the blue gaze that had been so candid drops and Sam stares at the top of his head.

‘You should- You should sleep in the bed. Human beings sleep in beds, Bucky. And you’re a human being.’ He pauses. 'An annoying human being-’

‘Takes one to know one.’

‘I hate you.’

‘Back at ya, pal.’ Bucky gives him a lop-sided smile, scoops up the bottle, fills the glasses, hands one to Sam and drops down beside him.

The vodka is ice-cold, smooth and it slides down a little too easily. They sit in silence for a while, the TV still flickering with the game that might be soccer or might be something else entirely, and Sam studies his fingers wrapped around the tiny glass.

‘Thanks, man.’

Bucky meets the steady gaze and after a moment nods slightly. ‘Anytime.’

He unfolds his frame from his scrunched-up corner of seating, retrieves the bottle and refills their glasses, knocks back the shot.

Sam squints at him. ‘Is that a good idea on an empty stomach?’

‘Well, it’s… It’s super-soldier metabolism.’

‘So, how much of that could you drink?’

Bucky weighs the bottle in his hand, eyeing it consideringly. ‘Uh, all of it..?’

‘And would that have any-’

‘No.’

‘Huh.’

Sam takes the shot and feels muffled fireworks go off somewhere in the back of his head. Bucky replaces the bottle and his dog-tags swing loose, falling back into place when he settles again. The chain glints under the dim light.

‘How do you still have those?’

The shot glass is transferred to his left hand, dark metal tapping against the fragile sides, flesh-and-blood fingers coming to rest against the tags on his chest. 

‘After the hearings and the pardon my old regiment reached out. I got an honourable discharge from the United States Army and they gave me a new set of tags.’ A pause. ‘It was nice. It reminded me of him.’

‘Who?’

Bucky tilts his head back fractionally, looking at Sam down half-closed eyes and when his voice comes it’s soft. ’Who I used to be.’

Sam takes a breath, and another, moistens lips that suddenly feel dry and tight. ’You’re still him, man. That’s still you. James Buchanan Barnes. I know that guy. Look at any news channel tonight - he’s standing right beside me.’

Blue eyes fix on the TV screen, chest rising and falling quickly before slowing again and the breath that blows through him seems to carry the weight of ages. Bucky refills their glasses and as the vodka slides down his throat Sam thinks that more alcohol after the adrenaline come-down is probably a terrible idea but it is an idea and that will do for now.

‘You should still sleep in a bed, though.’

Bucky laughs, his face creasing and he waves a hand. ‘One tough-love speech per week is enough.’

‘Nuh-uh.’ Sam shakes his head and instantly regrets it but this is, apparently, something that he’s decided he feels very strongly about. He is still feeling strongly about it when he gets walked into the bedroom- 

‘-it doesn’t bother me. I am man enough not to have any weird-ass hang-ups-’

-and still when Bucky pours him onto the bed-

‘-don’t flatter yourself, but it’s not like you’re my type anyhow.’

‘Goodnight, Sam.’

He won’t sleep anyway, he thinks, closing his eyes and then opening them again approximately two seconds later with the sound of a garbage truck assaulting the trashcans in the alley below and sunlight rimming the blinds on the windows. Sam blinks up at the ceiling and then the memories, all of the memories, of the night before roll over him. He breathes, pulling the air in deep and then eases himself to the edge of the bed, sits up and waits a second or two for his head to catch up with the rest of him. After a moment everything seems to right itself and when he stands up there is only a slight fuzziness on the outskirts of his brain.

His body protests in various places and he limps a few paces across the bare wood floor before righting himself and he strides into the living room, which is empty. The whole apartment is empty and as terrifyingly tidy as when they had first arrived the night before. The only thing out of place is a piece of paper on the breakfast bar.

Gone to get breakfast.

Sam squints at the note. ’Does that means he’s coming back?’ 

Silence answers. Sam blows out a breath and rubs a hand over his head, then down his face, calluses catching against his skin. He pads across to the window and looks out. Cars, bicycles, people, voices raised as two men call to each other across the street over the noise of traffic. Life carrying on as though the world hasn’t changed. Which, Sam thinks, it hasn’t. Not really. Maybe just a little piece of it.

The door rattles and Bucky eases in, his metal arm clamped around an oversized brown paper-bag and a cardboard cup-holder with two large takeout cups balanced on his other hand. His chin jerks at Sam by way of greeting. 

‘I went to the place with the good coffee,’ he says, kicks the front door shut.

There’s enough food for a small army. Or at least a squad. Fresh fruit, pastries, ham, eggs. The coffee is very good and Sam savours its deep smoky bitterness tempered with a hint of something sweet. He leans against the cabinets and watches as Bucky pulls out plates, pans, cutlery.

‘Look at you! Buying fancy coffee, listening to vinyl, living in Brooklyn.’

‘I’m from Brooklyn,’ Bucky states, placid, staring at his meagre collection of kitchen utensils.

‘You know what you are?’

A sigh, resigned. ‘What?’

‘You a hipster, man!’

Bucky closes the cabinet and eyes Sam warily. ‘I can turn those wings of yours into pretzels, you know that - right?’

Sam is enjoying this, a grin across his face so wide that his cheeks hurt. ‘Any day now you’re gonna start growing a big moustache, then you’ll start buying special wax for it…’

‘You’re a pain in the ass, Sam. Oh.’ He turns, fishes over his jacket, pulls something out of a pocket and hands it across. Ibuprofen. One corner of Sam’s mouth quirks upwards. He pops out two of the tablets, knocks them back with a mouthful of the good coffee and watches Bucky organise himself with small precise movements that seem completely at ease. 

The smell of frying ham, fragrant, mingles with the scent of coffee. Over the years, Sam has learnt to enjoy these small still moments, to keep the preciousness of them saved up, something to savour and look back on when things get rough. He leans against the breakfast bar, smiling to himself, and closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

It had taken both of them, despite Steve’s immense strength, to manoeuvre the unconscious body into a position to clamp the silvered arm between the plates of the vice. Enough to hold him; not enough that it would hurt. That had been Sam’s idea. He still isn’t convinced that the man can’t bring the whole building down on their heads without breaking a sweat. The Winter Soldier - or Bucky as they are supposed to be calling him now - seems to consist entirely of muscle that is as hard and heavy and unyielding as the metal arm that glints under the dim shafts of light filtering through the cracks in the roof.

But Steve insists that somewhere in there is a man he knew, a good man and Sam wants to believe him, for Steve’s sake.

He has read the records, seen the exhibit in the museum. James Buchanan Barnes had been a blue-eyed, sweetly handsome son of America. A Brooklyn boy who had served his country, protected his friends, died a hero’s death.

He has been the Winter Soldier for decades longer than that brief life. Sam has read those records, too. If even half of it is accurate, it is horrific. If even a fraction of it is true, the chances that anything remains of that street-smart kid with the enchanting smile are practically non-existent. 

But Steve believes it. And despite everything, there is a stubborn little kernel of hope at the core of Sam Wilson’s being that wants to believe it too. 

When the time comes it’s Sam who releases him, grunting slightly with the exertion of turning the rusted mechanism that slowly widens the gap between the plates and when there is just enough room, Bucky pulls his arm free and sits, hunched forward, massaging what is left of his shoulder where the metal gives way to bone and blood and scarred flesh. He stares at his feet like he’s thinking about how to work them and then slowly pushes himself up. He’s unsteady, like the body he’s in isn’t his own; he takes in his surroundings, slow, eyes blinking owlishly, until he meets Sam’s level gaze.

He blinks again, eyes narrowing and widening slightly, repeatedly, not quite focusing on what’s right in front of him and it’s something that Sam has seen countless times before in the faces of countless veterans, people who have stared into hell and see it still, always, even when the fight is long over. 

‘Thanks.’

The voice is scratchy, thready. Exhaustion is written into the man’s bones like ore running through rock. Sam isn’t exactly sure what he is being thanked for but he nods minutely.

Bucky presses his lips together, moistens them, refocuses his gaze on Sam, then: ‘I’m sorry if I- I’m sorry…’

Even though he’s standing still he stumbles slightly, pitching forward and Sam reaches out, automatic, to steady him. Silver fingers clamp around Sam’s wrist and for a second he could swear he feels his bones grinding against each other under the pressure and then it releases, fingers carefully pried away from his skin.

‘I’m sorry.’ 

He moves, uncertain, feet catching over each other, that blue gaze still restless and still not fixing on any one thing.

‘We can’t go outside,’ Sam tells him.

‘I need- I need… Air.’

The old factory smells stale, neglect and decay in the dust motes tumbling about them. Sam can feel the dry scratch of it at the back of his throat, every breath feeling thin and mean and metallic. The Winter Soldier slumps onto an old packing case, head resting against the slatted wall taking in breaths from the thin seam of air poking its way in.

Sam leaves him to it, walking carefully so he can still keep his eyes on him because all of this feels like the calm before the mother of all storms.

On the other side of the factory floor, Steve has perched himself on one of the old work tables, long legs still planting his feet on the ground. He doesn’t remember keeping hold of the notebook he had found in the place Bucky had been staying but he must have done because it had been there in his pocket.

It’s waterlogged, wet pages sticking together and the ink has run on most of them, bleeding in spirals, but he can make out parts of it. The first page with the single line of careful writing in black ink:

James Buchanan Barnes?

There is something frantic in the words that are scrawled across the legible pages. A lot of it is incoherent; most of it doesn’t make any sense but every now and then is something that Steve recognises, a shared memory from so long-ago lives that they seem to belong to other people.

Bookshop. Mr Z. Zuckerman? Zimmerman

Flying car.

A few pages later:

My sisters:

Becky - likes movies, dance music

Helen - likes baseball, good at climbing trees

Katie - baby, lots of freckles

Mary. Margaret. Monica??

He stares at the words, pity mingling with guilt and anger lying bitter on his tongue. All of the fragments colliding in Bucky’s poor scrambled mind, all of the things that have been taken from him until this, when he writes about his sisters like they’re still alive and he can’t remember that his own mother’s name had been Marian.

Steve closes the book, fingers tightening around the faded red cover until the soggy pages turn to pulp in his grip. If he’d been smarter, stronger, faster, just two seconds faster on top of that goddam train-

He passes a hand over his face; for the first time he feels every one of his hundred years.

Sam’s feet scrunch on the littered floor, broken glass, scraps of metal, gravel, and he sits opposite Steve, eyes still wary and watchful, his gaze sliding between the two men. But then he hones in on Steve, head tilting a fraction.

Steve meets the look, one eyebrow lifting.

‘Newspaper in your shoes?’

Sam looks tired, he thinks, lines riven in his face and his eyes are hollow and shadowed. It’s a lot to ask, all of this, and Steve knows that. But Sam understands loyalty. He puts the notebook down, careful of its fragility, hands gripping the edges of the table.

‘It was the Depression. No-one had much. Y’know, we’d play in places like this; it would have been a whole world to us.’ He thinks about the pathetic figure he would have cut in those days and wonders what that little boy would have made of the man he’s become. ‘I was worse off than some, better off than others.’

Danny Martinelli used to get his older sister’s cast-off dresses to wear. Either that or freeze. At least Steve had never had that; but he’d never had a sister, either, which might have been the only difference between them.

‘You’d wear your things until they wore out and sometimes even after that. I wore my shoes until there were holes in them. Then I used newspaper to line them.’ He meets Sam’s eyes again and summons up a wry smile. ‘It works pretty well. Until it rains.’

Sam nods, slow. ‘Uh-huh. And that’s funny?’

Steve sits very still and when he speaks his voice is soft. ‘He wasn’t laughing at me, Sam.’

They had claimed the scrubby stretch of hard parched earth next to the old steel works as a baseball diamond. Steve can’t run far nor fast but he’s clever, observant, and when he crouches behind the home plate he’s the best catcher they’ve got.

Better still when Bucky’s pitching because in this, as in everything, they work as a pair, little looks and gestures that only they understand. And Steve will sacrifice it all, fling himself into the dirt after every ball if need be. He’s earned respect that way. Even a mouthful of dust tastes sweet when the others are cheering him on.

It’s been a long summer, hot, the air oppressive and thick and it hurts pulling the air into his asthmatic lungs. By the evening he’s wheezing but he pushes through it, tries to hide it. He’s part of a team now. They rely on him. And he can do it, all of it, if just his body wouldn’t let him down.

He’s still small, thin, muscles stringy and hard but not enough power in them. Bucky has suddenly shot up, his once sturdy compact frame now rangy. Long limbs that he isn’t sure what to do with yet, wrist-bones sticking out past sleeves that have become two sizes too small in as many weeks. But his shoulders are broad. He’ll grow into his height.

When the game is over they collapse under the broken-down section of wooden decking that they’ve named the Bleachers and the chatter is of the hard-earned lemonades from the drugstore that everyone has saved up all week for. They are all thirsty, happy and filthy; after a summer of playing barefoot over scrubland and derelict warehouses their feet are toughened, callused. They pull on shoes, saunter off, voices raised in laughter and friendly jeers. Bucky, as team captain, has charge of their two precious ancient baseballs and the padded oven glove stolen from someone’s mother that they use as a catcher’s mitt and stores them in his satchel, that and the baseball bat slung easily over one shoulder; he’s eagerly talking tactics with Mike Kelly, all red hair and freckles, from two blocks over. 

Steve hangs back. He isn’t the only one, he knows, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t mind. Some kids don’t even have newspaper to fill in the holes, but still. He reclaims his small pile of belongings, unwraps his shoes from the depths of his plaid shirt and then stares at them because they aren’t his shoes.

They are where he left his, they even have his socks bundled into them but they aren’t his. He turns them over, examining them. They’ve been polished and cared for. The laces are a little frayed and the heels are slightly worn down but the soles are strong, the stitching is in tact, the leather smooth and fine under his fingers. They are good shoes. Perhaps a little too big for him, but with an extra pair of socks… They have not been every-day shoes, they aren’t battered enough for that. These are best shoes, he thinks, worn for visiting, or  going to church. Or worn by an altar boy, maybe, who had unexpectedly grown too big for them.

‘Steve!’ Bucky’s face, exasperated, appears hanging over the sloping wooden beams and peers down at him. ‘Will you come on!’ And then he sees what Steve’s holding in his hands and his cheeks turn red and he looks as though he’s been caught out in something, as though somehow he thought or maybe just hoped that Steve wouldn’t actually notice.

Steve swallows, hard. ’Buck…’

Bucky’s mouth works for a moment and a hand raises helplessly before dropping again. ‘To the end of the line,’ he says, like that explains everything.

The helicopters beat overhead, monotonous blades slicing through the air and then the relentless droning moves on. They haven’t found them, not yet.

Steve’s voice had slowly sunk until it had stopped and he has gone very quiet, lost somewhere in a tangle of memory and regret. Sam’s eyes are back on the figure slumped against the wall: he hasn’t moved and there’s every possibility that he’s fallen asleep again. The air is still full of dust and Sam blinks, rapid, clears vision that has become blurred and watches the man that he is slowly coming to think of as Bucky.

‘Okay, then,’ he says. 

Chapter Text

‘I thought you said the man was grumpy.’

Evening draws in, the sky deepening to a soft velvet blue, trees standing still and black and stark and from the backyard childish voices rise, the laughter high and joyous.

Sarah finishes the last of the dishes, stacking the glasses carefully, wiping her hands dry on a towel and her eyes are fixed on the wide windows over the sink. Bucky Barnes has been running around the yard with Cass and A.J. for half-an-hour, coaching them in baseball; she watches as he kneels, a hand in the small of each back and talks with them earnestly, face serious, absorbing their unrelenting chatter.

Sam, making sense of the accounts - or trying to - and thinking that with the boat nearly up and running and all of the help and goodwill they’ve had today that they might just make it. Eyes flick up to Sarah, to the window, back to his sister. She’s leaning against the counter, her arms folded loosely across her body and she looks soft and content. He grunts. ‘He has his moments, trust me.’

But if anyone on this earth has a right to be grumpy, he reckons, it would probably be Bucky. That the man is capable of a coherent sentence, let alone everything else that he’s done between Bucharest and now, is something that still astonishes him at regular intervals and after all that has happened in the past decade Sam had thought that all of the astonishment had been shocked right out of him.

But here they are, still standing, still holding on with souls more or less in tact. 

And a hundred-and-six-year-old super-soldier who still looks thirty-five is in his sister’s backyard teaching his nephews how to pitch a curveball.

Sam pushes the chair back, wooden feet scraping across the tile floor and moves across to join Sarah under the pretext of getting himself a glass of water. There’s a tenderness to Sarah’s smile and the fingers of her right hand play absently with the collar of her shirt. She’s wearing her favourite hooped earrings, the gold curves sleek and glinting. 

‘You didn’t say he was good with kids.’

‘It never came up.’

The boys had, apparently, encountered Bucky that morning just before they caught the school bus and whatever had happened in the whole five minutes that they must have had together meant that when Sam brought him back to the house both children had been ecstatic, homework abandoned on the kitchen table as they dragged their new friend into their home and started bombarding him with questions. He had answered each one patiently, had allowed them to investigate his vibranium arm, had teased them only occasionally, usually at Sam’s expense, and always making sure that they were in on the joke.

The gentleness of it had not come as a complete surprise but Sam feels a tightness in his throat and concentrates on running his finger along the crack in the formica countertop, feeling the sharp edges catch against his skin. There had been younger sisters, he knows, three of them. 

He studies his own sister’s profile, the lines he has known and teased and loved all his life.

‘He’s still-’ he starts and she turns, fast, eyes glinting and daring him to say something- ‘vulnerable.’

It isn’t what she had expected and she stares at him a moment, one hand lying flush against the base of her throat and the house settles around them under the cooling evening air, creaks and deep low thunks as wood and piping ease into their downtime.

Sarah moistens her lips. ‘You think I don’t know that?’

The hearings had been closed but the results had been all over the news, social media, on every app and before that, before the Blip or the Snap (stupid names, she thinks, for the enormity of it all) and before the two years before that when Sam had sat at the kitchen table with files open and something broken behind his eyes and she had caught glimpses of a life wrenched out of its moorings and a man made into something inhuman but still clawing back his humanity. Maybe she doesn’t know all of it but she knows enough. Her head tilts.

‘I thought brothers were supposed to warn their best friends off their sisters and not the other way around.’

‘He’s not my best friend,’ he responds, automatic and half-hearted and neither acknowledge the blatant lie. ‘And I-’ His head ducks, fingernails snagging against the cracks.

The humour rushes from her face and then the anger sweeps back in, brightening her eyes to sharp points and lacing her cheeks with heat. ‘You did not- Sam, I am a grown-ass woman and I am more than capable of making my own decisions and my own mistakes.’

He pounces on the last part, a pointing finger swinging wildly towards the window. ‘So you admit that that would be a mistake!’

‘I-’ She concentrates hard on pulling air into her lungs, feeling it sink down into her body, deep, before she trusts herself to speak again. ‘I’ve just met the man. You brought him here. From what I can see he’s a good man and he’s in our lives and if you’re having a hard time with that, then that’s on you.’

She turns back to the window, watches A.J. concentrate on winding up his pitch, pictures the pinched crease between his brows and the way his lips set together in a hard line when he really puts his mind to something and then the ball lets fly and Cass has no hope of hitting it.

A.J. whoops, then the air leaves his body when Bucky sweeps him up, holding him high in the air and the little boy laughs, bright silver on the evening shade, his feet kicking before he’s set down again. Both children skip around the larger adult body and his face is bright and innocent, blue eyes filled with laughter.

‘Some friend,’ she says, not realising she’s said it out loud.

‘Hey!’

She meets Sam’s indignant gaze and rolls her eyes. ‘Not you! I meant your big pal, Steve.’

Sam blinks, both at the unexpected mention of Steve Rogers and the heat in her voice when she says the name. A drip of something disdainful, unimpressed. And it makes him feel uneasy, defensive and he sticks his chin out a little, squaring his shoulders in a way that another more rational voice tells him is not going to help.

‘Steve was a good friend.’

She nods. ‘Uh-huh.’

‘He risked a lot to help that man.’

‘Way I remember it, so did you. And you barely knew that man. You know: those two years when we couldn’t see you ‘cos you were on the run.’

His face is closed off, the lines hardening and Sarah raises her hands, her voice gentle when she goes on. 

‘I’m not getting at you, Sam; I’m really not. You did what you believed was right - you always do. I didn’t know Steve Rogers. You say he was a good guy and he probably was. He helped save the world.’ She shrugs. ‘Great. So did you. So did he.’ Her head jerks toward the window and the roll of soft grass beyond. Cass and A.J. are sitting either side of Bucky, all three faces turned up to the stars softly studding the dark sweep of sky while he points out the barely visible constellations. ‘Steve Rogers helped save his friend and that’s … nice. That’s a good thing to have done. But all of the hard work has come after that, and he’s not the one who’s here.’

Sam looks away from her and she sighs, pushes herself away from the counter and opens the back door, stepping out onto the porch.

‘Mama!’ A.J. waves, a broad grin of excitement and pride stretched across his face. ‘Mama, did you see?’

‘I saw, baby.’ Her voice is husky with warmth and tenderness.

From inside the house, Sam watches her watching the trio on the lawn. Bucky has allowed the two boys to pin him to the ground, making like he’s overpowered and couldn’t fight them off if his life depended on it. Then his mismatched arms wrap around them, holding both wriggling figures against his chest. When he releases them the boys roll away, one each side and all three stare up at the stars pricking the indigo sky.

Sarah doesn’t turn when she hears the screen door open and fall too again, still not when the boards creak under Sam’s feet. But when he bumps his shoulder against hers, she turns her head a fraction and glances up at him with a smile catching the corner of her mouth. She leans into him and he puts his arm around her. 

Chapter Text

The noticeable thing in the development labs of the medical centre is the absence of music. Pounding drumbeats usually accompany the young princess, the rhythms matching her energy as she bounces across the floor, lost in her world of algorithms, advanced physics, computational statistics and holograms.  Tonight it is quiet, the screens dimmed and the workbenches neatly stacked with prototypes and prints of Shuri’s latest designs. The change has become normal and changes in normal make Ayo’s spine stiffen, suspicion and uncertainty lying cold at the base of her skull.

She descends three floors to the secure units, deep in the rock behind layers of vibranium curtaining that hide the security doors. The sound has a different quality down here, heavier, more intense, pressing against her ears. But she can hear strains of music, still loud but not quite the frenetic quality that Shuri normally favours.

After the battle that had almost torn their carefully-guarded land apart, after T’Challa had reclaimed his throne, Shuri had returned to her lab; she had checked that all of her work, her inventions, were still in place and then had run to the lower floors. Aneka had remained on post through it all, defiant and immovable, but despite her assurances nothing would do until Shuri had seen with her own eyes that her broken white boy was where she had left him, safe in his icy slumbers.

Over the strains of brassy notes - it sounds like American-style music, and old-fashioned at that - she can hear Shuri’s bright chatter rising and falling. She talks to him, Aneka had told her; Shuri always loves an audience but this is different. She talks to a man who cannot hear her of things that she does not speak of to anyone else except, perhaps, her brother. She talks of her father, her beloved lost Baba, of what she thinks life is like beyond Wakanda and the cosseted protection that she has known all of her life.

The air, of necessity, is colder. It bites against her cheeks. Ayo has removed her ceremonial armour but is glad of the thick red tunic and her heavy boots. She is not J’Abari - she is not built for the cold. But the music is sweet, she thinks, lilting and plaintive with a warmth to it. 

‘…able to manoeuvre it better, Sergeant. And the plates in the fingertips are more sensitive.’ Shuri turns to consult to one of the 3-D renderings of a new prosthetic arm and catches movement on the edge of her vision. When she sees Ayo her chin lifts slightly and then her head inclines. ‘Captain.’

‘Your Highness.’

Immediately, and as expected, Shuri’s hand flutters through the air, impatient. ‘I have told you before, none of that nonsense.’

If there is a smile at the corners of the Dora’s stern mouth, it is the slightest of them. Shuri lowers the music and turns back to her workstation; she hums under her breath, occasionally joining in with the words of the old songs that she is learning. Ayo performs a slow circuit of the room, coming to a stop in front of the cryostasis chamber, blue lights glinting against the bright white metal frame. The glass is frosted, tiny crystals etched across the surface, but the face is still visible. It is a good face, she thinks critically, approving of the strong lines and something that even in sleep suggests kindness. She wonders if he dreams. Aneka is convinced that he does and Ayo hopes that she is wrong: the dreams of such a man could not be pleasant ones.

When she asks Shuri, the girl makes that impatient sniffing sound that makes some of the elders mutter darkly about her needing more discipline and shakes her head, her crown of intricately-wound micro-braids gleaming under the lab lights. ‘No. He is in stasis. That is not the same as being asleep.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

Shuri drops her stylus, straightens up and jabs a finger at a screen. Two lines rise and fall rhythmically, their curves gentle. ‘Those are his brainwaves. Does it look like he is dreaming to you?’

It is not a question that Ayo can answer but she feels a certain satisfaction in it. She will tell Aneka when she returns to their home. She moves quietly, her well-trained steps barely making a sound on the stone floor and she stops again, a few paces behind Shuri, studying the designs for the prosthetic. It is sleek and beautiful, the inlaid gold inscriptions bestowing safety and protection under the watchful eye of Bast upon the bearer.

‘It will need a new interface,’ Shuri says, as though in answer to a question. ‘That old one is all wires. It’s a wonder he didn’t electrocute himself every time he raised a finger.’ Sniffy, disdainful, as she always is when regarding the outmoded technology of the outside world. And angry. Something burns behind her dark eyes. ‘This will be lighter, more like a real arm - but better!’

She chatters on about censors and receptors and Ayo only half-listens, studying the designs and noting the way the new plates will fit under the skin, beneath the pectoral muscle and down behind the ribcage. A series of pressure points highlighted on the display.

‘-override, if he becomes incapacitated and we need to remove it for him.’

Ayo wonders vaguely under what circumstances Shuri thinks that necessity will arise and less vaguely just how long she believes he will stay with them.

‘What if he is incapacitated when he isn’t here?’ Ayo asks gently.

Shuri turns to her and her eyes flash.

‘He cannot go around telling everyone how to remove his arm, just in case.’

The princess’ lips thin and she tilts her head back, attempting to look down on the taller woman. ‘It is,’ she pronounces, ‘good practice to build in a manual override.’

Ayo inclines her head, gracious. ‘I understand.’

Shuri holds her posture for a few seconds longer and then grins at her, irrepressible, and again returns to the renderings, refining and adjusting the settings with each new pass.

‘And the deprogramming?’

The busy hands still; Shuri sits back, her face suddenly sombre. There are many in the Golden City and beyond, in the outlying tribes and even on the council of elders, who think the young princess incapable of seriousness. They do not know her, Ayo thinks, and they are the poorer for it. ‘I have a prototype. But it would wipe out everything and that has already been done enough.’

Files are arranged, tidy stacks on the desk, incongruously old-fashioned amidst the holographic displays and shimmering lights. Yellowing paper, cardboard worn and frayed. An innocuous notebook with a dull red cover and a black star. Ayo picks it up, opens it at a bookmarked page. 

Желание 

Ржавый 

Семнадцать 

Рассвет...

She looks at the unfamiliar Cyrillic letters, frowns. ‘What is this?’

There is a pause and Shuri stares at the book in Ayo’s hands. ‘They are the words used to trigger the Winter Soldier. To control him.’

Ayo studies them again. ‘All they had to do was say this.’

‘No. Not all.’ There is a fierceness in the fine lines of her face, something taut bunching along her jaw. ‘They ripped his mind out of his head. They tortured him.’

Enslaved, Ayo thinks, and it is not a word that she uses lightly.

‘We will know that the deprogramming has worked when these words have no effect.’ Her head tilts back, a deep breath through her nose, out, and when she opens her eyes they have regained something of their softness. ‘Do you know anyone who reads Russian?’

‘No.’ Ayo closes the book, replaces it on top of the files. ‘But I will learn.’

Chapter Text

The cab rolls to a stop on a quiet street and after Bucky pays the driver off he takes a few moments, absorbing the way the serene stillness seems to pour in. He isn’t sure what it was that he had expected, he realises, but it isn’t this. The house is large, peeling paint and faded wood and half-hidden by tangled branches of oak and sycamore. It is an entirely unfamiliar space yet everything about it suggests home. The wicker chairs with squashed old cushions, a child-sized bike discarded at the bottom of the porch steps running up to the screen door, humid air laden with the scent of honeysuckle and rambling roses. He feels a tug somewhere deep behind his ribs, a whisper of something that in another lifetime he might have called longing except that now he really, really hates that word.  

He had, he thinks and if he had really thought about it, probably imagined something closer to the crowded often chaotic surrounds of his own childhood. Bucky picks up the heavy metal case that Ayo had left in his care and steps around the truck that’s drawn up by the kerb and then stops again, smiles slightly. That, at least, is the same everywhere: in every community in every part of the world, there will always be kids playing in the street. Nice that one thing hasn’t changed.

They are both very young, skinny in that pre-teen way, both with glasses perched on their noses. Two backpacks dumped in the road by the truck’s rear tyres. The smaller boy, standing very still as though on guard and chewing on his lower lip, wears a soft grey T-shirt with a faded Iron Man logo. The slightly taller of the two is pushing himself up from the ground, pushes his glasses back up his nose and they both stare forlornly at the truck. And then glance up when they hear the soft catch in Bucky’s throat as he clears it and both immediately wear that guilty look that children always seem to wear around adults even when they have nothing to be guilty about. 

‘Hey.’ He holds up his free hand and offers them a small smile, keeping his distance. ‘I’m looking for Sam Wilson - this is his house, right?’

Dark eyes regard him intently. 

‘Yeah, that’s our house. Uncle Sam’s our uncle.’ It’s the younger boy who answers and immediately receives a sharp elbow jab from his brother and a warning look.

‘A.J.! We’re not supposed to talk to strangers!’ He shout-whispers it and A.J. lowers his head but keeps his eyes raised, still looking at Bucky over the tops of his glasses.

‘I work with Sam. Your Uncle Sam.’ He looks at them thoughtfully. ‘A.J. and Cass, right?’

They glance at each other, a mute discussion and then Cass nods, taking his responsibilities at the eldest seriously but the suspicion in his face has given way to a gleam of interest. ‘Yeah… Are you-’ He bites his lip, his expression earnest, growing excitement suppressed. ‘Are you Bucky?’

He blinks. Sam talks about his family all of the time. On military transports, in waiting rooms in between de-briefings. Even when Bucky closes his eyes and pretends he’s asleep, Sam still talks endlessly as though he knows that Bucky is actually listening to every word - dammit - and so he knows about Sarah and the bank and her boys and the boat. Sam loves to talk and he loves to talk about the people he loves and in all of that it had never occurred to him, not for a moment, that Sam would talk about him to anyone.

‘Yes,’ he says and it comes out uncertain, as though he isn’t entirely sure of his own identity which is, he thinks grimly, an irony he can really do without these days.

The two little boys stare up at him. He has a memory, one of those rare untarnished moments, of catching a glimpse of Babe Ruth walking back down the ramp at the Dodger’s Stadium after a game and the way all of the air had rushed out of his lungs, his then-small body vibrating with excitement because even if he did play for the rival team it was still Babe Ruth, so close Bucky could almost touch him. He remembers the feeling, the ache in his cheeks from grinning so much and telling everyone about it forever after until they also knew his story by heart. And Sam’s nephews are now gazing up at him with approximately the same sucker-punched expression that he had probably worn. 

‘Do you really have a metal arm?’ A.J., all dimples and buggy eyes and the words come out on a rushed breath.

Bucky can’t help the laugh that breaks from his lips. ‘Uh, yeah. I do.’

‘Whoa!’

‘Cool!’

He puts down the case and two pairs of eyes immediately fix on the sheen of black vibranium fingers with their patterns of gold. Cass nudges his brother and looks as though he can barely breathe. 

‘Is Sam here?’

‘He’s down at the dock with Mom,’ Cass tells him; the words come out slow while the intent gaze takes in every detail of the exotic stranger before them. 

Ordinarily such scrutiny would be unsettling, a threat, but he remembers the children that would always swarm around him in the village just beyond the Golden City, always demanding his attention that he was happy to give, and the full force of their direct innocent wonder.

‘Can you tell me where that is?’

A.J. points down the street. ‘That way. Then left.’ He’s missing a tooth on the upper-right side, his face bright and eager and intent.

Bucky nods gravely, offers them a slightly lop-sided smile. ‘Thanks.’ His eyes flick up, looking beyond them down the street to the stop sign for the school bus and beyond that he can hear a low rumble of a diesel engine approaching. ‘You boys catching the bus?’

They follow his gaze up the street, back to him, back to the truck that is the  inexplicable source of their sorrow and are torn. 

‘We’ll be late,’ Cass says, agonised, and with it the unstated conviction that Mom will kill us if they miss school, even by accident, even for a reason like a superhero just like Uncle Sam suddenly appearing in their street.

‘What’s wrong?’ Bucky keeps his voice gentle.

‘Our ball went under the truck,’ A.J., crestfallen and anxious. ‘It’s special. It’s signed and everything! It’s Mr Liu’s truck and he’s not home and-’ Beside him Cass dances from foot to foot, sneaking anxious glances over his shoulder up the street to the corner around which the inevitable, treacherous school-bus would soon appear and they would have to abandon both their treasure and their new impossibly cool friend.

Bucky feels an irresistible twitch at the corners of his mouth but keeps his expression grave and he frowns a little. ‘A baseball?’

They nod miserably.

His lips press together and he lets out a breath down his nose. ‘Well, good baseballs are important. You’ll have be quick. And don’t tell Mr Liu.’

He makes a pretence of glancing up and down the street as though this is a conspiracy just for the three of them, moves around to the front of the truck, grips the fender and lifts the front tyres clear of the road with a slight grunt. The baseball lies neatly directly under the middle of the truck. 

The boys are motionless. They wear matching expressions of awed disbelief and when Bucky looks at them he raises his eyebrows.

‘Hurry. Up.’

Cass emits a muffled squeal, darts forward and grabs the prize, backing out just as fast and his eyes behind his glasses are huge and dark and he’s breathing fast. Bucky lowers the truck gently, rubber and metal thudding solidly as they hit the concrete and then settle; he glances at the stop and jerks his chin at it as the yellow bus trundles into view. ‘You’re gonna miss your bus.’

Cass still has the ball clutched in his hand and keeps his eyes on Bucky even as he stoops to grab up his backpack. He slings it over his shoulder, makes another grab for A.J.'s shoulder and they both stumble away, falling over their own feet as they run but still look back, excited laughter high on the air. They keep waving at him and Bucky raises his hand in return, watching until they both make the bus and it peels away from the kerb in a hiss of airbrakes and diesel fumes. When the bus rattles past him he can still see two faces pressed against the glass, gleeful gap-toothed smiles aimed at him. 

The street returns to its former serenity, calm and quiet. He stands for a moment, a quiet smile that’s more in his eyes than written across his features; and then Bucky picks up the case and heads towards the dock.

Chapter Text

They had reached Wakanda by a circuitous route, not travelling together. The Quinjet that Mason had procured for her is, of course, invaluable to them - it is refuge as well as transportation. But it is also difficult to keep fuelled and sometimes there can be weeks that turn into months where they are shackled to one spot, low on resources and hope.

They are still wanted, still hunted but they have survived worse than this. The message from the kingdom still hidden behind its deflections and artifice is welcome when it comes. It takes over a week to get there, rackety overcrowded buses and ferries, minimal contact so no algorithms in some intelligence facility will flag up their location, three separate routes just in case one of them is caught. And even when Natasha sees Steve on the train - running so quiet on its vibranium tracks - three seats up from her and Sam in the forward compartment they look right through each other, maintaining the illusion of distance until the train pulls smoothly into the teaming station in the heart of Birnin Zana and Natasha pulls in her first clear breath in what feels like forever.

There are fractures everywhere. Sometimes she thinks it won’t take much pressure for her to shatter.

They are greeted by the Dora Milaje, the stern-faced guards marching them up the broad sweep of stone stairs to the wide plaza above and still on, towards the palace. After the coolness of the temperature controlled train and even the comparative cool of the subterranean station, the heat is punishing. It’s still only spring and it’s a dry heat but it hits like a blow; Natasha can feel sweat roll down her back, beading at the nape of her neck, her hair damp and limp. The intensity of light is a constant dull throb at the back of her eyes and she blinks against the tears that spring up against the assault.

She has any number of weapons concealed about her person and in the very handy pockets of the dark khaki vest but no sunglasses. So weird, an accented voice says in her head and she smiles slightly.

A break from the heat comes as they are marshalled onto another jet, a short journey that lasts barely minutes, enough to take them above the city’s towers and just beyond its limits. Short enough but Steve is still impatient, the fingers of one hand curling and uncurling and his eyes are focused on a patch of floor, a divot between knotted brows. 

They land on a stretch of muted green lying between the city and a collection of huts and rondavels that lead down towards a lake. It feels cooler, the air lighter. High cloud streaks the pale sky that looks impossibly huge, empty, stretching towards the jagged line of blue mountains on the horizon. T’Challa greets them, grave and unflappable in his white robes, welcoming them as though they are guests to be honoured rather than fugitives to be granted sanctuary for a time. The man with him is the one of interest, the reason why Steve is here and the excuse for Sam and Natasha to follow. The dark hair is still long but clean and cared for; he is less bulky than he was before, long limbs lean and muscular; and his smile comes naturally, blue eyes kindling with affection and he wraps his one good arm around Steve in a bear-hug.

‘Nice to see you’re not a murder-bot anymore, man,’ is Sam’s verdict and Natasha flinches inwardly - God knows she’s spent enough time with Clint to be familiar with trading gallows humour, but this - but Bucky laughs slightly and just says,

‘Thanks.’

And she decides, once and for all, that men and their friendships are an enduring enigma.

So weird.

The reunion is put on hold while T’Challa talks to Steve and Bucky removes himself, heading back towards the village and collecting an entourage of small children as he goes. Sam practices his non-existent Xhosa on one of the bemused Dora and after circling the jet twice and raking her hands through her hair, Natasha walks down towards the lake, past a group of children who watch her with curious eyes and a small herd of goats meditatively munching on the feed that’s been spread out for them. Her clothes stick to her body uncomfortably, everything feeling grubby, and she thinks of the bliss of cool water against her skin.

She does not go down to the waterline but stops on the crest of the bank a few paces from where Bucky is sitting, seemingly placid and at peace, and waits until he looks up at her.

‘Okay if I sit?’

He blinks at her, the question catching him off-guard and then he nods. He keeps his eyes on her as she lowers herself, curiosity catching across his face. The grass is winter-dry and prickly, brown burnishing across the green. She brushes off her hands and stares ahead at the lake.

‘I never thanked you,’ he says eventually and she turns her head to him then. His face is intent, gaze focusing on her features. ‘For Berlin,’ he adds. ‘You didn’t have to do that.’

Her head tilts, lips pushing out slightly. ‘Are you going to ask me why I did it?’

A pause. He studies her. ‘No.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m also sorry I shot you in Odesa.’ The words come out slowly and then something in his expression falters. ‘And also in D.C. A-and for trying to strangle you- God!’ His head drops, a flush creeping up his neck.

She’s lived in the tangle of shame and guilt, breathed it until there are times she thinks the weight of it will smother her. She still carries it but it is bearable. It becomes bearable. ‘Not the worst things to have happened to me,’ she says. She picks her words carefully. ‘You know what I was. I’m in no position to judge anyone for things that they had no choice about.’

‘Yeah…’ A huffed out breath edged with bitter laughter.

Natasha leans back on her hands, tilting her face up to the sun, eyes closed. She can still see sun spots dancing across her vision but she concentrates on the feel of the ground, the scent of dry rich earth mingling with woodsmoke, bird song from the tree tops, long high notes rising over a constant low rumbling coo. It’s hypnotic and she can feel the tension in her body slowly unspooling, knotty muscles starting to relax. And then something brushes against her hand and she jolts.

‘What the-’

Maa-aa.

A goat kid, smoky blue coat and gold-rimmed eyes, glares up at her belligerently, clearly annoyed that its attempt to make a meal out of her shirt-cuff has been disturbed. Natasha’s lips quirk into a smile. ‘Hey there. I don’t think you can eat that.’

Maa.

Bucky pushes himself up onto his knees, leans across her and scoops up the culprit with his right arm, settles back again; the animal folds itself up in his lap, fragile legs tucked under its body. His movements are fluid but there is an underlying awkwardness, everything more of an effort than it needs to be.

‘Wouldn’t it be easier with two arms?’

He stares for a moment at the empty space beneath his left shoulder. ‘Probably. Shuri keeps offering.’ Nagging would be more accurate. Sometimes he feels like giving in just to stop the despondency in her face that follows each refusal. A day where she doesn’t speak to him. He’s tried to explain it but fails, even to himself. He’s been weaponised that way and he’s tired of being a weapon. He can’t tell her that. He can’t tell any of them - not Shuri, not Ayo, not Aneka, not even T’Challa (although, he might come the closest to understanding), not after everything that they have done. It isn’t them. It’s him and if he can barely make sense of himself he can’t expect them to do it for him. But there is something in Natasha’s green gaze that makes him think that maybe- ‘At least this is just me. What’s left of me, anyway. I’d like to get used to that again.’

And she nods, tucks an errant lock of blonde hair behind her ear and stretches out again, the toes of her boots alternately flexing up and down.

Bucky runs his hand along the kid’s back, warm and velvet soft. It grumbles at him, butts its horn-buds against his chest and he laughs, scratching between its ears, fluffing up the soft hair into tufts. ‘I know, buddy, you’re tough, you can take on anyone.’ It bleats, plaintively, twists its head up and around, catching his finger in its mouth. ‘Oh, I get it. Can’t help you there, pal.’ Bucky looks around, sees the nanny-goat standing nearby with her mouthful of hay and deposits the kid on the grass, steering it towards her.

‘Hey, Beyoncé, look after your baby.’

Natasha is sitting up again and her head tilts, repeating the name as though not sure that she had heard it right the first time. ‘Beyoncé?’

He nods, oblivious to the incongruity of his words and the bemusement in Natasha’s face. ‘Uh-huh.’ He points to another member of the herd. ‘That’s Nicky Minaj. The big guy over there is Jay-Z. We also have Rihanna and, uh, that one’s Taylor Swift.’

She presses her lips together and after a moment asks carefully. ‘Is that one called Taylor Swift because..?’

‘She’s the only white one,’ he confirms.

Natasha bites down on the inside of her cheek but a laugh still breaks through, light, and his eyes crinkle in response. One shoulder shrugs.

‘Shuri likes to play music while she works. Some of it isn’t bad. Some of it… I didn’t actually realise it was music at first.’ He shakes his head, something self-deprecating and a little bashful in his face and she really does laugh then. Life has a way of realigning itself in the most unexpected ways, like seeing Yelena’s face upside down again and grinning at her and feeling parts of herself slot back into place.

When she catches her breath again he is watching her, a steadiness that wasn’t there before. He holds himself a little straighter, turned towards her. ‘I know I don’t know everything that’s happened this past year; but you’ve all given up so much and- It isn’t right that I’m the only one to get anything out of it.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ Her voice is soft. The lowering sun stretches long shadows across the grass, gilding her hair gold and blurring the edges around them. ‘I had a sort of family reunion. And the Red Room’s gone.’

His head jerks, a thousand images behind his eyes and none of them good ones. Hammer-blows of memory; he braces himself against them. ’And what about Dreykov?’

‘Very, very dead. We made sure.’

Bucky takes in a breath and releases it, slow. ‘Good.’

Dried grass dusts between her fingers. ‘Did you ever come across Alexei Shostakov? The Red Guardian?’

He stares past her slightly, eyes fixed on a point in the middle distance and he frowns, comes back to her. ‘Big guy. Red suit? Never shut up.’

‘About himself, no,’ she agrees. The smile plays about her lips, making her cheekbones pop and she suddenly looks much, much younger. ‘He’s my dad. Adoptive. I- We hadn’t seen each other for twenty years, but… It was nice. It is nice.’

A big bear of a man with a booming laugh. They’d been in a bar and Alexei had-

Wait. No. What?

The Winter Soldier had not had drinking buddies, he hadn’t gone to bars but he remembers this, he remembers Alexei and Alexei’s arm around his shoulders and the vodka scented tears while he had talked about-

Talked about?

His head aches with it, pounding at the base of his skull but he follows the thread down, pulling on it until- Yes, there.

There had been a mission. The Red Guardian had been the showman, all bombast and ego, all the attention on him. The Winter Soldier had remained in the shadows, of course, taking the unseen shot, the discreet one, taking out the target who had been the real focus all along.

After a mission he always returned to his handlers. This time Alexei had said that they should celebrate like men, like warriors, and the Winter Soldier, always ready to comply, had gone with him.

A bar. A bar? No, not really. Sort of. An old barn somewhere in Siberia with a packed-down bare earth floor covered in sawdust and alcohol that was probably brewed in a still out back. Alexei still in his red suit with the star on his chest and the old men who sat in the corner drinking watched them with suspicious eyes and kept out of their way.

Too long away from his handlers, away from the cryostasis pods and the trigger words and he would begin to- Not feel. He was still too numb to feel. But something would twist itself around his spine, and the idea would come that there was something slightly off, that he was slightly off, that the life he was living wasn’t really his. A scratch at the back of his mind.

Alexei’s arm around his shoulder, alcohol-laden breath hot against his cheek. ’You are my friend, Soldat. My friend. You are my only friend.’ Another shot knocked back. Glasses refilled. They drank. Still numbness. Still uncertainty. Still the big man talking. ‘They took from me my Melina- You know Melina? Sexy woman, my God… I tell you, this one time she actually put her-’

Memory fading in and out on a haze of white noise.

‘-They took my girls. Look. My girls.’ He had pushed back his sleeves, brawny forearms tanned and scarred and black letters drawn sharp against the skin spelling out names. Natasha. And-

‘Yelena.’ He releases a breath. His head hurts but he holds on to this. It feels important, somehow. ‘Your sister’s name is Yelena.’

There is a frown knotting between her brows. ‘Yes…’

He manages to pull up a smile, just. ‘Alexei didn’t only talk about himself.’

And he sees it pierce her, a heart so carefully guarded undone by the simple knowledge of a kind of loving. It’s love with all the softness taken out of it, edges sharp and roughened but there. Perhaps it’s the only kind that people like them (at least, the people they’ve become) are capable of but that does not diminish its value. It’s love that is resilient and hard-won. Perhaps it’s more precious because of that.

Natasha’s knees are drawn up to her chest, her chin propped in her hand. She holds her eyes wide, staring across the stretch of water slowly sinking into shades of purple and inky blue.

He remembers a big man weeping into a dirty glass of foul-tasting alcohol over the loss of the woman he called his wife, over his daughters. And then running a hand across his face, scrubbing at his eyes and pouring out yet more. They had drunk, again, and then the stone-cold assassin with the metal arm glinting sliver under the dingy lighting had leaned forward and spoken for the first time that night, voice rough with lack of use.

‘Your name is Alexei.’

The Red Guardian coughed on his mouthful of home-brewed vodka, surprised and pleased and then he had  grinned. ‘Alexei!’ He thumped himself on his chest. ‘That is me! Alexei Shostakov.’

He tried to catch hold of something that was out of reach. The scratch turned into a scream, a nerve twisting. ‘What’s my name?’ Puzzled. Pleading.

Alexei lowered the glass slowly, placed it on the table. There was pity in his eyes.

How did he know pity? When he showed none, when he received none, how did he recognise it, now, when he saw it?

And then he heard sounds beyond this place of safety where they sat and drank: tyres, boots slamming on the ground, metal on metal as weapons readied. 

‘I don’t want to go back.’

Alexei had looked at him and one corner of his mouth curled up; there had been something wild and joyous kindling in his eyes and his hands had balled into fists.

And then Hydra had poured into the room and the trigger words had been rolled out and he had helped them drag Alexei back to the base.

The air has cooled slightly with the setting of the sun and a breeze has risen, balmy and laden with the scent of hearty cooking from the fires in the villagers’ homes. A woman, a regal rolling gait and braided hair streaked with silver wound about her head, calls out to them and Bucky raises a hand in greeting, replies in a rush of soft consonants and muted clicks. His words are slightly stilted and his accent is probably atrocious but she is happy enough with the reply and moves on.

‘What did she say?’

Natasha has wrapped her arms around her knees, her head resting on them. In another life, he thinks, he would have sat close to her, put his arm around her, teased her into laughter until she put her head on his shoulder. He isn’t that man anymore and she isn’t that girl.

‘She said I should bring the skinny girl to dinner. You need feeding up.’

Her head raises and she smiles, tilting her chin up and then unfolds herself. She shifts around until she faces him, sitting cross legged and her hair falls about her face, stirring in the evening breeze.

‘I am hungry.’

‘Then you should probably eat some of Imani’s food - it’s very good.’

‘Maybe. A home-cooked meal is sounding pretty good right now.’

He looks back across the rising sweep of land to where the jet is still sitting. Through dimness and shadow he can see Steve and the young king, their conversation evidently over and they wait, patient. 

‘You’ve probably got something a lot fancier waiting for you in the city.’

There’s that quirk around her mouth again, her cheeks curving, jade-green eyes slanting and softening. ‘I think I prefer it here.’

He leans back, settling his weight on his arm. The ground is warm, releasing onto the night air all the heat of the day. He can feel it rising up though his body. ‘I’d like to see Alexei again,’ he says after a moment. He sees the question in her eyes. ‘Nothing important - it’s just something I’d like to tell him.’

Chapter Text

The flight bags are still dumped by the front door and Bucky thinks that he should probably haul them down to the laundry room in the basement but there is time enough for that later. Besides, Sam gets weird about their stuff getting all jumbled up together as though it actually matters. Everything is dirty and then everything is clean, simple.

The mission, a favour for Colonel Rhodes, had taken them down to São Paolo and then deep into the interior, following the old cartel routes on the track of a half-formed gang that had got hold of some decommissioned Stark tech from a decade ago but had upscaled it enough to turn it into something that posed a more imminent threat. Seventy-two hours without sleep, three military cargo flights later and they were back in New York. And Sam had spent almost every second of each flight complaining that of all the languages that Bucky can pull up at a moment’s notice, Portuguese isn’t one of them.

‘You had one job, man. Literally the only reason I asked you along.’

Sam can do his own damn laundry.

His phones pings.

R u coming down for try-outs?? R next week we need 2 practiss!!!

Another ping.

This is A.J.

Bucky smiles, something that comes more easily lately, and taps in the answer.

I’ll be there. Remember what we talked about. Practise plenty until I get there.

The reply that comes back is an animated image of a frantically shaking green frog puppet that Bucky guesses means that A.J. is excited. One of those things that he will have to get the boys to explain to him; apart from using him as their own personal climbing frame and learning how to perfect their curveballs, there is nothing that Cass and A.J. love more than explaining the more obscure aspects of modern life to him.

‘Not obscure,’ Sam always says. ‘These are pretty common. In fact, it’s hard to think of anything more common than a text message.’

‘I get text messages. I’ve been using text messages since text messages started being a thing. I just don’t get the dancing pictures. How do they make them?’

‘They don- They don’t make them! They’re just there. On the messaging app, they’re there.’

Trying to find a way to sit that was comfortable on the hard plastic chairs in a de-briefing room somewhere in Honduras. Maybe it was Honduras. Could have been Guatemala. 

‘Someone has to make them,’ Bucky said, reasonable.

Sam wriggled in his chair, plastic creaking against the metal frame, gave up and stretched himself out on the floor. ‘Okay, fine, someone does, but the boys don’t.’

A pause.

‘But could they, though?’

The heels of Sam’s hands scrunching into his eye sockets, trying to keep himself awake. ‘Shut up, man, shut up, shut up, shut up…’

He places the phone, screen up, on top of the breakfast bar and moves across to examine the row of pot plants lined up neatly on the windowsill. Tough-leaved and spiky, things that don’t need too much fussing over because he isn’t there enough to look after something that needs too much cosseting. One of his neighbours, Mrs Pham from two doors down, has an ivy plant that has almost taken over one wall. He likes that idea. She had been standing in her open doorway complaining loudly on the phone to her son thousands of miles away in San Francisco that her heating wasn’t working and Bucky had dredged up enough half-remembered Vietnamese to offer help. She’s offered him cuttings from her assorted flora that occupy almost every surface. He’s still thinking about it. He needs to know more about the caring requirements of ivy before he can make that decision.

The aloe vera is starting to take on a life of its own, long spiky arms spreading wide. Sam takes its presence as further proof of Bucky’s hipster status (Makin’ your own skincare products!) along with the stove-top coffee pot that (according to Sam) are only used by eighty year-old Italians and Brooklyn (of course) hipsters.

He’s very specific about the Brooklyn part.

Bucky likes the aloe because it reminds him of Wakanda.

The bathroom door rattles and steam billows out scented with Sam’s favoured Old Spice body wash which Bucky finds hilarious.

‘I remember when it was new. I mean, I honestly remember when they started selling it.’

‘It’s a classic.’

‘You know who bought it? Everyone’s weird uncles.’

‘The fact that they still sell it means it has longevity. That shows it has quality.’

‘You mean that the old ones are the good ones? I’ll remember to tell Sarah.’

‘Aw, hell no…’

‘Hey Sam, you want coffee?’

‘God, yes.’ His voice sounds slightly muffled, probably coming from the depths of a towel while he dries off. ‘Wait, I mean, not if you’re gonna start grinding your own beans and all that shit.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he calls back and then adds under his breath. ‘I already did that.’

The coffee grinder sits sleek and black on his kitchen counter and there’s something immensely satisfying about the ritual of measuring out the beans, grinding them to just the right density and the warm smell rising. Taking pleasure in simple, practical things. Doc Raynor would be proud of him. It’s actually the memory of Aneka’s influence: stern and proud and precise in all of her doings. She made fantastic coffee.

He misses her. And Ayo. The countless evenings they had taken him in, fed him, told him stories of their ancestors, of the history of their country - or mainly just gossip from the palace and the barracks. He misses the extremity of heat that pierces through to the bone, of dry earth under his feet and the sudden glorious storms that would tear through, electricity lighting up the sky and the thunder rolling around the valley. 

He even misses his goats and sometimes, genuinely, wakes and worries that they feel he abandoned them. And then he reminds himself that they are goats and that as long as they have plenty of grass and water to drink and a safe paddock at night they are fine. 

Sam is monologuing, voice fading in and out as he moves around the bedroom, a running commentary of what they have to do in D.C., what they have to tell Rhodey (what they under no circumstances must ever tell Rhodey), what they have to pick up en route to Delacroix…

He should get the air mattress out of its cupboard and set it up. A compromise against Sam’s insistence that he invest in a sofa-bed to replace the one that came with the apartment. Bucky wipes a dusty deposit from the sansevieria’s leaves and makes his way back to the kitchenette. His phone buzzes, rattling against the countertop and when he sees the name he is still for a moment and then grins, propping the phone up against the kilner jar he keeps rice in so that he can see the screen properly before answering the call.

‘Imibuliso, ilumkile.’

Half a world away but Shuri’s smile illuminates even this quiet corner of Brooklyn. ‘Mbuliso. You look well, uBhuti wam.’

It’s a soft smile. ‘I am well.’

Her braids spill across her shoulders, the lab lights picking out the purple and gold threaded through. It’s late there, he thinks; she always works late but these are long days and she looks tired. But radiant, her eyes luminous and glowing with life and love and her clear bright voice fills the apartment.

‘I have been seeing my suit on all the news items. It looks very well.’

‘And it works very well. Thank you.’

She waves a hand, fingers fluttering through the air. There is music playing in the background, something with slow beats that he can’t quite make out through the distortion over the phone connection. ’It could be better. There are some changes I want to make.’

‘You might want to think about high-heeled boots,’ he says, serious. ‘Sam loves running in high-heels.’

‘I heard that!’ Sam yells through.

Shuri’s lips pinch together, wicked delight across her face. ’Is there a story there?’

‘Yes.’

’No!’

‘It’s rude to eavesdrop, Samuel!’

Mischief catches Shuri’s dark eyes and she switches into rapid Xhosa. ‘Are there photos?’

There’s a video. He really needs to get A.J. to explain that whole text message moving picture thing to him. ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he says and then switches back to English. ‘The suit is great.’

Her chin lifts. ‘Of course it is great! I made it!’

‘Of course,’ he says, soft, and tries to hide the smile behind a gravity that he doesn’t really feel.

Her face is suddenly serious, as though she has remembered that she is supposed to be more aloof. ‘This does not mean that we have forgotten.’

He nods. ‘I know.’

‘Or that you’re forgiven.’

‘I know. Ayo told me - I know not to come there anytime soon.’

Her brow creases and she takes her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Yes. But don’t wait too long. I know you, James Barnes, it will be a year before we see you again. I have upgrades for your arm, so you must come. Next month!’

He nods, a tightening in his chest that releases. ‘Okay.’

Her eyebrows rise. ‘Promise?’

‘You tell me the date and I’ll be there. I promise.’

The fine high lines of Shuri’s shoulders relax, her face softening into a smile and he feels an impossible affection for this tiny scrap of a girl with her brilliant mind and her huge heart.

‘You’re not gonna start making it shoot out lasers or something, are you?’

She is thoughtful, as though this is something she is actually considering. ‘Would that be useful?’

He shakes his head, vehement. ‘Never. Not even a little bit.’

Shuri understands this, he knows. When he had finally found the words to explain it to her and he had seen the pain in her eyes for him not because of him. But now there is a slyness that creeps into her features. ‘I could make an alternate. One that has lasers and all sorts of clever things.’

He starts laughing. ‘No, Shuri. Just being able to feel things with this one is more than enough.’

Her head tilts back, her nostrils flaring as she takes in a deep dramatic breath and looks at him down her eyes. ‘I am never appreciated.’

Thelonious Monk, he realises. Tinny and glitchy behind Shuri’s words but his super-soldier hearing catches it. That’s the music in the background and she’s swaying very gently in time. A change from her usual listening - a habit that she had started while he was in cryostasis, Ayo had told him. He blinks hard.

‘You are very appreciated. More than I can ever tell you.’

She smiles again and it’s like the sun. More than affection, Bucky thinks - he would do anything for her, without question.

‘Next month,’ she repeats. ‘We will prepare for our brother coming home. Walk with Bast, White Wolf.’

‘You too, uSisi Omncinci.’ He crosses his arms across his chest in the usual salutation. ‘Wakanda forever.’

‘Wakanda forever.’

The apartment seems very silent after she has gone and Bucky stands in a little patch of Brooklyn sunshine streaming through his window and closes his eyes for a moment, enjoying the warmth.

‘White Wolf, huh?’

He opens his eyes again and stares at Sam, re-orienting himself. Relaxes.

‘The village kids started calling me that. It spread.’

Sam tilts his head. He had not been trying to listen but it’s a tiny apartment and Shuri’s voice carries. Bucky busies himself with the coffee pot, measuring out the grounds. Sam ambles over, scratching the back of his neck where his hairline is still damp.

‘You want some eggs?’

Bucky nods. ‘Sounds good.’

Sam pulls open the fridge, pulls out eggs, bread, butter. He finds an avocado nestled in the salad draw and holds it up wordlessly.

‘They’re good for you,’ Bucky grunts, screwing the coffee-pot together and setting it on the stove.

‘This is just another-’

‘Don’t say it, I swear to God…’

Sam chuckles, a rumble deep in his chest and closes the door. They move around each other in rhythms that are becoming familiar.

‘Is it White Wolf just because you’re white or is it the staring thing?’

The staring is getting better. Sometimes Bucky breaks it out deliberately and Sam enjoys sitting back and watching some dumb mook start to lose their minds under the intensity.

‘You forgot the milk.’

Sam retrieves it, grabs two mugs from the cupboard and places them on the counter. He starts cracking eggs into a bowl.

‘No, wait, I got it - it’s the lone wolf thing, am I right?’

Bucky folds his arms, leaning back against the counter and waits for the coffee to brew. ‘You know that whole idea is completely false, right? Wolves are pack animals.’

‘Yes.’ Sam sets down his bowl. The air is filled with coffee and sunlight. ‘Yes, they are.’

Chapter Text

By mid-afternoon the heat makes everything slow and heavy. A languor on the air that rises with the humidity. Everything is breathless, muggy air pushing into all the corners of the old house.

But the sun tea that has been brewing on the back porch is ready and Sarah retrieves the jug, strains the liquid into another jug over a stack of ice and lemon. Amber gold glowing warm in the sunshine. She covers it with the  heavy beaded cloth just like her mama used to and the edges chime against the glass, the sound taking her back through the years to her childhood and all the way through again to this moment. The ley-lines of her life simple but true and they anchor her to this, this house, her family, her community. After all that has happened there is little else that matters.

She carries the tray with the jug and two glasses out to the porch and for a moment she can almost fool herself that there is a breath of air. The screen door whines itself closed, rusting metal grinding together. She’s pinned her hair up, the grip holding her braids in place. A little longer than she usually wears  them and the black is shot through with dark coppery strands that catch the light when she moves. They feel sleek under her hands when she styles them; she likes the way they move when she does. When she sets the tray on the table she raises a hand, checking that everything is still in place.

Her loose shorts are cool and comfortable. She wouldn’t ordinarily bother with tucking her tank-top into the waistband but it looks more- well, it feels more put together. Like the sparkle of gloss across her lips that isn’t strictly necessary but-

It’s a moisturising gloss. It is practical. It’s a practical choice. Just like looking as good as she can on a stupidly hot day makes her feel better about herself. It’s another practical choice.

Across the lawn, under the relative shade of an old Louisiana oak, Bucky Barnes has been spending the afternoon rigging up a tyre swing. At some point in the past week he had told Cass and A.J. that when he was their age one of his favourite things had been an old tyre on a rope used as a swing. Nothing will do now except that they have to try this magical, mystical thing that someone as cool as their newest best friend in the whole entire world had loved.

It could, probably, have taken all of twenty minutes to throw something together. But it had to be the right kind of rope apparently (as if there isn’t enough of it at the dockside) and the right kind of tyre (again, not enough of them). And then the important decision around which tree to hang it all on.

He’s standing now, looking at it, thoughtful, and his head tilts from side to side on occasion and he leans a little, studying it from a slightly different angle the way that some men look at cars.

It’s something tender, fragile, the warmth that spreads in the centre of her chest. 

‘Hey!’ She waves at him when he looks over and points to the jug of sweet iced-tea.

He walks towards her, shaking out his shoulders, easy and loose-limbed. Phone pulled out of his pocket, checked, replaced. Sam is on recon and Bucky had made him swear on his life that he would check in every hour, on the hour, to let Bucky know that he’s not lying in a ditch somewhere. She wonders idly if his metal arm gets hotter under the sun but then thinks that if it came from Wakanda that they must have some sort of system built in to stop that. She’s still thinking it when his boots hit the bottom step and he grins up at her, wiping the back of his right wrist against his forehead. There’s a sheen on his skin, the front of his hair standing in soft spikes.

‘Thanks.’ He takes the glass that she holds out to him when he reaches her, leans against the wooden railing running around the porch. ‘And I thought Brooklyn got humid in summer.’

She grins, her smile bright and sparkling and takes some of her tea. Wonderfully cold and smooth, she rolls it around her mouth before it slides down her throat. ‘You yankees got nothing on us weather-wise.’

His eyes widen. ‘Yankee? Wow. It’s like that, is it?’

‘It’s like that.’

‘That’s-’ He pushes the fingers of his left hand into the centre of his chest as though wounded. ‘That is harsh. And as a Brooklyn boy and a Dodgers’ fan, that hurts.’

‘You do know that the Dodgers left Brooklyn, right?’

He winces. ‘Don’t remind me. Traitors.’

She laughs and his eyes crinkle at her over his glass; in the shade of the porch they are smoky grey rimmed with blue and filled with light. Sarah puts her glass on the railing, leans her arms against the flat surface. The wood is old, all of its knots and grains and weathered patina familiar under her fingers. There are splinters too and she feels them catch against the pad on her thumb. The hiss she lets out is inaudible. She raises her thumb to her mouth, soothing the scrape and feels a gaze on her, quiet and intent and there’s a thrum of something behind her ribs. She lowers her hand, moistens lips that are suddenly too dry and takes more of her tea. She makes herself focus on the tyre slowly rotating at the end of its clean white rope.

‘It looks good.’

A one shouldered shrug. ‘They’ll probably get bored with it after a day and a half.’

She smiles. ‘Maybe. But it’s a day and a half away from video games, so that’s a win. I don’t like those things.’

‘No,’ he says, dry. He’s seen them, of course. He’s been told that they are cathartic, letting people pretend to do things that they would never imagine doing in real life. He doesn’t need to imagine or pretend.

Her lips are pushing out and in and there is a thoughtful divot deepening between her brows. ‘Y’know,’ she says after a moment and her words come slow and easy, ‘you could probably get some kind of business going making artisanal vintage-style toys and playsets - when you’re not off being a superhero, that is.’

His head shakes, a comma of dark hair falling across his forehead. ‘I’m not a superhero.’ There’s a finality to the way that he says it.

Sarah has heard that same finality from Sam over the years and she never let that rest, either. ‘Oh? That’s not what it says on your Facebook group.’

‘I- Wait.’ His glass is empty. He sets it down and Sarah, with long-ingrained instincts, reaches for the jug and re-fills it. He’s frowning, puzzled. ’I don’t have Facebook.’

She nods. ‘Oh, I know; you don’t have to be on it. Other people can set them up, not exactly on your behalf but, y’know, for you. It’s the James ‘Bucky’ Barnes Appreciation Group.’

His mouth works for a moment, his eyes comically round.

‘It’s mainly teen-aged girls and eighty year-olds who think you’re adorable. One half want to marry you and the other half want to knit you sweaters. Can’t quite remember which is which.’ Her lips squash together, corners curling with the sort of delicate mischief she’d forgotten about, the fun light kind in moments like this. Whatever this is. ‘So, you have options.’

Bucky’s shoulders are shaking, the catch-lights in his eyes bright. ‘And that’s a hard pass on both demographics.’ He passes a hand over his face. ‘God… That’s-’ He looks at her. ‘How do you know about it?’

‘A.J. told me.’

‘Ah.’ A huffed out breath of laughter. ‘That makes sense. He asked if he could take my arm in to show-and-tell.’

She’s sure he waited until she was drinking her tea to tell her that, just so she’d have to spit it back out again. It’s the sort of thing Sam would do and the pair of them are just the same kind of idiot. She wipes her mouth. ‘Please tell me he didn’t.’

She has brought her babies up better than that. She catches a gleam of his teeth before he sets his glass down again, ice slapping against the sides. ‘I explained that I needed it, but maybe he could ask Sam if he could take Red Wing instead.’

‘Red Wing that got broken?’

He is all innocence. ‘I got him a new one. Two, in fact.’ He turns serious. ‘Do you really think it’s healthy that a grown man is that much attached to his robotic drone?’

Sarah lets out a breath shaken with the laughter that she doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing. ‘You two deserve each other.’

He’s fished an ice cube out of his glass, intent on crunching it and then stops, icy water glinting against smooth black fingers. ‘Wait, do you mean me and A.J. or me and Sam? Because one of those is an insult.’

‘You know you’re making my point for me?’

He crunches his ice cube. They both watch the tyre swing that has slowly stilled.

‘Becky always used to make me push her so high on those things.’ His words slip out quiet, like he hasn’t realised he’s said them.

‘Becky?’

‘My sister. She was the oldest of the girls.’

Sarah watches his profile for a moment. ‘Bucky and Becky?’

A dimple appears in one cheek when he smiles, something bashful and a little wistful. ‘We started out as James and Rebecca so I don’t think anyone could have seen that one coming.’ There’s a long pause. A breeze has started to pick up. The tyre starts to rotate itself again. ‘When we were kids, everywhere I went she’d tag along.’

She remembers what that was like, when your big brother barely bigger than you was the whole entire world. She remembers that. She knows it still.

‘We’d go to the Saturday matinée at Loewe’s and she always hated it when the girl- y’know, the usual dumb blonde type- got tied to the railroad tracks or just stood in some room she’d got herself locked in screaming. Y’know, ‘cos girls could be the heroes, too. Every game we played after she’d be right up there beside me.’ He mimics a finger gun. There’s a tremor in his hand. ‘Seeing off all the bad guys. Bucky and Becky… We- We’d be heroes. Every… Every Saturday afternoon … we’d save the world…’

Breath shaky, he swallows hard, surprise edging the trailed-off words. She can see him unmooring; there’s bewilderment in his face when he looks at her, the unexpected memory severing the fragile tethers he’s made. He looks impossibly young and horribly afraid.

It’s an impulse. Sarah takes two steps and wraps her arms around him. He's a big man, which shouldn’t really be a surprise because she knows it objectively; maybe it’s something to do with the way he holds himself as though trying not to take up too much room; she has to stand on her tiptoes to reach around his neck.

He’s very still and she can feel his chest shaking. And then his arms snake around her and he relaxes into her embrace; he is entirely muscle and hard edges and they are all trembling. The vibranium arm around her waist is noticeably cooler but not cold; there’s a warmth to it that seems to come from the inside out. He smells of soap, clean sweat and some sort of aftershave. She places one hand at the back of his neck, the clasp from his dog-tags catching against her fingers, pulls his head down to her shoulder. Hot breath and hotter tears against her skin. She closes her eyes and holds him with all the strength she has. Over his gasping breath the neighbourhood sounds pour in: a bird settling in a nearby tree-top and calling out its whoop-whoop, the clatter as Mr Liu’s rackety old truck pulls up out front and he has to slam the door twice, hard, to make sure it stays shut, a bicycle bell and cheerful kid chatter.

Hitching in the back of his throat as he calms and then stills and he disengages from her so gently that Sarah doesn’t realise it’s happening until her arms slip from around his neck and the palm of one hand is still flat against the wall of his chest. She can feel the hard outline of his dog-tags through the thin cotton t-shirt.

‘I’m sorry.’

The smile he pulls up is watery, eyelashes spiky and red-rimmed eyes. ‘Don’t be. I want to remember. They were my sisters. I loved them.’

Sam is the counsellor, he knows about this stuff. Sure, she’s dealt with veterans, survivors of all sorts, even Sam after his first tours and Riley and all of that, but Sam knows. She thinks about her precious boys and Sam when he’d wake in the middle of the night and not know her, not know any of them. He’d talk, eventually. He’d talk it through, just like she gets her babies to talk it through after a nightmare, safe in her arms.

‘Tell me. Can you tell me?’

He leans his elbows against the worn old wood running around her porch, scrubs at his face, flesh and metal against his skin, in the hollows of his eyes. She keeps one hand against his back, between his shoulder blades; she can feel the heat radiating off him, the soft blue fabric sticking to his skin.

‘Helen. She was the tomboy, she could climb a tree faster and higher than anyone.’ The words tumble out, like he can’t stop them, like if he doesn’t say them now he’ll forget them all over again.

Sarah bears witness, with her hand on his back moving in slow circles and watching his face as he pours it out; she commits it to memory, all of it, in case he needs it. So she can put her arms around the shoulders that carry so much and tell him all of the things that she knows he still loves so much. 

‘Katie was the baby. She’d ride up on my shoulders-’ Chubby hands safe in his while he held her in place; shrieks of delight when he’d break into a canter, clicking his teeth like hoof-beats. Only twelve when he’d gone away, her long dark hair still in plaits and endless freckles across her nose. Big blue eyes turned up to his and-

‘Don’t you go fixing on any boys until I get back. I still get a say in this.’

The wet patch on his army tunic from her tears and her hard fierce arms around his ribs. 

Shuri hugs him like that. Memories tangle up until they are squeezing hard around his heart and he can’t breathe, doubling over until his forehead rests against the flaking wood.

Sarah’s hand on his back, steady and solid and real. Honeysuckle on the warm humid air. The boys will be home soon. He doesn’t want them to see him like this.

Moments pass where neither of them move except for the soft slow circles that Sarah traces on his back. Then,

‘Tyrone Power.’

She takes a breath. ‘What?’

He straightens, turns his head to face her. All of his lines have softened, the semi-stranger replaced by the man she knows. ‘Becky stopped wanting to save the world and started wanting to marry Tyrone Power.’ A pause. The bird is still saying whoop-whoop, but softer, like it’s found someone to say it to. ‘He was  a movie star-’

All the contours of her face flicker. ‘I know who Tyrone Power was. I’ve seen Zorro.’

‘Ah.’

‘He was a very handsome man.’

Bucky’s lips push out a fraction. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

There are a lot of things that she could say; she studies the lines of his face and thinks some of them. She says, lightly, ‘It has been known.’

He smiles. They are, all of them, so many different people. She wonders if he actually realises that. Even on his worst days, and God knows Sam has told her enough about them, the sum of all his parts still adds up to something better than most people. She wonders if he realises that and thinks that he probably doesn’t. Later, on her own, when she lets herself really feel all of this it’s something that tears at her heart.

For now, she smiles back and asks, ‘Who did you like?’

‘Rita Hayworth,’ he says, prompt. ‘And Hedy Lamarr.’

‘You know she was a scientist, too? She invented… Well, I don’t remember exactly, but it was some sort of technology that eventually led to Bluetooth and wi-fi.’ She’d seen it in a documentary in what feels like a lifetime ago. ‘Basically, we wouldn’t have cellphones without Hedy Lamarr.’

There is wonder and delight and his face. No man on earth, she thinks, has the right to eyes that blue and bright and clear.

‘No fooling!’

He says it, without irony, just like they do in the old movies on TCM. She smiles.

‘No fooling.’

His eyes are still overly-bright but his face-

Sarah takes a breath, re-organises the tray with its solitary jug. There’s a whole inch of sweet tea left in the slushy ice and bits of lemon at the bottom.

‘Brains and beauty. The whole package.’ 

Right, still on Hedy Lamarr. She turns back to him with a summoned up smile. And falters under what she sees in his eyes.

‘If you go for that sort of thing,’ she says, busying herself with the flattening out of the beaded cloth lying in a heap on the tray and thinks that that is a really dumb thing to say. They aren’t teenagers. She isn’t some fourteen-year-old with a crush.

‘It’s been known.’

Doesn’t help when his voice sinks so low, a rumble in his chest. He is soft-spoken at the best of times but like this his words come slow like honey.

His phone pings and Sarah grabs the empty glasses.

CapSam: Not in a ditch. U good?

Bucky reads the screen twice and the corners of his mouth twitch.

It’s all good here.

He puts the phone back in his pocket. Sarah has stacked the tray and already has it in her hands. He moves to grab the handle on the screen door, frowns as it emits its usual tortuous whine. 

‘You think people would really go for old school swings and stuff?’

She smiles up at him, something in her eyes that hits him roughly in the middle of his spine. ‘You won’t know unless you ask.’

He’s thoughtful. ‘I guess not.’

Sarah passes through the doorway and he follows her into the house.

Chapter Text

The streets are still rain-slicked after the earlier cloud-burst and there is a moodiness on the air, bruised clouds lowering on the skyline as though they have something to say and are getting ready to offload it, big time. 

A Southern boy, Sam never thought that somewhere like Brooklyn, even for a few brief moments, would feel like home but he’s so bone-weary that just the thought of Bucky’s apartment and falling face-first into the bed makes him nearly weep with gratitude. He’s been wearing the same clothes for over thirty-six hours, has been awake for twice that long; he feels sweaty, collar grimy at the back of his neck and the tiredness is punishing, drilling down into his bones. When he reaches the stoop leading up to the street door he makes it up three steps and then sits, flight bag and backpack messy at his feet

He’s pinged between New York, D.C, Philly and back to New York in less than a week. Bucky had stayed behind, officially gathering intel but unofficially because even with serum-induced accelerated healing it still takes him time to recover from having half of a flyover land on him. Some weedy tech-nerd with aspirations to godhood or something - Sam had tuned out during the final monologue - but a concussion grenade had been enough to disorient him so that he hadn’t heard Bucky’s yelled warnings and, of course, the man had taken the dumb-ass decision to fling himself on top of Sam, taking the brunt of the force.

‘And saving your dumb-ass life,’ he croaks, face a whited-out mask of dust with rivulets of blood flaring across one cheek, when he comes round again to Sam’s volleys of panicked insults.

He knows Bucky would take a bullet for him and he hates that he knows that. They’d still been arguing that point when Bucky was, grudgingly, flat on his back and hooked up to (according to Bucky unnecessary) pain meds on a gurney in a military medical facility with Sam scooted up in a chair beside him, still in his vibranium suit because he doesn’t trust Bucky not to go and do something spectacularly stupid like up and die on him when his back’s turned.

‘Yeah, okay, so next time I’ll just stand back and let some megalomaniac moron take you out and when Sarah asks me why you’re dead I can tell her it’s ‘cos Sam said “no”.’

‘Asshole!’

‘He really was.’

‘I-I meant you! God-’ Head buried in his hands, blinking against stinging eyes, and then Bucky’s hand, heavy on his shoulder, reassuring and warm and alive. 

He’d take the same damn bullet and definitely the same goddamn flyover for Bucky and knows that Bucky hates that knowledge just as much as he does. One of the reasons that Sarah calls both of them the biggest born idiots known to man and she’s probably right.

The street door slams. A voice chirrups at him and he peels himself off the stoop, standing up and even though Mrs Pham is two steps higher she’s still having to peer up at him. She smiles fondly and rattles at him in her mix of broken English and Vietnamese that he’s too exhausted to follow properly. Bucky and food, he gets that much. She frowns, her face puckering and shakes her head at him.

‘Work too hard,’ she says, like every mother since the dawn of time and he suddenly misses his own with a ferocity that clenches around his throat. He pushes it down.

‘I’m good, Mrs Pham.’

A gnarly finger jabs him in the shoulder. ‘Home. Eat.’

He nods, drags himself up the remaining steps, through the door into the tiny lobby that smells of floor-polish and air-freshener of a particularly synthetic kind that makes his eyes smart and then starts his assault on the flights up to Bucky’s apartment. It’s only four flights. Today it climbs like ten. 

The apartment actually feels like a place someone lives in these days. It has acquired plants, a bookcase, a table, even the terrible couch now comes with cushions and a soft jewel-coloured throw that Bucky brought back from their trip to Wakanda. There’s a framed photograph that Sam took of Bucky surrounded by the village kids he’d known when he lived there and two goats. 

‘Motherfucking stairs,’ he gasps to himself, takes a moment at the top of the last flight, hand gripping the banister to stop himself pitching backwards. He’s wheezing. It’s been that kind of week. He straightens, makes the final steps down the hallway to the front door. There are no sounds from behind it. Bucky’s probably soul-gazing with his plants or running ten laps around the whole of Central Park. Sam pushes the door open, drops his bags and determines immediately that Bucky has been doing neither of those things. What he has, evidently, been doing is made very apparent by the presence of the girl with shaggy blonde hair piled on top of her head, wearing one of Bucky’s oversized sweatshirts and chewing methodically on a spoonful of something she’s eating out of a cereal bowl. Heavy silver rings stacked on her fingers and delicate ones rimming her ears.

Right. Okay, so that’s a new thing. That’s- That’s all cool.

She’s arresting, he can see that - you’d have to be blind not to see that - all long legs, high wide cheekbones and cat-like eyes. The gaze is disconcerting, appraising. There’s something familiar about that gaze that prickles at the back of his mind. Her chin jerks very slightly in his direction.

‘New Captain America.’ It’s a flat statement. Her voice is rich, husky; she sounds uniquely- Not bored, exactly, just not interested, not impressed. Elongated vowels and rolling consonants. Russian, he thinks. ‘Your suit is pretty cool.’ Her head tilts. ‘Does it have pockets?’

‘Uh…’

Another spoonful, liquid dribbling down into the bowl. A pot on the stove, steam rising up scented with aromatic herbs. Pho, of course, that’s what Mrs Pham was talking about. She adores Bucky and persists in feeding him.

The man of the moment himself wanders in, drying his hands on one of the bathroom towels, sleeves pushed up almost to his elbows. He’s wearing that slightly closed-off expression that always brings out Sam’s hard edges, he can feel them under his skin. There are lines in Bucky’s face, worn in and tired, something that’s coming from deep inside outward, tension running along the line of his shoulders. Not what you’d expect to see after-

After the stuff that Sam doesn’t want to think about. Damn, he’d been looking forward to crawling into that bed. Despite what Bucky says he does not mind sharing but there are certain things that really should remain entirely and completely separate. He should, he thinks, probably be grateful that the bionic staring machine with the hundred year old pick-up lines has switched his attention off Sarah and onto some random blonde that he found- Wherever. He should be absolutely one hundred per cent glad about that. Somehow he feels weirdly outraged on his sister’s behalf and even more weirdly disappointed in his friend. Asshole.

The girl is still digging into her pho, chewing slowly and she still has her eyes on him. What were the chances of two people with a staring problem finding each other? he thinks tiredly. Maybe there’s some sort of niche club for it where they all stare each other down and whoever are the last two standing at the end get to make out.

Bucky dumps the towel on the kitchen counter, lets out a deep breath.

‘Bucky,’ Sam says, hard and edgy; Bucky nods in return.

‘Sam-’

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt. I’ll just grab my stuff.’

‘Sam!’ He takes two steps towards the half-dressed girl in the middle of his living room, stops and says, ‘This is Yelena Belova. She’s Natasha’s sister.’

The words hang in the air while Sam hears this, blinks, hears it again. Oh. Oh… Fuck.

‘Jesus. Shit. Yelena-’ Sam lifts a hand, drops it. That’s what is so familiar. The flat green gaze that looks right into you, just like Natasha’s did. He notices all of the things that he’d overlooked when he first came in. The metallic tang on the air mixed with the piercing smell of antiseptic; the plastic bag on the counter filled with bloody cotton-wool and bits of gauze. The reddening at the side of Yelena’s face that will flower into bruising, the edge of bandaging around her thigh just visible beneath the hem of Bucky’s sweatshirt.

‘Yelena.’ He isn’t sure why he feels the need to repeat her name but it’s a way of getting the use of it, feeling it lie against his tongue. ‘I’m so sorry. Nat talked about you so much.’

Her lips push out, considering. ‘She mentioned you. Occasionally.’

Yup, definitely Nat’s sister.

‘She came to tell us something,’ Bucky says. He’s wearing the same empty-eyed expression he usually breaks out during briefing sessions, the one that makes overly-sensitive analyst types break the leads in their mechanical pencils. There’s something snippy and puritanical about mechanical pencils, and all who wield them, that Sam really hates.

Yelena deposits her spoon in her bowl, runs her free hand though the blonde bangs falling into her eyes. ‘I was working for Valentina - Contessa Valentina.  She says she’s a Contessa - I don’t know if I believe that, but whatever. You know her?’

Sam shakes his head, glances at Bucky who raises one shoulder minutely. 

‘She’s…’ Yelena pushes her lips out again, thinking about it. Her weight shifts as she scratches the top of her right foot with the toenails on her left. They’ve all been painted a bright sparkly pink that’s starting to chip. ‘I thought she was just intermediary. You know - hires people to do things for other people. Contract killings, industrial espionage.’ Her voice is sing-song, running through this list of horrors. ‘Real espionage… But she is more than that. She infiltrated SHIELD. She infiltrated Hydra. She has whole organisation all of her own. And now she has new toy.’ Her head tilts slowly side to side, watching Sam like she’s gauging what his reaction will be to whatever it is she’s going to say. ‘Now she has John Walker.’

The huffing sound is Bucky, silent laughter shaking through his chest and he stares up at the ceiling, incredulous and accusing of whichever messed-up god or fate or whatever has decided to fuck with them on this again.

Sam pinches the bridge of his nose, fingers burrowing into the hollows of his eyes. ‘What’s she got him doing?’

‘I didn’t stay around to find out.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us?’

She pulls in a breath, pushes it down her nose. ‘Leviathan is coming.’

Sam sees the way Bucky’s head jerks slightly and feels his stomach drop; it’s lucky he hasn’t eaten anything much in the past twenty-four hours because he’d bring it all back again, right on the nice new-ish rug Bucky picked up at  one of those flea markets he likes to go to on Sundays. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

Yelena shrugs. It isn’t a casual movement - she’s holding her spine very straight. ‘I don’t know; I’m sorry. I was too busy trying to not to die to ask about it.’ 

Sam’s gaze moves to Bucky. The fingers of his left hand are flexing slightly, plates shifting minutely and the ripple follows the line all the way up his arm as something recalibrates. His frown is heavy. Moody, like the lowering clouds visible thought the grey rectangle of window. ‘I’ve heard it. Long time ago - I mean a real long time ago. Right back near the beginning.’ His frame is hard-edged, harshness running through all of his lines. ‘Yelena, have you spoken to your dad about Leviathan?’

She absorbs this, thoughtful, shifting from one foot to another and grimacing  a fraction when she lands on her injured leg. ‘No. But I will ask him, James Barnes, if you think it will help.’ 

‘I don’t know, but I’ll take intel from anywhere we can get it.’ His eyes travel over her, appraising. ‘You need more ibuprofen?’

She shakes her head.

Bucky sighs slightly. ’Okay. Look, you can stay here. As long as you need, Yelena Alexeyevna.’

The name isn’t strictly accurate but it is true and Yelena accepts it, nodding gravely. ‘Thank you. I appreciate the offer, James Barnes. Truly. But I have friend I must see - Kate Bishop. You know her, Kate Bishop?’

Sam starts to shake his head and Bucky catches his eye. ‘Isn’t she the girl Clint was talking about? His new partner?’

Yelena nods again, tendrils of hair escaping the pins she’s shoved in to get it out of the way. ‘That’s her. I’ll tell her I meet you and she will be so jealous. She’s all New-Captain-America-this and James-Bucky-Barnes-that.’ She sounds gleeful about it, something she’s looking forward to. ‘She really likes you.’ It isn’t clear whether that’s addressed to one or both of them. She points at the bowl she still has balanced in her left hand. ‘I go again? I can get more?’

Bucky extends a hand in the general direction of the stove. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Ye-es..!’ She almost skips over, humming to herself as she stirs up the pot, taking extravagant sniffs of the fragrant steam and ladles more of the noodles into her bowl.

Sam looks at Bucky. ‘So. John fucking Walker.’

‘Yeah. And ain’t that a kick in the head.’

Bucky’s left hand leans hard against the counter, next to the dirty towel and the grisly bag of stuff he’d used to patch up Yelena. Sam places his fingertips gently on the bend of his wrist, feels the faint pulsing thrum running across the metal plates. ‘Hey, you okay, man?’

‘I’m okay.’ His voice seems to come from a little too far off.

Sam looks at him. Bucky blinks, refocuses and the tension lessens; something of a lopsided smile twitching one corner of his mouth. ‘Seriously, I’m fine, Sam - you can stand down your counsellor’s face.’ He regards his friend critically. ‘You should eat some pho. And sit down, for God’s sake; you look like shit.’

Their temporary guest is investigating the apartment, prodding at the row of plants, running the leaves between her fingers before moving on to read the spines of Bucky’s ever-growing collection in the bookcase.

‘Nat never mentioned her father,’ Sam says, low and wonders at the same time why he’s bothering, as though Yelena won’t be able to hear them - and as though she won’t be listening anyway.

‘It- It’s complicated. Kind of.’

‘Kind of?’

Bucky has moved around to the stove, fills a bowl with a generous helping of Mrs Pham’s patented pick-me-up pho and slides it across to Sam. ‘Here, eat. And yes, kind of. The Red Room, Hydra, they messed up a lot of stuff for a lot of people.’

‘Cool poster,’ Yelena calls over her shoulder. Loud. Like no-one has ever explained to her the concept of an indoor voice. She’s a mixture of sophisticated and feral and he remembers sometimes, those two years when they were just about clinging on, when Natasha would be just like that and it’s the way that sometimes Bucky is just like that. So yeah, complicated. And seriously messed up - but somehow no more than most.

The poster is one that Sam saw at an open-air market near Prospect Park and it’s probably on a thousand student walls, but when he’d seen it he’d smiled and then presented it in all its rolled-up splendour to Bucky and said, gruff, ‘So you can cover up that bare-ass wall.’

When he’d unrolled it, smoothing the surface out carefully with the palms of his hands, the high points of Bucky’s cheeks had turned pink and it had spread all the way to the tips of his ears. The goofball liked it so much he bought a proper frame for it and hung it above the couch. Ella Fitzgerald singing in a smoky club while Benny Goodman and an ecstatic Duke Ellington sit in the audience, listening. It’s a cool poster.

Sam pulls up a thick ribboning of noodles with his spoon; ginger, coriander and chilli flare across his tongue, the broth smooth and viscous. Chicken tender, vegetables still retaining their bite. He thinks that if it weren’t for the language barrier, he’d marry Mrs Pham. The warmth spreads through him until he can feel the ball in his chest unspooling. He keeps his eyes closed, leaning into the sense of wellbeing.

‘I can hear you computing.’ He opens his eyes. ‘So, what do we now, cyborg-brain?’

Bucky has his arms folded on the counter, his head resting on them. ‘Dunno.’ He looks up. ‘But we’ll figure it out, I guess. I mean, what the hell else are we gonna do?’ There’s a pause. ‘Eat your pho.’

‘Hey, selfie!’ Yelena’s voice cuts through. There’s a long patchwork coat and battered leather shoulder-bag of huge proportions dumped on the couch. She burrows though it, eventually emerging with a cellphone in a shiny case that from where Sam is slumped against the counter looks like it has a unicorn on the back.

‘We take selfie and I show Kate Bishop. She will lose her mind; she loves all of that Avengers bullshit. So weird.’

Sam expects - no, relies on - Bucky’s natural intransigence to kick in. Instead he starts wandering towards her, running a hand over his hair and says,

‘I’m not an Avenger.’ 

It’s a gentle indulgence, the way he looks at her, lets her investigate his home at will in the way that he wouldn’t let anyone else, certainly not some stranger he barely knows. It’s the same way he is with A.J and Cass and the way he was with the kids in Wakanda. Sam remembers something that Steve told him once; one night in Steve’s place in D.C. with his old man music playing on the stereo and he’d said that when they were growing up Bucky had been everyone’s big brother.

He puts down his empty bowl, pushes himself to a more vertical position and waits two seconds for his head to catch up with the rest of him. ’Don’t listen to him.’

Yelena is scrolling through the settings on her phone and doesn’t look at either of them. ‘That’s not what it says on Wikipedia.’

‘Wha- Oh God…’

Sam is incredulous. ’How can you not read your own Wikipedia page?’

Yelena manoeuvres them around the rug, moaning about blow-out from the window and light-levels.

‘Half of that stuff is made up,’ Bucky says.

‘That’s why you have to read it!’

She nestles herself between them, holding her phone at arm’s length and slightly at an angle. Bucky’s smile is simultaneously terrified and terrifying and Sam really hopes that it isn’t the one he uses while he’s making amends.

Hours later, when Sam is half-asleep on the couch and Bucky is sprawled across the air mattress with his nose in a book and he’s also playing his own old man music on the turntable, both of their phones ping simultaneously.

Yelena has sent them the photo she took. It’s kinda sweet, Sam thinks. It isn’t an entirely terrible picture of three banged-up people facing a possible brand-new Armageddon. It’s followed immediately by another ping and another photo: Yelena and a second girl, very pretty, with round blue eyes and messy dark hair. Yelena has helpfully captioned it Kate Bishop and me.

‘Kate Bishop,’ Bucky says, flashing his screen at him.

Sam grunts. ‘Cool. Now we all set to save the world.’

Bucky rolls over slightly, propping himself up on his left elbow, his book sliding from his hands. ‘Wait, are you being the grumpy one? That doesn’t feel right.’

Sam’s eyes pop open. ‘Oh, so you admit that? You grumpy as hell, man.’

‘I’m old.’

‘Damn right, you old.’

Billie Holiday is crooning about ill winds, her voice, worn and fragile, breaking over the top notes.

‘It’s gonna be okay, Sam.’

Hair tousled, the dog-tags swinging loose around his neck and the lamplight softening all of his sleek hard edges, he looks roughly the way he must have done when he first shipped out. And how, Sam wonders for the millionth time, how after everything can he do that? How can he get ready to fight another fight? The blue eyes are steady on him. Believing in him.

Fuck. Right. That’s how.

‘How do you know?’

For a moment it’s like he’s really thinking about it, his head lowered and he rubs his thumbnail back and forth across his lower lip. ‘Because it has to be. Because I’m not ready for it not to be.’

Sam flops back into the couch. ‘That’s reasonable.’

He hears Bucky laugh, turn a page. He closes his eyes. It will be okay.

Somehow.

Chapter Text

1.

There are always a few moments of weightlessness, suspension in peace and stillness and the surrounding dark feels like an old familiar friend. It’s almost like flying and just when he’s starting to enjoy it, just when everything feels open and waiting and free, that’s the moment when he’s slammed back into his body that doesn’t feel like his body. That’s when the lights in his eyes are blinding and the images, warped and disjointed, flicker across his vision like reel that’s got stuck in a projector. Three little girls in Sunday clothes holding hands; a boy, small and sickly but fierce and loyal; a redhead by the pier at Rockaway-kissing-dancing-laughing-baseball-abookshop-fightingandwarandwarandwar-

A roar of metal and steam, mountains towering, endless roaring in his ears. They land, hard, feet slipping and someone reaches for him, calling a name he doesn’t know and he’s falling. He isn’t weightless now. He’s plummeting though frigid air and he knows every second of it, feels himself twisting, pain lancing through until every nerve screams and he thinks that when he hits the earth and it’s over it will be a blessing. 

He hits the earth. It isn’t over.

The lights are dimmer, air against his skin warmer and the voice is calm, gentle. Something lilting in it that would almost be a comfort if he could understand what it is saying. What she is saying. A woman. It’s never a woman. Or maybe it has been sometimes, he can’t remember and he feels that all of the things that he can’t remember are legion. 

She is still talking. Still the same thing. A name. She’s saying a name. She’s saying his name.

‘Sergeant Barnes.’

Blackness recedes around the edges of his vision. He jolts back into his body, heavy and awkward and missing. Something missing. He can’t feel his left arm. Why can’t he feel his left arm?

On a gurney, strapped down- No, not strapped, not this time. What’s she saying?

‘…start with scans…’

She’s tiny. She’s a child. They’re letting a child have a go at him this time. Pretty little thing, coltish limbs, delicate features, big brown eyes. The teenage princess, like out of a fairytale.

What’s a fairytale?

Once upon a time…

Who would he say that to? Three little girls in Sunday clothes-

There are two of them. The princess and the other one, chiselled cheekbones and burning eyes. She doesn’t look cruel. Serious, but not cruel. Long eyelashes curling over her cheeks, glinting metal wrapped around her shoulders. She’s a warrior. A soldier-

Oh God.

‘…then we will use probes…’

No. No-no-no-nononono- Oh Jesus fucking Christ.

Always probes and injections and shiny instruments- Zola’s face hovering over his telling him all of the things he was going to do, each step, each cut, each experiment, then the man after him and then the time after that- and electricity fired through his skull, his brain ripped apart, everything shredded. His stomach roils and he knows he’s going to throw up all over this little girl’s nice clean lab.

He isn’t strapped down. He can get away this time. 

He gets himself upright, gets his feet on the floor. His body isn’t co-operating, awkward and unsteady still after cryostasis and the ground comes up to meet him. That’s as far as he gets. Maybe if he asks nicely they’ll leave him alone. He’ll beg, if he has to. That’s never worked before but maybe these are nice ladies and if he puts it across just right maybe they’ll leave him be to get on with the job of not existing anymore.

He’ll fight them off, if he has to. In a few minutes. After he’s had a rest on this nice cold stone floor.

On the other side of the treatment table, Shuri’s eyes are huge and uncomprehending. She clutches the sheaf of papers with all of her notes and algorithms and work to her chest and stares at the figure huddled on the floor. All the muscles in James Barnes’ body are strained, twisting against each other. She can smell the fear roiling off him. 

He’s afraid of her and she doesn’t understand.

It’s Ayo who moves towards him, slow, lowering her body inch by inch until she kneels beside him, her hands held palms-out away from her - open and empty. 

‘James.’

A tremor runs through him, the broken line of his shoulders heaving.

‘James, we are not going to hurt you.’

He is gasping for air, his face wet and sweaty and sticky and he hides his head in the crook of his remaining arm. ‘It always hurts.’

Ayo looks up at Shuri. The princess has crept closer, her face grave and slowly crumpling. She has dropped her precious files, papers fanning across the floor and she walks across them like they’re nothing. Her world is science. Rational thought, figures, algorithms, all of the things that she believes with her whole heart can put the world to rights. Can put anyone to rights. Like finding the right switch and flicking it. Easy. 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes is broken at her feet and she doesn’t know what to do. She crouches down across from Ayo, dark lashes starred with tears.

Ayo sits back on her haunches and regards both of them for a moment. The unfairness of it, the misery, the sheer inhumanity feels like a vice around her throat and she wants to scream. She doesn’t. That will come later, perhaps, with Aneka. ‘Fresh air,’ she declares, her voice as brisk and penetrating as when she’s drilling new recruits on the parade ground.

His head moves, one eye, watery and bloodshot, visible above his elbow. There’s laughter, wet and messy, caught in the back of his throat. ‘You sound like my mother.’

His whole body contorts, his head goes down again and he shudders. The pain is something visceral, tangible. Shuri wraps her arms around his shoulders, lays her head against the curve of his back and weeps with him.

2.

He can understand why they call Birnin Zana the Golden City. Under the sinking sun, against the deep wide sky streaked pink and orange the metropolis glows. Reflections bounce off the surrounding mountains until even the mighty statue of Bast herself is cast in gold, magnificent and ferocious.

Like the people here, he thinks; or, at least, the women flanking him, albeit in their different ways. 

Shuri leans her arms against the balcony, staring across the city, her huge dark eyes flecked with gold light. Ayo stands straight and tall, as though chiselled out of the same rock as the feline protector watching over these hidden lands.

‘It’s beautiful,’ he says, unaware that he’s said it out loud until Shuri looks at him over her shoulder, her mouth twitching into a smile of approval. She looks so young and he has to remind himself that she’s a Royal Princess, that she’s a scientist more advanced than even the Starks and Banners of this world. 

Even Bast looks kindly under the golden light. 

Getting soft in your old age, he thinks to himself, and then remembers that his age is roughly one-hundred and feels the edge of hysterical laughter rising again. He pushes it down, concentrates on the warm air all creamy lemon and spice scented and the way it feels against his skin. The dull buzz of the city, lights bright and then the darker plains beyond rolling into the more distant mountains blue on the skyline. Birds calling to each other, raucous chatter over the deeper notes of those roosted and settled.

This is a happy place, he thinks. The possibility of happiness-

God.

He closes his eyes.

‘I’m sorry about all of that,’ he says of the sobbing mess that between them they’d scraped off the floor. When he opens his eyes again the city is still there, still golden and full of rich promise. 

Shuri straightens, her face grave and she studies him. ‘If there is only one thing that I fix - and I will fix everything-’

Ayo shifts very subtly beside him and he could swear that he hears her eyes rolling.

‘-it is that you will stop apologising for things that you have no reason to be sorry for.’

So many things, so many fucking awful reasons.

Her gaze is steady, warm.

‘We started too soon,’ Ayo informs them.

‘I know that,’ Shuri says, testiness creeping into her voice.

‘He needs to rest.’

‘I know.’

He doesn’t hide the smile. She’s so eager to reach in and fix the things that are broken; he doesn’t have the heart to tell her with her bright eyes and her open expressive face that she’s wasting all of her time and talent and energy on him. And then there’s that damn traitorous voice in the back of his mind whispering but if she can…

‘Rest tonight,’ Shuri says. ‘Tomorrow we will talk through what will happen, what we must do. I promise you, Sergeant Barnes, that I will never hurt you.’ Her hand is light on his arm, fingers curling gently. 

He nods. ‘I know that.’ And believes it. She smiles.

Shadows lengthen, Bast swaddled in their embrace waiting and watchful in the darkness. 

‘You both need to eat,’ Ayo states. ‘Aneka has made umleqwa with umngqusho.’

Shuri is already appreciative. She still has her hand on his arm, Bucky realises, and she leans into him a little. Friendly and trusting. It feels almost overwhelming.

Without her armour, Ayo seems- Absolutely no less the warrior than when she has it. But kindliness in the embers of her eyes, etched into the proud features that she holds so still and stern. ‘And you will stay with us tonight.’

He wonders if everything she says has that weighted finality.

Her arm now fully wrapped around his, Shuri is all approval, her braids shimmering as she nods emphatically. ‘That is a good idea.’

‘We have a spare room,’ Ayo continues. ‘The bed is not too soft. It is right for a warrior.’

‘Just the way I like it,’ he says weakly and doesn’t have a name for the thing tangling itself around his heart and creeping up into his throat. Hot and heavy in his chest, something cracking open that has been too cold and too buried for too long. One more act of kindness and they’ll break him.

‘But you cannot go looking like that,’ Shuri says, releasing her hold on him and studying him sharply. She reaches up to push away the hair that hangs heavy and unkempt around his face; she is tiny beside him. ‘Turn around.’ He does and hears her tongue clicking irritably against her teeth. ‘You’ll have to move down.’

He shuffles, sinks into a semi-crouch obediently, steadying himself with his right hand against the floor. He glances up at Ayo and she is watching the proceedings with her head slightly tilted, an expression of mild interest. The dark eyes flicker, find his and there is an almost-smile ghosting her lips.

Shuri’s strong fingers rake through his hair, pulling the long locks back and he can feel her twisting some of them around themselves.

‘There,’ she says, after a moment, ‘that will have to do.’

He makes a silent enquiry of the grave soldier in her red tunic and the flicker of warm amber in the depths of her steady gaze. 

‘Better,’ she tells him. 

He reaches curiously to feel the knot at the back of his head, fingers barely making contact before Shuri bats them away again. 

‘You will undo it!’

‘Sorry,’ he mutters, pushes himself up again, takes a moment to re-balance. The left side of his body feels too light, off-kilter. He tries not to think about it.

Shuri reattaches herself to his right arm, all warmth and vibrancy and unhesitating welcome. ‘Come,’ she says.

He goes.

3.

‘Who’s this again?’

‘Alicia Keyes,’ Shuri calls, voice raised over the soaring vocals that reverberate around the lab walls.

He grunts. ‘Good voice.’

Shuri likes her music loud, he has learned. He wonders sometimes if she is secretly using sonic waves to thump the Winter Soldier out of him. 

It isn’t an unpleasant sensation, the gentle currents flowing from the halo of connectors and sensors into his head. It makes him feel woozy, drowsy, almost ready to drift away on a haze of gold - except for Shuri’s pounding music and incessant chatter. He might just know more about her than he remembers about himself.  Which, he has to admit, would not be hard.

The sessions are as far removed from what he endured at Hydra’s hands as can be imagined. Each morning started with a civilised discussion over cups of steaming bush tea about what will happen, how much he is willing to subject himself to.

Some days, after a particularly bad night when the terrors crawl through his brain, stifle him, still play before his eyes even when he wakes, he can barely speak. They sit in silence then, drink their tea and Shuri delivers him back into Ayo’s care. 

There are more good days than bad ones. Or, at least, more okay ones.

He feels Shuri’s touch light on his shoulder, looks up at her and she gives him her usual gentle smile. It’s late. The rest of the staff and lab assistants have long since left - not that Shuri allows any of them to handle his treatments. This is their own project and she guards it - and him - fiercely. 

‘That is enough for now,’ she says. He nods. The pulses diminish and then stop, lights dimming. He lies for a while in the semi-gloom, concentrates on the rise of fall of his own chest as he breathes, of the weight in his limbs, of his own body. His own. Not an asset, not an experiment, not a thing to be taken out of storage at someone’s whim. 

If that is all he gets, if he has to remain hidden in this strange little kingdom that hides its power and glory from the rest of the world forever, then that is more than enough. And he’ll be grateful, just for that, to this slip of a girl-genius until the end of days.

Bucky pushes himself upright. Strange, how lying down for so long doing nothing can be so exhausting. The sleek black plates of the new implant catch the edge of his sight and he makes himself look at it. It is stark against his pale skin, the inlaid gold softening something so inhuman. It feels … different. Less monstrous than the one that was there before. It runs deeper under the skin, he knows that. Shuri has bonded vibranium to his collarbone and shoulder-blade to strengthen the joint, allow more flexibility. The interface itself is flat, glass-like under his fingers. It hums slightly when he touches it, the faintest buzzing hum that would probably be indiscernible to any but his hyper-sensitive ears.

It’s the first time he’s really looked at it, felt it. Him and not him. He wonders if he’ll ever really get used to that.

Shuri’s face hovers into view and she studies the skin around the implant, brow puckering. She sucks in a breath through her teeth. ‘We can still do better with the scarring,’ she says. She’s already done so much, but seventy years’ worth of healed scar tissue is a lot, even for her. Her gaze flicks up to his and she extends a hand that hovers over his chest without actually making contact. ‘May I?’

Every time. She asks every time. When he can’t take it and just shakes his head, dumb, she withdraws. Now, when he nods, her touch is so delicate he almost can’t feel it. 

Her hands are strong, experience running through her fingers. She moves carefully, inspecting the twisted skin running across his chest, follows the lines around his back, down his ribcage. Her scrutiny is so close he can feel her breath against his skin.

And then her fingers tweak at the lean flesh just below his ribs on either side, startling out a breath of laughter. Her mischief-bright face appears over his right shoulder, cheeks dimpling.

‘You’re a screwball, you know that?’

‘Screwball… Is that one of your old man words?’

He laughs again. ‘Yeah, probably.’

‘Tomorrow, I can run a new programme through a session in the hyperbaric chamber. It will help with the scarring - it will feel much better.’ Her eyes gleam. ‘And then maybe you will try your new arm.’

Bucky feels his stomach flip. Right. That. ‘Look, Shuri, I might be too tired for that tomorrow … it’s been a long day.’ The disappointment in her face is immediate. ‘Especially if you want to work on all of this.’ He gestures vaguely at his left shoulder. ‘I mean, that’s a lot right there.’

Her lips are pressed together and then her head inclines, accepting the lie. ‘Very well. But you must be ready for tomorrow night.’

He had been about to stand, just getting his bare feet on the cool floor when he hears her words and suspicion lances through. ‘What about tomorrow night?’

Her eyes are way too wide, large and wearing a look of such perfect innocence that he swears she must practice it in front of a mirror. ‘You are invited to dinner with our greatest general.’

That is entirely unexpected and his brows knit together. ‘I didn’t think General Okoye-’

She clicks her teeth at him. ‘Hayi! I said our greatest general. My mother - she is the General-in-Chief of the Dora Milaje.’

He stares at her, brain jammed. ‘The- Your…’

Shuri nods, serene. ‘My mother wants to meet you at last, to welcome you to our home. She has been waiting for ages for you to be ready.’

‘I-I can’t have dinner with your mother!’

‘Why not?’

‘Because she’s- And I’m… Shuri, she’s the Queen of Wakanda!’

‘Eh, I know who she is! And you have had dinner with T’Challa and he is the King, so how is this different?’ Imperious, every inch the Royal Princess right down to her fingertips.

His hand rises in the air, helpless, falls again at his side. It just is. And he already knows that he can argue himself into the ground and Shuri will still be entirely unmoved.

‘Okay… Okay. But then definitely no arm tomorrow - and not the day after! I can do one or the other, but not both.’

She bounces on the balls of her feet in time to the beat that resonates in the metal frame of the treatment table. ‘All right. Perhaps the day after that?’

‘Shuri…’

He wants to tell her not to expect too much of this. Of him. Her eyes are bright and the faded half-gone memory of another girl gazing up at him with trust and hope and conviction dances across his battered senses. Becky. His Becky. He could never bring himself to disappoint her, either.

He sighs. ‘Shuri- I- I should get something for your mother. A gift.’

Her expression is one of delight. ‘That is a good idea. We will go together - it will be fun! In the morning, yes?’

In the morning, yes. They’ll start all over again in the morning.

Chapter Text

It isn’t just Marvin Gaye’s voice, it’s all of it - the arrangement, the pulsing motif lying under the vocal line, the snare drums finding their way into the rhythm, plaintive horns when they flare across. His father placing the heavy vinyl record with such care and precision on the old turntable in the den, the burst of static when the needle dropped and being told - listen, listen.

Bleep-bleep of the heart monitor added to the mix, breathing laboured and ragged when Steve finally comes around and then-

‘I need you to do something for me, Sam.’ The bruises are already starting to take on the yellowish-green of healing but his face is still a mess, one eye swollen almost shut, bloodshot, something desperate in the blue glittering between the bruised slit. 

And Sam, without stopping to think about it at all, sits forward and says, ‘Sure, man, anything.’

‘I need you to help me find him.’

He feels a sickening swoop of his stomach and doesn’t pretend not to know who Steve means. Sam presses his lips together, studies the tasteful piece of muted faux-abstract McArt hanging on the opposite wall before he finally says. ‘You out of your goddamn mind? You get hit harder than I thought?’

Deadened eyes, his wing ripped off, the punishing blow that had pitched him off the Helicarrier-

‘He saved me, Sam.’

‘He-’ He drops his head into his hands, makes himself take deep breaths through his nose, drags his hands down his face and looks again at Steve. ‘He tried to kill you.’

Steve lies back against the hospital sheets, skin ashen under the pale gold tan acquired from jogging his numerous laps all around D.C. ‘I know. I know that. But he didn’t-’

‘Only because-’

‘No, not only because!’ He pushes himself up on one elbow, grunting as broken ribs protest at the movement and bats away Sam’s automatic attempts to help him. He fixes Sam with his one less-swollen eye and breathes hard between parted lips that are cracked and pale. ‘I lost that fight. I lost that fight and he could have killed me. He didn’t throw me off the carrier, I fell-’ The pain that twists the corner of his mouth isn’t physical- At least, it’s a pain that becomes physical when the memories lance through. ‘He pulled me out. He pulled me out, Sam,’ he repeats before the other man can say anything.

Steve flops back down, stares up at the ceiling.

Still forward in his chair, Sam’s hands dangle limp and useless between his knees, the divot deepening between his brows.

‘Since I was eight years old, I followed Bucky everywhere. And then he followed me. And if he hadn’t-’ His voice is thready, the effort wearing down the edges. ‘He chose to pull me out of the river and if he made that choice it means Bucky’s still in there. I have to find him, Sam. I have to.’

Sam nods, resignation and exhaustion twisting themselves together, throbbing somewhere behind his eyes. ‘Okay, Steve. Okay.’

‘Okay…’

The voice comes through a fug. He knows that voice.

‘Okay… I’m not going anywhere, I promise-’

Sam makes a deal with himself that he’ll open his eyes when he counts three. He gets to seven before he manages it and grunts with both the effort of that and the way the light has developed a brand-new habit of slicing though his eyeballs and directly into his brain.

‘Hold on, I think he’s coming ‘round. Sam?’

‘Nyargh.’

‘I’ll call you back.’

Fumbling sounds fading in and out over the beep-beep.

‘Hey, Sam? You back with us, buddy?’

His tongue has welded itself to the roof of his mouth and every bit of moisture has been leeched out of his throat. His jaw throbs. Everything throbs. The face that swims in front of his vision, mercifully blocking out some of the light, is all lines of concern.

‘Bu-’ he manages feebly, the last consonants disappearing.

‘Ice-chips,’ Bucky says and disappears abruptly from view.

Bit by bit Sam rearranges himself around the narrow hospital bed, taking time to make sure all of his limbs are in agreement before trying anything really spectacular like sitting up a fraction.

‘Hey, hold on.’ He’s aided by a pair of strong arms clamped around him that move him with praticed gentleness and for a moment it feels like the circle of warm flesh and vibranium is all that’s holding him together. He’s released and doesn’t quite manage to hold in the faint keen of pain that flares across his entire body but mixed in there is a regret at the loss of unexpected comfort. Bucky runs an ice-chip across Sam’s lips, eventually sliding it into his mouth and Sam keeps his eyes closed while it melts and his tongue slowly unsticks and then finally feels like it’s reduced back down to its normal size.

‘Who were you talking to?’ His voice is a croak. He tries to clear the roughness in his throat, gives up. Another ice-chip gets rubbed across his lips.

‘Sarah,’ Bucky says, shakes drops of ice-water off his fingers. ‘I messaged her you’re awake. I’ll call her back later.’

Sam grunts, nods and immediately regrets that decision. When he’s managed to find a way of holding his head against the pillows that doesn’t hurt, he takes in more of the details of the room. The usual muted colours in weirdly muddy greens and browns; he’s sure it’s even the same damn painting on the wall. The usual stomach-churning smell of recycled air and disinfectant. There is music coming from a boxy shape that looks like the first bluetooth speaker ever invented. Not Marvin Gaye, this time. Not even Bucky’s old man music. It’s something warm and familiar and comfortable, like Sarah plays on her battered old radio when she’s working down at the marina.

Bucky has eased himself back into the wheelchair because, right, he got shot twice in the same thigh and told Sam that he’d just walk it off. That had been absolutely Sam’s favourite part of yesterday or the day before or whenever: when their tactical team turned out to have been ambushed and replaced by the same damn guys they were trying to take down but his biggest concern had been whether or not his partner might just bleed to death before they had a chance to regroup and get the hell out of there. Not helped by the most stubborn son-of-a-bitch on the planet still mounting a one-man charge at the same fake-tactical team because apparently if you have a vibranium arm you can do anything, even if you’ve left a life-draining pool of your own fucking blood on the floor.

‘You okay?’

Bucky’s eyes are on his phone, the very sleek shiny fancy black one from Wakanda. He nods vaguely. ‘I’m all right.’

The bandaging around Sam’s ribs is tight and he hisses in a breath when he eases himself a fraction higher against the pillow. ‘You don’t need a new vibranium leg or something?’

There’s something almost fond in the half-smile that gets aimed at him. ‘Nope. Good as new.’

Sam closes his eyes for a few moments again, tries to ignore the insistent throbbing from his jaw. ‘Wish I had some of that super-soldier serum.’

‘No, you don’t.’ It’s more soft than just quiet.

‘No.’ Sam peers over at him and when Bucky meets his gaze he aims the phone’s camera at Sam.

‘Try to smile - Lena wants proof of life.’

Sam grouses, wriggling against his pillows and spreading his dried-out lips into something more like a grimace. ‘Who’s Lena?’ He blinks against the flash.

‘Lena - Yelena. Belova,’ he adds helpfully.

Scepticism and suspicion write themselves across Sam’s battered but still expressive features. ‘Since when do y’all call her Lena?’

Bucky’s fingers dance across the smooth screen. ‘Since she asked me to. Lena is just short for Yelena; it’s not that big of a deal, Samuel.’

‘Didn’t ask me to call her Lena,’ Sam grumbles.

‘That’s ‘cos she likes me better.’

His shoulders shake with a huffed out laugh that ends wetly in a cough. 'The former Black Widow assassin likes the former Hydra assassin better than Captain America - what were the odds?’

Bucky’s wise-crack reply is interrupted when the door opens sharply and a nurse in creased faded scrubs stands in the doorway, her hand still on the doorknob and her lips thin into a hard line. ‘Sergeant Barnes, you’re not supposed to be in here. You’re meant to be in your own room. The no visitors thing applies to you too, you know.’

Bucky tilts his head back so that he’s looking at her sort-of upside down and a lazy smile spreads across his face. It’s the same smile that he uses on Mrs Pham when they’re exchanging plant cuttings and that he breaks out at the line of elderly ladies in their Sunday hats at Sarah’s church. The one that results in a surfeit of cakes being delivered to the Wilson family home

‘Aw, c’mon, Sister.’

She has her hand on her hip, one immaculately-plucked eyebrow arching over glittering dark eyes. Black hair pulled tight away from her face. ‘We’re not called “Sisters” anymore, Sergeant.’

He spreads his hands. ‘I’m old-fashioned, what can I say?’ Something unintelligible is muttered from Sam’s bed, which Bucky serenely ignores. ‘Besides, I’m making sure that nothing else happens to Captain America.’

She sighs, the eyebrow managing to climb even higher. ‘This is a military hospital and-’

‘And I have identified four potential incursion points in this room alone.’ He glances up, takes stock of the ceiling tiles, purses his lips momentarily. ‘Uh, make that five.’

‘I-’ She shakes her head, sharp. ‘You’re also supposed to be in your regulation hospital gown.’

Sam snorts. Bucky, in his clean soft-grey sweats, looks up at her, limpid-eyed. ‘Look, Denise- Can I call you Denise?’

‘It is my name and if it stops you calling me “Sister”, knock yourself out.’

‘Denise,’ he says, with relish. Sam rolls his eyes and again regrets his decisions. ‘Imagine if there was an attempt to take out Captain America in your hospital and I’m in a regulation hospital gown…’ A speaking hand is held in the air. Denise stares at him, her head shaking slightly.

‘How did you even get those sweats?’

‘How…’ He frowns, lips pushing and he frowns, hard, like he’s really thinking about it; his head shakes sadly. ‘You know, my memory…’

‘Fine,’ she says heavily. ‘Did you at least use the chair to get here?’

He looks down at it, back up at her. ‘I used the chair.’

‘Did you actually sit in it and roll yourself here like you’re supposed to, or did you take it for a walk?’ Brown eyes meet blue. In the end she throws up her hands. ‘You’re the worst patient we’ve ever had. Angie actually wrote that on your chart.’

The smile is back in place. ‘Ah, Angie… Helluva way with a blood-pressure cuff,’ he informs Sam, confidingly. 

Denise huffs out another breath, pushes herself away from the door and crosses the room to the end of the bed, her clogs clapping against the floor. She reads the chart, thoughtful, then embarks on a brisk examination of Sam’s person. Of the many indignities of the hospital experience, this is one that Sam always particularly resents; the way they never quite look at you, they call you by name but never quite treat you as a person. Dehumanising, really. He steals a glance across at Bucky, who is studiously staring at his phone. All of the levity gone from his face. 

Bucky really hates hospitals. Sam doesn’t say anything.

‘Okay…’ Denise adjusts the I.V. in Sam’s arm and hands him a clicker attached to the monitor by the bed. ‘Pain relief. If you need an extra shot, press the button. But it will cut out after a certain number of doses so you can’t overdose.’

He feels an overwhelming desire to press the button and hold it down. He lies the device beside him on the bedcover. ‘Great. Thanks.’

She takes herself out of the room.

‘Bye, Denise,’ Bucky calls as the door closes. His phone hums, buzzing against the the fingers of his left hand. ‘Huh. Kate Bishop says she’s super-glad you’re not dead. That’s a direct quote, apparently.’

Sam nods, weariness seeping through every pore. ‘If we ever get to meet Kate Bishop, I think I’m gonna need to get her autograph.’

‘It does feel like it’s taking on those proportions.’

A wide yawn that reminds him, as though reminder were needed, of the aching lump on his jaw and he then turns a burning glare on Bucky. ’And next time you gonna do that, warn me first.’

‘Do what?’

‘Start flirting. That was the single worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life - and I’m including that thing last week when that guy got turned inside out by that ray-gun or whatever it was.’

Bucky’s head tilts; he leans forward to place his phone on the bedside table next to the water-jug, hand sanitiser and cup of ice-chips and when he sits back he’s still thinking about it. ‘I don’t think he was inside out, exactly - I think he was just…’ His fingers flourish, like he’s peeling something. ‘Flayed.’

Sam is having none of it. ’The inside bits that are supposed to stay on the inside were outside. That is pretty much the working definition of inside out. Watching you flirt with the cute nurse is worse than that.’

Blue eyes pop wide and he wears that look of benign innocence that Sam knows from experience not to trust even a tiny bit. ‘I wasn’t flirting, I was just talking politely to the healthcare professional who is one of the people responsible for our wellbeing.’

‘Uh-huh.’

A twitch around his lips like he’s trying not to laugh. ‘Shut up. And she’s not that cute.’

‘She is plenty cute.’

‘I’ll tell her you said that when she comes back. Ten bucks says you can get her phone number.’

‘I hate you.’

Bucky settles back in the wheelchair that is too small for his large frame, an air almost of wistfulness as he stares up at the ceiling. ‘Nurses used to wear these little white uniforms. White shoes with heels. They were pretty cute.’

Sam regards him levelly. ‘The shoes?’

The head comes back down again. ‘The nurses, wise-guy. But I know how you feel about high-heels. You can probably get a pair on eBay.’

‘Shut up, man.’

‘Go great with the suit.’

‘Shut up.’

Bucky actually laughs then and his head tilts back, eyes closing slightly.

Rush of life from beyond this quiet room in the corridor beyond - quick footsteps and low voices. Music still drifts from the tinny speaker, Curtis Harding crooning - See, most people are never givin’ a second chance to be a better man, maybe - and he takes a moment to study the man wedged into the chair beside the bed, the lines of his face peaceful, the fingers of his left hand tapping out the beat against the chair’s metal frame. The loose sweats hiding the scarring and bruises and injuries and that’s just the ones he’s accumulated this week. And Sam thinks about a decision made hundreds of feet above the Potomac and all the others since then.

‘You don’t have to be here, Buck.’

His head snaps down again, faint surprise across his face and a questioning hand turns, palm up. He shrugs very slightly, starts to push himself up. ‘Okay, if that’s what you want.’

‘I didn’t-’ He grunts, ribs and everything else protesting as he struggles around and feels the words lying at the back of his throat, harder and edgier than he had intended. ‘I didn’t mean here here, I meant…’ One arm sketches a feeble circle around the room, towards the window and what’s beyond it. ‘I meant, all of it. All of this. You don’t have to do all of this.’

A deepening crease between dark brows, like Sam is speaking a language that Bucky can barely understand and has to concentrate hard to discern the meaning. ‘I know that.’

Sam scrubs tiredly at his eyes. ‘It’s just…’ This is the wrong time for this and he knows that but somehow he keeps going, questions and half-formed ideas colliding until he says without really meaning to, ‘If you had the option to do it all again, I mean like the train and everything, in the Alps, would you?’

Bucky stares at him like he’s lost his mind which is, Sam thinks, a reasonable reaction. ‘You mean, given the option would I choose not to fall off the fucking train?!’

Sam raises an arm and drops it back on the counterpane. A scratchy counterpane. One more reason to hate being in here. Bucky is studying the ceiling again and his throat bobs before he speaks and when he does his voice is quiet and calm.

‘I like to think we did a lot of good, those years. We probably didn’t know what the hell we were actually doing half the time, but we did it. I guess we were pretty good at it. If you’re asking if I wish I hadn’t gone on that mission… I wish I hadn’t ended up in seventy years of hell because I couldn’t keep my goddamn balance.’ He sighs, a little ragged around the edges. He’s looking at Sam and his blue eyes are clear. ‘If you’re asking me would I still have followed Steve, then yes. I would. That was my choice. My choice. And I’d choose it again. Like I choose now.’

Sam’s throat feels tight, the air thick. ‘You’re under no obligation-’

‘Fuck’s sake, Sam - I know!’ He only realises how rarely Bucky raises his voice until he does it. The look at each other for a moment. ‘Jesus, I’m grateful but I’m not that grateful. You wanna have a conversation about how this … partnership … works, then fine. Converse away.’

Silence. The music shifts to the next track.

‘You gave me a choice-’ 

‘Steve gave you a choice-’

‘No.’ Both hands flex, gold glinting across the plates of his left hand. He sounds patient, the words falling heavy. ‘No. Steve gave me a chance. You gave me a choice. That’s what you gave me, Sam. And I’ve chosen. This is my choice.’

His eyes are wet, blurry. Sam stares up the ceiling tiles and the little patch of mould directly above his head - real hygienic, he thinks dimly - and then pinches the bridge of his nose, fingers digging into the hollows of his eyes.

‘So when did you start listening to Curtis Harding?’ Gruff, throaty.

‘Sarah recommended him.’

Sam turns his head, narrowing his eyes. ‘I saw that, do not do that.’

Bucky has reclaimed his phone. The man texts more than a teenager. ‘Do what?’

‘That dumb-ass grin you do every time you talk about my sister. “Oh, Sarah recommended him”. Yeah, I saw that.’

Bucky tilts his head, his face creasing and he looks almost pained. ‘Was that supposed to be me? ‘Cos that was a terrible impression.’ The phone gets scrolled through, the screen casting a blueish glow over Bucky’s face. ‘You want something else on?’

‘No. I like Curtis Harding.’

‘Then you should have recommended him.’ Bucky rearranges his long legs, looking accusingly at the confines of the chair.

‘Such a jerk.’

Bucky holds up his phone. ‘I’ve got Marvin Gaye,’ he says, conciliatory.

Sam’s mouth quirks up into a smile. ‘Nah. This is good, man.’

A pause.

‘I could probably override that monitor for you.’

The both look at the machine hooked up to Sam’s arm and the clicker lying beside him on the bed. ‘That would probably be a terrible decision,’ Sam says after a moment.

‘Terrible decision,’ Bucky confirms.

They settle back into silence. The music plays on.

Chapter Text

The pastor is welcoming as always and the congregation - what remains of it, at least - is welcoming as always. Worn around the edges and ground down by loss but still opening up to the people who have lost even more.

Sarah has seen the talking heads on TV, the well-paid experts sitting in their expensive studios debating the devastation that has been wrought as though it’s some sort of intellectual game, like a task set at debate club. The expensive memorials all over the country - and she understands why, of course she understands that - but people are still starving. More than before. She’s seen the T-shirts and the mugs saying Thanos Was Right and thinks that someone somewhere is getting rich off all of this and of course they are because someone always does.

Someone hasn’t been to Delacroix. Or the thousand other places just like it when the cars suddenly careened off the roads and the nurses and surgeons disappeared in the middle of an operation and teachers disappeared in front of their class along with half of the kids.

The neighbourhood is so silent now. Sure, there are still voices raised, still signs of childish joy and hope and life. She hopes some of that comes from her own house.

She isn’t always sure that that’s true.

The church hall is busy, Pastor Nicholls welcoming the regulars to the community meal and the drifters, stragglers and blow-ins who have heard that you can get a decent meal and probably a place to sleep for a night or two down in this tired little corner of Louisiana.

Sarah starts stacking the empty Tupperware containers, a familiar rhythm that she can do without thinking. And that’s the problem. The without-thinking means that she starts thinking and, honestly, it’s easier when she doesn’t. Plastic-on-plastic slotting together, her hands are busy and she doesn’t really see what she’s doing, doesn’t see the church hall with its shabby paintwork stained with water damage and mould, the endless flyers promising succour and support and hope-

Hope.

She had clung to hope. Even after Colonel Rhodes had made his way through the chaos of those first few weeks, had come down to Delacroix and sat on the couch in her front room, very upright and precise, his hands clasped tight over his knees, and had tried to explain why her brother had simply stopped existing, why he’d been fighting a battle in the middle of Wakanda, which she couldn’t even find on a map, instead of being home with her where he belonged.

She knows that wouldn’t have made a difference. She couldn’t have stopped it. He’d still be gone. That doesn’t stop the rage that she’d felt, that she still feels, that she’d missed so much of him when Drew died and he wasn’t there and her sons cried for their father and Sam wasn’t there and then the world fractured and-

And, of course, he wasn’t there.

For a long time after Rhodes’ visit she had held onto a sort of hope that it was all a mistake. That the burner phone that had arrived for her one day when Sam had been a fugitive, that Sam would call her on when he could, would ring and he’d tell her that he was okay, that it was a mistake, that he was coming home.

Weeks had turned into months and then into years. The phone is still in her kitchen drawer. She doesn’t check it anymore.

The containers are stacked. The pastor is still making his rounds, bending solicitously over people hunched in grimy plastic chairs. The old TV held precariously in its bracket in a high corner of the room is showing an NFL game replay. Sombre, the way they are now with each one started with a minute’s silence for the lost. She remembers the screams and blaring music, smoke machines, cheer-leaders, ticker-tape and how much Drew had loved all of that, how much Sam had loved all of that, sitting in the den, pulling on his beer and yelling instructions at the TV-

Sarah feels her feet stumble, is aware vaguely of old Miss Landry twittering something to her in her reedy birdlike voice and she knows that she nods, makes some sort of response and then keeps going until her hands grasp cold white ceramic and she can splash icy water on her face from the faucet that has been leaking for as long as she can remember.

Sometimes, sometimes she thinks that it would all have been easier if they had all just gone together, Sam and her and her babies, because that simple not-being would be so much easier than holding on.

And she can’t tell anyone that because it’s a terrible thing to say, to think, to feel, because they are the ones who remain. They have a responsibility.

Sarah doesn’t know for how much longer she can hold on.

She wrenches the faucet back into its closed position and hears the rush turn into the usual drip-drip-drip that will not stop. Wet hands still pressed to her flushed face and then behind her someone says,

‘Sarah?’

Confused. Worried. Sarah raises her head, water drops drying on her fingers and stares in the mirror over the basin at the reflection of the woman standing behind her. Shereene Boudreaux, as immaculate as ever, with her expensive weave, her manicured nails and the heavy gold bracelets swaying around each wrist. Perfect make-up, of course. Shereene has worn a full face of make-up everyday since she was sixteen years old and Sarah doesn’t think that she would recognise her without it.

They were never close - she always found the other woman too hard-edged, too selfish, too superficial. Married a local boy who did well for himself as a car-dealer in NOLA and did even better for herself in the divorce. But she’s known Shereene all of her life and even if she never liked her particularly well, there’s still always a connection when you’ve known someone for so long.

So, she’s standing crying into the basin of the ladies’ room at the church hall and Shereene is watching her do it, increasing confusion spreading across her face, which is all fine, absolutely fine, except that Shereene has been gone these five years just like half of Delacroix. Just like half the world.

Shereene’s gaze wanders across the dirty paintwork and cracked tiles and the  cork-board with its pictures and messages for the lost. Five years’ worth of worn-down living. Her eyes come back to the mirror and meet Sarah’s again. Her breath is stuttering. ‘Sarah?’

She turns then, slow, partly convinced that when she completes the movement that Shereene will be gone again but she’s there and she’s real and when Sarah grabs hold of her hand it’s solid and warm and alive. And shaking. Long nails dig into Sarah’s flesh.

And that’s when she becomes aware that there are voices raised in the room beyond, that there are shouts and screams and people crying. Sarah still has hold of Shereene’s hand and she drags her through the door, out into the hall beyond and they crash into the trestle tables still half laid out with dirty dishes and left-over food and the hall is filled with twice as many people as it was before. Dust on the air, swirling and then disappearing and there are people, people she hasn’t seen in forever. In five years. People who disappeared when some crazed creature snapped his fingers and consigned half of creation to oblivion and left the rest of them to get on with it. Her neighbours, her friends, her-

Oh God.

Sam. Sam…

Her phone is in her bag and her bag is nestled somewhere behind one of the trestle-tables and the room is full, too full, of too many people who all belonged here once and now do so again.

The football game on the TV has been replaced by a news broadcast, the anchor’s face wide-eyed, breath hitching as she tries to talk through what is happening. No-one knows what is happening.

Miss Landry is sobbing against the shoulder of an elderly man, gnarled but still strong with a wide deep chest, her brother, Leon, and he is holding her, baffled.

Sam.

The newsfeed cuts to shaky footage from a cellphone, the sky opening up somewhere over upstate New York. Sarah has never been there but that’s where Sam-

Undulating shapes through that hole in the sky, massive, Lovecraftian monsters, just like five years ago and this cannot, absolutely cannot be happening again.

I take it back, she thinks, desperate, Oh God, I didn’t mean it. If I have to go, I’ll go but not my boys, not my babies, please God…

She finds Shereene again. The sharp cat’s eye flicks extending from the corner of each eye are blurred, smudged, her mascara running down her face, black track marks of fear and confusion. ‘Where are my kids?’ Sarah grabs hold of her hands again and they are still shaking. Or perhaps it’s Sarah who is shaking. 

Shereene’s kids. She knows this. Yes. They’re with Shereene’s ex, he moved back to Delacroix after- After. A good man, Carlton. Tall and good-natured and easy. He’d taken Sarah out to dinner one night, maybe two years ago, two people in a similar situation and it had seemed like a good idea. They hadn’t made it through the starter before he’d started to cry.

Sarah tells Shereene the first part; more tears well up, spill silently down her cheeks taking more streaks of black, glossy lips trembling. Shereene’s face blurs and Sarah blinks, feels her own cheeks wet. Oh. Right.

She looks up at the TV screen again. Hell is falling through the sky and then the newsfeed cuts out.

It’s over an hour later when Cass and A.J. clatter down the rackety steps of the overcrowded school-bus and barrel into her arms. She holds them, fierce, hard against her heart and they wriggle in her arms, voices bright in torrents of words about the kids who had suddenly re-appeared in the school corridors and how their old science teacher had materialised in the middle of science class with their new science teacher.

Her hands map the lines of their small bodies, checking that they are here and them and really hers. Glasses misting up under their excitement and the heat of her clinging embrace. They run into the house.

Sarah stays kneeling on the ground, feeling the still dew-wet grass soaking the knees of her jeans and breathes in air laden with honeysuckle. The phone shoved in the back-pocket of her jeans starts to vibrate and she takes a moment before she pulls it out. So many calls and messages pinging around the globe; the signals keep dropping. She pulls in a breath, counts it out and looks at the screen. When she raises it to her ear there’s a burst of crackling static and then a voice pushes through and the lump in her throat is choking her.

‘Sarah. Sarah, are you there?’

The hold around her throat releases and the tears burn her eyes and down her cheeks.

‘Sam…’

Chapter Text

1. In a Sentimental Mood

It doesn’t start with her hair, not exactly. It isn’t a precise moment but afterwards, when Sarah thinks about it, afterwards it’s something in that time, in those weeks, that turns the thrill engendered by the line of well-proportioned shoulders and the glint of summer-sky blue eyes into something else.

Friday evening and she’s staked out her place in the kitchen and is engaged in the laborious process of undoing her braids, carefully working her way up the lengths. 

The house is quiet, settling into its down-time of creaks and the soft thunk of cooling pipes. Music soft on the radio standing on the kitchen windowsill over the sink, bluesy and familiar. The boys are both in bed, Sam is in the den reading through briefing materials for a presentation he’s due to make in D.C. the following week and Bucky is at the kitchen table reading through classified briefing papers and field notes for something that Rhodes has asked him to do a consultation on. He’s been glaring at his laptop for the best part of an hour. 

Except that now it’s less glaring and more watching and his intent gaze is not aimed at the screen but is fixed on Sarah, on the movements of her hands and the fall of her hair about her shoulders. It isn’t uncomfortable, exactly. A little disconcerting, certainly. Sam had talked about a staring problem and Sarah has seen no evidence of it before, putting that down to Sam just being Sam, until now, but he isn’t staring, more … absorbing. As though committing every detail to memory.

And yes, when she thinks about it like that it is starting to feel a little uncomfortable. Anyone else in the world she would have eyeballed them right back by now and said with heat, ‘Can I help you?’ She meets his eyes, her busy hands stilling, holds them and colour flames across his face. He blinks, startled, as though just realising what he’s doing.

‘I-I’m sorry, I…’ He hold up his hands, loose, placating, an instinctive gesture to show he’s no threat to her. ‘God, that’s not what-’ He lets out a breath and continues with a little more coherence, ‘I’m sorry. That must have seemed really rude… It’s- it’s just that it’s really nice to see something so familiar.’

Her head tilts, fingers working oil into a particularly nasty knot. ‘Familiar?’

‘Yeah.’ The fingers of his right hand run back and forth across the frame of the laptop screen, restless and nervy. ‘In Wakanda, in the evenings, in the village everyone would sit out and the women would do their hair and their kids’ hair. It was part of the… I dunno, the rhythm of the place. I’d sit with them.’ His hands still. ‘It was the first time in … in a really long time I’d been part of something that was just normal. You reminded me of that.’

He closes the laptop, gathering himself, ready to remove himself from her.

‘What’s it like in Wakanda?’

His eyes flick back to hers and Sarah smiles, massaging the tips of her fingers into her scalp. The line of his shoulders relaxes fractionally and there it is, that summer-sky blue and she imagines, giddily for a few seconds, that the wide skies over Wakanda are probably that exact shade.

‘It’s…’ He pauses and a faint frown works across his face. ‘Didn’t Sam tell you about it?’

‘He wasn’t really in a position to,’ she says, light. ‘Being on the run and all.’

‘Right. Yeah. Of course…’ He clears his throat, a soft sound and pulls himself back into this moment. Manages a slightly rueful smile. ‘Plus, I think Sam spent most of his time trying to flirt with Aneka - she trains the Dora Milaje.’

She’s seen them on TV during news reports, flanking their young king with his intent gaze and sweet serious face. The most terrifyingly beautiful women that Sarah has ever seen. Trust Sam to overreach himself… 

‘Not her type?’ Loose curls cloud against the back of her neck, soft against her skin. 

Amusement crinkles around his eyes. ‘I didn’t actually get to see it in person but Aneka’s wife told me all about it; she thought it was pretty funny.’

A moment where the various implications of what he has said unspool themselves and then the laugh is an inelegant snort down her nose and she shakes her head at him; he is wholly unrepentant and she thinks that he is probably having way too much fun with all of this. ‘So, Wakanda,’ she prompts.

Bucky leans back in the chair, the old wood creaking and his face softens into a smile that turns him back, almost, to that beautiful boy whose exhibit is still in the Smithsonian. ‘It’s like nowhere else. It’s-’

Bucky stands then, ambling towards her until he rests folded arms against the breakfast bar and she knows that he’ll be able to smell the oil she’s working into her hair. ‘It’s beautiful. The buildings in the city are all like something out of a science-fiction movie but they’re also real and lived in.’

‘Super high-tech, though?’

‘Super high-tech,’ he confirms. ‘But a lot of the people still live in villages outside of the city, very quiet and traditional. But they also all still have the latest smartphones.’

She laughs, takes a break from her unbraiding and stretches out her arms. He watches her movements without really seeming to. ‘Vibranium everywhere, huh?’

Bucky nods. ‘Except in the posts they use for the goat pens, which is one place they could really use it - those guys will chomp their way through anything.’ He shakes his head in mock bemusement until she laughs and he grins at her again. ‘But yeah, it’s everywhere.’ The forefinger of his right hand rests lightly against the comb she’s using on her newly freed locks. ‘Even in their combs. Reduces frizz, apparently.’

Sarah watches him intently, eyes narrowing the way that she always used to use (and still does) on Sam. ‘Sound like you got really into it.’

Pink right across the top of his cheeks and up to the points of his ears. ‘My neighbour, Imani, she used to do her granddaughter’s hair - made me help her rub the oil in. That poor kid. Can you imagine? A not-very gentle old lady aided by a one-armed white guy.’

The laughter comes out louder than she had intended and once it’s started she can’t stop it, gives up and allows herself to feel it bubble through her body until she is gasping for air and her eyes shine bright. ‘That- that is a terrible thought.’

His face is full of laughter but he is not laughing. He is watching her again. ‘Yeah…’ he says, soft. ‘Isn’t it?’ He seems to shakes something off and when he speaks again his voice is firmer. ‘I couldn’t even fix my own hair - Imani used to help me with that. I guess me helping her torture her granddaughter was the pay-off.’

Sarah spritzes her hair, starts on another braid. ‘Special kind of oil they use?’

He blinks. ‘Huh? Oh, right- Marula. It’s a, uh, a kind of tree. Grows locally, so…’

‘Oh.’

‘And then they cover their hair in a long … scarf.’

Another braid works loose. Her head feels lighter, like she can really breath again. ‘Or, a wrap?’

The pink returns to his cheeks. ‘Yeah, that’s, uh, probably what it’s called.’ A pause. ‘I should, um-’ He jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards his abandoned laptop. ‘Stuff to tell Sam.’

‘Sure.’

She watches him go, lips catching in a smile that holds more tenderness than she realises.

Weeks later, after Sam’s excursion to D.C. (very well-received, thank you very much) and a round-trip to Manila via Kuala Lumpur and Vientiane as a result of Bucky’s consulting for Rhodey (no thank you, not again this side of Christmas. Or any other time, seriously man what the hell…) and it’s another Friday night and Sarah has again carved out her time and cleared space for herself in the kitchen, the warm heart of her home, when she sees the package lying on the kitchen counter. She stares at it for a long moment, approaches it with care before giving herself a mental shake and examines it.

A long length of silk in her favourite shade of a deep bright yellow, wrapped around a heavy bottle of Marula oil and a pair of wide-toothed combs shot through with vibranium.

2. Love’s in Need of Love Today

The water is a rhythmic slap-slap against the dockside, muffled inside of the old warehouse with the shafts of sunlight strafing the worn concrete floor through the holes in the roof. Dust motes spiral lazily like they’re suspended in amber.

With Carlos struck down by a flu that had mysteriously manifested itself after the last day of Mardi Gras, Bucky had offered his services as a dock-hand. Sarah, aware of his sterling efforts in resurrecting the Paul and Darlene was both grateful and wary in equal measure.

‘It’s not my first time working the docks,’ he told her.

Her eyebrows had risen, sceptical, one hand settling on her hip, the other clutching her clipboard against her chest. ‘When did you ever work the docks? Before now,’ she added.

‘For most of the Thirties,’ he said, firm, and his head tilted slightly. ‘Fish changed much since then?’

He had something there and she had made vague noises before standing aside and letting him get on with the necessary but highly unpleasant job of gutting fish. He had turned down her offer to exchange his nice charcoal henley and black jeans for a pair of coveralls in favour of old running shorts and a holey old T-shirt of Carlos’ that’s more hole than shirt. 

And so he’s sitting on an upturned plastic tub in the dim corner of the warehouse, and they’re trading stories and news and gossip as though this is something normal and easy and everyday. And maybe that’s all it is, she thinks; maybe it really is just that simple. 

The radio is tuned to the oldies station and Bucky disputes that designation - most of the songs are new to him. And what would that make the music he grew up with (and still prefers)?

‘Ancient.’

‘Wow. You Wilsons are mean. You’re a mean family.’

She laughs and he grins at her, his hands working smooth and easy. They’ll be done in half the time that Carlos usually takes. Sarah tells him this.

‘Last minute afternoon off - stuff of dreams, huh?’ Scales glitter silvery on his hands, stark against the dark metal. 

Sarah angles herself around so she can look at him over her shoulder. ‘Any plans spring to mind?’

He leans back, the knife swinging casually between his fingers. ‘Well’ -The back of one wrist rubs against his forehead- ‘I reckon I could probably score a hot date with Leon for a chess game.’

It’s become a routine whenever Bucky is down in Delacroix (which is a routine in itself): at least one afternoon a week is spent playing chess with Leon Landry and the pair cheerfully trade old-man grumbles about too-loud music, reality TV and the rising price of utility bills. Sam finds it hilarious and offers it as proof that Bucky has found his natural demographic. Sarah finds it endearing and a sign of good character.

His eyebrows rise slightly in response to her pursed lips. ‘What, not good enough?’

Sarah shrugs one shoulder. ‘No… It’s just I always think getting unexpected time back should be used on something a bit more … frivolous. Like when you win a scratch-card and spend it on something fun like a new nail-polish instead of, I dunno, spark plugs.’

‘Spark plugs?’

It is unexpected, the warmth that creeps into her cheeks. ‘It was the first thing I thought of, okay?’

He holds up a fishy hand. ‘Okay. So, what sort of thing are you going to do?’

Sarah takes a breath, grabs hold of her courage with both hands but doesn’t quite look at him. ‘Why don’t you think of a few suggestions and then we’ll see?’

She applies herself to her soldering iron and the component from the ever-troublesome pump that needs her attention. Her chest hammers hard. It feels an eternity and then she hears the soft shuck-shuck as he resumes work on the fish. There is still a sense of ease but there is something under that in the air, something expectant and waiting like it’s holding its breath.

They continue like this, Sarah sometimes humming along with the music that’s gently wrapped itself around them, contentment running under every moment until this mundane everydayness has become something infinitely precious.

And then the light dims a fraction, a burly figure silhouetted in the door. Sarah looks up and feels her good mood start to evaporate. 

‘Hey there, Sarah. More engine problems?’

‘Engine’s just fine, thanks, Bob.’ Through gritted teeth. She stands, wiping her hands on her jeans as Bob Jenkins eases into the warehouse, his face florid and beading with sweat.

He’s a big man and a rich one, by Delacroix standards at least. One of the few who made a profit during the Blip and has been making one ever since (Mr Liu always mutters darkly about Organised Crime). And once a month, at least, comes down to the marina to try and take Sarah’s business from her. Never outright, never in so many words, but they both know.

A year ago, she came close so many times to agreeing because it would just have been so much easier than trying to keep everything and herself going. This isn’t a year ago. Yet here he is, still with his fake bon homie and too-strong sickly aftershave.

‘Boat’s lookin’ good. I hear you got yourself an awful lot of goodwill wrapped up in that boat.’

‘Something I can help you with?’ The words come out heavy, tired, wearied of this ridiculous dance.

He shrugs. ‘Just being neighbourly.’ 

She feels his eyes wander over her and sees his tongue dart out, wetting his lips, and she feels her stomach roil. Anger buzzes, hot and liquid around her brain and it’s more than distaste, more than outrage that he feels he has the right to look at her that way, it is hate, and she’s never hated anyone in her whole life and that’s just one more reason for her to resent him and his presence here in this space that has become so precious. But she keeps her back straight and her head high and she refuses to let him see it. 

‘Thought with Sam being back and all you might be wanting to take more time for yourself, is all. And your boys, of course. Great kids.’ He laughs, smiles. Neither quite reach his eyes. ‘Great kids.’

She feels her spine stiffen at the mention of her sons and counts ten before she forces a tight smile. ‘I’m good. Thanks for the concern.’

‘Nice little business you’re getting here.’ He shows her his teeth. ‘You’ll be pushing me out in no time.’

‘I’m pretty sure there’s enough custom to go around.’

He scratches the back of his neck, leans easily against a heavy beam. ‘See, now, the thing is…’ The smile he is wearing, smarmy and unconvincing, suddenly takes on a sickly aspect and Sarah realises that Bob is looking past her. She also realises that the rhythmic sound of metal slicing through scales has stopped, that it’s been stopped for some time. She ventures a glance over her shoulder.

In his tattered hand-me-down clothes covered in fish scales and his feet bare, Bucky Barnes should look ridiculous. He doesn’t. He’s wearing an expression of polite interest that’s almost mild. But there’s a sharp bright glitter in his eyes and the set of his shoulders is wide, all hard-edges, muscles taut and ready. The crowbar that had been lying on a nearby table is in his hands and it’s been bent in half.

And this isn’t, she knows with sudden absolute certainty, anywhere near as intimidating as he can look, as he can be. How dangerous he can be. She thinks maybe that should frighten her. It doesn’t.

She turns back to her visitor and asks softly, ‘What’s the thing, Bob?’

His eyes come back to her slow. Fresh sweat is beading his face, rolling down to the too-tight collar of his shirt. His tongue moistens flaccid lips. ‘The uh, th-the thing is… Comp- Competition. Healthy. Real good for business.’

Sarah nods, her arms folded across her chest. She tilts her head back, her chin set.

Bob Jenkins’ eyes flicker pathetically between her and Bucky and then he manages a wavering smile. ‘Real good seeing you, Sarah. Bye now.’

She stays standing, unmoving, until she hears a car door slam and an engine roar to life and then fade with probably illegal haste. And then she turns, slow, to face Bucky. He returns her gaze, both braced and defiant as though waiting for her to chew him out.

‘Sorry if I overstepped,’ he says and he doesn’t sound sorry at all. 

Sarah pulls in a breath, releases it. ‘I’ll let it go - just this once.’ Her eyes go to the abused piece of metal in his hands. ‘You know I actually need that.’

He looks down at it, still for a moment, and then straightens it out like it’s a paperclip. 

And if that isn’t something to dwell on later.

‘I thought of something,’ he says, fast, and there’s a brightness in his eyes that is very, very different than before. ‘For this afternoon.’

‘Oh?’

‘I, uh- There’s that fancy new coffee shop just opened in town-’

Lots of potted plants, exposed brickwork, baristas in tight black t-shirts and lots of tattoos. Shereene and Carlton love it already.

‘Fancy?’

‘I grew up during the Depression,’ he says, face serious, ‘if your coffee cup came with a saucer it was very fancy.’

Her lips twitch. ‘This the place Sam calls hip-’

‘Yes,’ he says quickly, a faint grimace. ‘But it looks … nice. I thought- I thought that might be fun?’

‘Love’s in need of love today,’ Stevie Wonder informs her tinnily over the radio. Dust motes still dancing in amber, everything slow and easy and right.

‘I think it just might be,’ she says.

3. Hour of the Wolf

It is inevitable, as sure as night follows day, as though it’s the actual goddamn law that the one night Sarah wakes with a raging thirst is the one night that she’s forgotten to bring a glass of water up with her. She tries to ignore it, tries to will the moisture into her mouth and throat but when she swallows it feels like she’s choking herself and in the end she has to admit defeat, that there will be no sleep, and so she throws off the bedclothes, shoves her feet into her slippers and would stomp along the landing and down the stairs except that it is stupid-o’clock in the morning and she doesn’t want to wake anyone. She performs a slightly exaggerated tip-toe, placing her feet in all of the spots that she knows don’t creak without needing to think about it and makes her way downstairs.

Everything is swaddled in shadow, the house dark and quiet as though the building itself is at rest. Sarah doesn’t bother with lights. There’s something comforting about padding into the kitchen in the semi-gloom of pre-dawn and finding what she needs without having to look for it. A glass from the cabinet over the counters, the faucet running a few moments until the water runs icy cold. While she waits she studies A.J.’s drawing pinned to the fridge door and smiles: two figures rendered in crayon, one with wings, one with a black-and-gold striped arm. Uncle Sam and Uncle Bucky Save the World printed carefully above their heads. She drinks down one glass, refills it, turns to start back upstairs and-

‘Shit!’

Water slops over the sides of the glass, dribbling down around her fingers. She presses her other hand against her chest, a weirdly melodramatic gesture she thinks, but she can’t help it. Bucky, she tells herself. It’s just Bucky. Sitting on the couch, staring into the middle distance. He must have been there this whole time, she realises, and she hadn’t even noticed. He’s so still, so unblinking, that for a moment she thinks he’s in some sort of waking-trance or maybe he’s even gone and died right there, sitting on her couch, but then she sees the slow rise and fall of his chest. And his eyes are on her.

‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he says, finally, his voice low and roughened.

‘It’s fine,’ she says, and waits for all of her nerve-endings to uncurl and her heart to stop thumping in her throat. Sarah picks her way over to him and it’s almost a physical thing, the wall of misery surrounding him. With her glass of water still clutched in her hand she looks down at him and the lines riven in his face and tries to keep her voice light.

‘You going all Grumpy Cat on us?’

His head tilts back then, looking up at her and there’s a flatness in eyes, in his whole being that she’s never seen before and that she really doesn’t like. ‘I don’t know what that means, Sarah.’

She swallows a breath, feels her scalp prickle and a flare across her cheeks. ‘I know. I’m sorry - it was a stupid thing to say. It’s just the boys think you look like Grumpy Cat when you frown.’

He still looks up at her. Sarah takes some of her water and sits beside him.

‘Nightmare?’

His mouth spasms, bitterness etched into his features. ‘Yeah… You could call it that.’

‘I always knew when Sam had nightmares after Afghanistan,’ she says. ‘He’d take himself out running in the morning-’

‘I did that already.' 

She blinks, looks at him again and, yes, he is wearing the shirt and sweats he’ll go running in now that the air is cooler and it’s still only - she glances at the kitchen clock - 4:32 in the morning and shit-

Maybe she should go and wake Sam. He’s the counsellor. He knows about these things; anything she says now, she knows, anything at all is going to be the wrong thing. Sarah does not go and get Sam. She sits and waits.

'Nightmares...’ He shakes his head, a painful twist to his mouth. 'I wake up and I don't know where I am. I don't know who I am.'

She nods, dumb, tries to imagine the terror of that. Of all of it.

'They hadn’t been so bad lately,’ he says, more to himself, like it’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. ‘And- and never here.’

She studies the lines of his face. ‘This isn’t some sacred space,’ she says, gentle, and he just looks at her.

Oh. Oh…

Disappointment, she can see it in him, in every line of his being, disappointment in himself, like he’s failed at something, as though this is proof that he is less than. The knowledge of it hurts her, a deep ache that rises and fills her head. He has done terrible things, was made to do terrible things. She knows him as a good man, as a kind man, gentle and sweet and careful and he doesn’t deserve this. Even in the dim light where she has to really focus to truly see him, even with his hair mussed and his face riven with tension and his eyes filled with shadows, he is beautiful. She thinks about the shape of his mouth and how it would feel against hers and she thinks about kissing him and kissing him and kissing him-

‘I never used to have nightmares when I was away at college,’ she says. ‘But I always would when I’d come home and mama said it was because I felt safe enough to have them here. I know it’s not the same thing,’ she adds, quick, seeing the incredulity spread across his features. ‘I’m not saying that. I know I can’t - none of us can - imagine what it’s like, what was done to you. I just mean-’ What the hell does she mean? ‘I just mean we know enough of life to get it. You don’t have to do this on your own.’ Her right hand has come to rest, unthinking, on his left. She looks down at them, flesh on metal, and then slides her fingers between his. ‘Funny, I always expect it to be cold - and I’m always surprised when it’s not. You’d think I’d be used to it by now.’

He’s very still, his gaze appraising and still further away from her than she’s seen before. ‘Does it scare you?’

Sarah studies him for a moment, her lips pursing slightly. ‘Do you want me to be scared of it? Scared of you?’

Horror coils itself around him, breath catching; that’s the real nightmare, right there. ’N-no! Of course not!’

‘It’s a prosthetic. Why would I be scared?’ Sarah leans forward slightly, enough that she’s moved into his space and she can feel the heat rising from his body. ‘I am not scared of it. I am not scared of you. Sam is not scared of you; Cass and A.J. are not scared of you.’

His chest shakes, he blinks rapidly. 

‘What do you want?’ The question comes out soft, words barely hovering on the air.

He moistens his lips and there’s a desperate flare in the depths of his clear eyes. ‘I- I don’t want to be on the outside of my life anymore.’

Sarah nods. ‘And what does the inside look like?’

His gaze is fixed on her face; her hand is still linked in his, her fingers flexing gently and then her nails catch under the plates running across the back of his hand and his breath hitches again.

‘Does that really tickle?’

‘Yeah… Kinda.’ A pause that seems to stretch into eternity. ‘Sarah-’ His eyes suddenly flick up and seconds later she hears a faint creak from the floorboards above, the result of small feet walking across the landing.

‘Cass,’ he says, soft.

‘How can you tell?’ Her voice is as soft as his.

‘I can hear the way he walks.’

Sarah tilts her head back. ‘You can hear that?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘What else can you hear?’

His head comes down, eyes fixing on her and they are precise and intent and she feels utterly exposed. ‘I can hear you breathing,’ he says, voice low. ‘I can hear your heartbeat.’

She swallows against a dry throat. Her glass of water is clamped in her hand. She doesn’t move. Another series of creaks from over their heads and then a small voice,

‘Mama?’

Sarah presses her lips together, releases them along with a shaky breath. ‘I should-’

He nods. ‘Yeah.’

She stands, her fingers trailing against his as they disentangle; she can feel his gaze on her still, like a blow between her shoulder blades, as she heads back up the stairs. Her own heartbeat is loud in her ears and to him, she thinks, it must have been deafening. 

4. Anthem

It has taken much debate, much public consultation, many talking heads on news programmes, much polarised outrage on Twitter and, finally, the decision has been made that the memorials (erected at great expense) will be taken down (also at great expense).

It has taken on, of course, grandiose proportions. As the site of the final, triumphant, stand against Thanos (and they’re still arguing about what to call it officially) had taken place in upstate New York, America has taken the lead on the ceremonies. The President will make an address from D.C., linking up by video with heads of state from around the world. Everyone who fought that day has been invited to the ceremony at the defunct Avengers compound.   

It’s a big deal. Both Cass and A.J. have been working on school projects that variously involve studying some of the impacts of the Blip (she still hates that name) or making collages of the Avengers. They’ll be watching the coverage at school.

Sarah, like almost everyone else, is watching it in the church hall. Busy plating up servings of mac-’n-cheese, she glances up at the TV now and then to follow what’s going on. On the day that the memorials will officially start to be de-commissioned, the last one is being uncovered. Those who gave their lives to save the universe. Tony Stark. Natasha Romanov.

Pepper Potts, slim and elegant and still bearing the traces of her grief, takes to the podium, says a few words. She seems a good woman, Sarah thinks. The site, Pepper announces, will be the home of the New Avengers Initiative.

The commentators try to outdo each other in their excitement at this. Voices loud and overbearing. Already prophesying who will form part of the new initiative, like it’s the starting line-up for a football game. They have all of the nuance of a Buzzfeed op-ed.

Sarah makes the rounds with plates, finally snags a chair of her own and sits gratefully, taking the weight off her aching ankles, and digs into her own food. The camera pans across the guests bunched together awkwardly, the best known faces immediately recognisable. Clint Barton, face sombre as though he’d sooner be anywhere else; Bruce Banner, somehow nervous and amiable at the same time. Sad eyed, Sarah thinks.

There’s immediate vocal approval in the hall when the camera finds Sam.

‘-nd Sam Wilson, our very own Captain America!’ The woman’s voice is overly-bright. 

‘He’s created some controversy with his stance on the GRC,’ her male co-host cuts in. ‘But he carries the shield and we can count him a true American hero. We salute you, Cap!’

‘And with him is Sergeant James Barnes. He fought with the original Captain America, didn’t he, Brad?’

‘That’s right, Terri. He was a Howling Commando, the longest POW in history. And now, an Avenger.’

Flanked by Sam on one side and King T’Challa on the other, Bucky is wearing that closed-off look that Sarah has come to recognise; he’d hate every single syllable that has just been uttered, she thinks, and her mouth twitches with affection. A hard finger jabs her in the arm. Miss Landry leans across, disapproval in every line of her weathered face. 

‘Why ain’t those two boys down here where they belong?’

Which had been Bucky’s argument. 

‘Why can’t we just stay here?’

‘Because the battle wasn’t fought here.’

‘You could argue that it was fought everywhere, Sam.’

‘I am not having this conversation again- We’re going!’

‘How about you go and I stay here?’

‘Bucky.’

‘I’m not an Av-’

‘Do not say it, I swear to God!’

‘They’ll be back soon, Miss Landry.’

The old lady humphs, not mollified at all by Sarah’s assurance. ‘I thought all this nonsense’ -she gestures at the TV- ‘was supposed to be about community. They our community, ain’t they?’

‘Yes, Miss Landry,’ Sarah says.

She says humph again and settles back in her chair to get on with not-enjoying the coverage.

A choir is singing a specially composed anthem for the returned. Sarah looks around the hall; the years of it being filled only by absence still feels very real. Carlton Boudreaux is standing in one corner, his arm clamped around Shereene’s shoulders, holding her to him. She leans against his chest, her fingers laced through his. They’re giving it another go and so far both seem content. Shereene is still as immaculate as she ever was but much of her hardness has been replaced by something softer, more gracious; a substance to her that was never there before - or had just never shown itself before. She lost five years of her children’s lives; that would do something to anyone.

The camera has found a black-eyed blue-skinned girl who is observing the proceedings, glowering with suspicion and disdain. Colonel Rhodes beside her, his gaze watchful and he keeps glancing at her with sympathy and evident affection.

Sarah’s phone emits a discreet ping.

Bucky: This ceremony is going on longer than I’ve been alive.

The corners of her mouth quirk. She balances her plate on her knees, fumbles the phone slightly as she types in the reply.

Sarah: Are you really supposed to be at this thing AND texting at the same time?!

Bucky: I can do two things at once. It’s called multitasking.

Sarah: A man who can multitask? You should put that on your dating profile. Women love that.

Sam: STOP PHONE FLIRTING!!

Sam: Especially on the group chat WHERE I CAN SEE IT!!

Bucky: If this is what you think is flirting, it explains a lot about your social life. (You don’t have one. Haha.)

Sam: I will push you off this stand, man.

Bucky: Try it. T’Challa has my back.

Sarah: Will you two fools stop playing with your phones and focus.

A slightly longer pause before a final:

Sam: Bucky started it.

Shaking her head, Sarah shoves her phone back into her pocket, retrieves her fork. The roving camera has come back to Delacroix’s heroes, much to the satisfaction of everyone watching. Sam’s mouth is pinched in that way that Sarah knows means he’s biting the inside of his cheek. He leans across, says something to Bucky and the other man’s face immediately relaxes into laughter, a smile like the sun coming out.

Beside her, Miss Landry shifts in her chair, sucking on her teeth. ‘Mm-mm-mm. That is one fine-looking white boy. Needs feeding up, though,’ she adds and aims a look that can only be described as significant at Sarah.

Sarah nods vaguely, digs into her mac-’n-cheese and settles back to watch.

5. Mood Indigo

The last of the sun has gone, leaving the yard sinking into deep blue shades and swathes of shadow in the corners. Friday evening and Cass and A.J. have been allowed precisely a half-hour of video games (unsupervised) before showers (also unsupervised) ahead of movie night.

That leaves the adults of the house sitting out, enjoying the warm balm of evening air with just enough breeze to carry the scent of rose and magnolia. The tyre swing, much used and in need of a new rope, rotates idly. The padding around the trees has, to Sarah’s joy, been removed. In pride of place on the stretch of grass is a new swing seat. 

Well, new to them.

Bucky had agreed to take it off Leon Landry’s hands in exchange for hauling a tree off his lawn that had come down during the recent storms. Sam had been sceptical about this exchange.

‘How is that not just you doing two favours for Leon?’

Bucky had smiled easily, shrugging. ‘We both get what we want.’

The swing seat had been disassembled, sanded down, repainted, all the rusted metal replaced and the whole thing put back together. New seat cushions acquired from somewhere. Sarah had tested it out, rocking herself gently and her smile sparkling, a flush high on her cheeks. ‘I feel like I should be sipping on a mint julep.’

She isn’t sitting on it tonight, though, but in the large wicker seat that had also arrived as part of some other trade-off and given the same treatment, so now they’re a set. Sam and Bucky have the swing seat and they’ve fallen into an unspoken agreement of the slow rhythm swaying it back and forth. Sarah looks enthroned, regal, with the elaborate loc hairstyle that Shereene had encouraged her to get - a surprising friendship but Sam would have to admit (even if just to himself) that surprising friendships are par for the course these days. Her eyes are bright, glittering, and laughter rises on the air.

‘…so there’s Steve, in his underwear, hanging our clothes in front of the fire and he’s just started fixing up Becky’s stockings and camisole. And that’s the moment my mother walks in with Father O’Malley!’

‘Oh Lord!’

‘Was pretty much what they said,’ Bucky says. ‘Utter chaos. Then Steve got put to bed - my bed, I might add, with my hot water bottle - so he wouldn’t catch cold, I got put on K.P. duty for about a month and Becky got, like, triple confession or something.’

Sarah’s shoulders are shaking. ‘For getting caught in the rain?’

‘Didn’t want us getting any ideas, I guess.’

Beside him, Sam shakes his head. ‘Man. Catholics are weird.’

‘Probably,’ Bucky says, wry. ‘Of course, it was also the Thirties, so that probably had something to do with it.’ A pause. ‘But yeah, also the Catholic thing.’ Bucky takes some of his beer, swaps the bottle to his left hand. ‘I think that a good ninety percent of the trouble I got into as a kid had Steve Rogers involved at some point.’

The Steve from before, the one from Bucky’s youth, the one whose details are listed in all the history books, is someone Sam knows only in theory. Just like the Bucky of Steve’s remembrances, the one he had insisted was still there buried in the Winter Soldier, was a person Sam knew in theory. The Bucky sitting beside him now, the one with the laughter in his eyes and enjoying the last of his beer, is both that man and not him. And sometimes Sam thinks it’s a real shame that Steve didn’t stay around long enough to get to know his friend again.

And other times he thinks that his sister must indulge in some kind of voodoo when no-one’s looking because at that precise moment, as though she’s read Sam’s mind, Sarah asks of Bucky: 

‘Do you ever get mad at him for leaving?’

Sam aims a reproachful glare at her; she raises her eyebrows at him in response. One of the few people who knows what really happened with Steve; there’s been a tacit agreement that they don’t talk about it. Before Sam can apologise for her, Bucky says,

‘Sometimes.’ It’s thoughtful. He frowns at the bottle, picking at the edge of a label. ‘I miss him, don’t get me wrong. I’m grateful for what he did’ -he glances at Sam- ‘what you all did. But sometimes it feels like I got dumped in the twenty-first century with a list of movies and songs that would make everything okay.’ He lets out a long breath. ‘But honestly? A lot of the time I’m glad he’s not here. I don’t think I could have lived with his guilt.’

Sam’s feet still, sending the gentle motion of the swing seat off its rhythm. He studies what he can make out of Bucky’s profile through the gathering gloom.

‘It wasn’t his fault, what happened to me. It wasn’t his fault that he didn’t know about it.’

‘It wasn’t your fault, either,’ Sam says. His throat feels rough. He feels in the long grass at his feet for where he’s put his beer bottle. Bucky’s teeth flash white.

‘I know. But Steve blamed himself, he wanted to make it right… I think he was hoping that I could just be … reset … like nothing had happened. Like Shuri could just flick a switch and bam, there I’d be, the Bucky Barnes he grew up with. I could see it, even in Wakanda, the disappointment when that didn’t happen. I think I tried to pretend that’s how it was and if he had stayed I guess I probably would have gone on trying to pretend. For Steve’s sake.’ A hand runs over his hair, rubbing at the back of his head until it stands up in soft peaks. ‘I dunno, it was just easier to pretend that following a bunch of popular culture references would help, like Steve’s experiences and mine were the same.’ 

Sam’s beer bottle is empty. He still grips it hard between his hands. A question he’s wanted to ask but never has, but here they are in the darkening confessional of Sarah’s backyard and he thinks that if he doesn’t ask it now- ‘Did he ask you to go back with him?’

Scurrying in the undergrowth, night creatures starting to emerge to stake their claim on the world.

‘Yes.’

Sam straightens slightly. ‘Why didn’t-’

‘Steve’s relationship with the past and mine were two different things.’ The words come out faster, harder. ‘He missed all of those years. I didn’t. Can you imagine the conversation? “Oh, this is the year the Beatles are number one? That’s cool. This is also the year I’m in Bogotá shooting three people in the face.” I had no wish to live through all of that again. Knowing what was happening.’ Bucky lets out a long breath, like it’s something that’s been held  in for too long. ‘After that, he didn’t really want to talk about it. For all Steve was great at making his big speeches, he was kinda lousy when it came to actually talking.’ He glances at Sam. ‘You get that. I mean, you could even have it on a T-shirt: “I Fought With Steve Rogers and All I Got Was a Shield and His Crazy Best Friend”.’

‘Hey, man.’ Sam’s words are heavy. ‘You’re not crazy.’

He’s made those types of jokes before but it is never okay when someone else does, even when that someone else is Bucky.

Bucky bumps his fist lightly against Sam’s shoulder, a friendly gesture that they’ve swapped a thousand times by now. This time Sam grabs hold of his wrist before Bucky withdraws, holding him there. There’s a moment of- not resistance but stillness and then slowly Bucky’s fingers unfurl, close around Sam’s shoulder and he can feel the fingers digging into the joint, not enough to hurt - Bucky is always so careful not to hurt - but enough he can feel it, really feel it. He keeps his own hand around Bucky’s wrist, the vibranium plating humming slightly under his fingers.

He still misses Steve. One of the best friends he ever had and a good man. Maybe not a Great Man, not really, not in the way that people who never knew him seem to think, but a good one who tried, always, to do what he thought was the right thing. Mostly. Those years on the run had made them all close in ways they had never thought and all of them, at one time or another, would talk about the people closest to them. Natasha, always the most guarded, would still talk endlessly about Yelena; Wanda, when she was there and not disappearing for one of those rendezvous that they all pretended not to know about, would laugh and cry over childhood pranks with Pietro; Sam would talk about Sarah and sometimes Riley. Steve always and only talked about Bucky. Like the man had been the centre of his world. 

He misses Steve. He feels Bucky’s hand steady on his shoulder. He thinks that if Steve were to appear before them right now he’d probably punch him in the face.

There’s a faint squeak as the swing seat rocks. In her grand wicker chair Sarah has sat very still through it all; Sam sees one of her hands raise and brush against her cheeks.

The porch door bangs open, a small figure silhouetted against the light spilling from the kitchen. 

‘Uncle Bucky!’ Cass, voice far too loud for this conversation and for a Friday night. ‘We’re starting the movie and you’ll miss it. Are you coming?!’

‘I’ll be right there, buddy.’

The door bangs shut. The boys’ adoring trust, the patient gentleness in Bucky’s quiet voice - it clenches around Sam’s heart each and every time. He stands from the seat; Bucky stays in place, gaze fixed in the middle distance and somewhere far away from them. Sarah is already busying herself, gathering glasses and bottles. 

She stoops suddenly, her long braids swinging against Bucky’s shoulder and she murmurs, ‘Grumpy Cat,’ at him, her breath warm on his cheek.

A laugh is shocked out of him. ‘I- I looked that up, I do not look like that!’

Sarah straightens, starts to move away but she’s still angled towards him as she walks. ‘I dunno, a lot of people thought Grumpy Cat was hella cute.’

‘D-did you think he’s cute?’ he calls after her retreating figure, his voice rising by at least one octave.

She laughs over her shoulder at him, the porch-light gleaming against her skin, her smile bright and catching in the depths of her eyes. 

He pushes himself up, reaching out one hand to still the swing and then stretches out his shoulders. He offers Sam a lopsided smile but doesn’t quite meet Sam’s eyes. He starts towards the house and Sam falls into step by his side.

‘You know what the movie is?’

‘Uh…’ Bucky thinks for a moment. ‘Star Wars. The second one.’

Sam nods. And then stops, grabbing hold of Bucky’s arm. ‘Wait, is that the first second one or the other second one?’

A frown builds between dark brows. ‘What?’

Sam rolls his eyes. ‘Is it the original trilogy or from the prequels?’

Bucky stares at him. ‘Does it matter?’

‘It just- Look, do you know if it’s, like, you old or not so old?’

Bucky rolls his eyes. ‘It’s the old one. The Empire one. Can we go in now?’

‘Yeah, okay, it’s just…’ Sam blows out a breath. ‘Look, just so you know, there’s a scene near the end and, uh, well- I mean, it might be…’

‘You mean when they freeze Indiana Jones in a block of something or other?’

The relief is immense. Sam’s shoulders sag. ‘Yes! Wait…’ He looks at him accusingly. ‘Indiana Jones?’

Under the porch-light, Bucky’s face is patient. ‘I’ve got cable, Sam,’ he says, calm. ‘They’re on all the damn time.’

His mouth works for a moment and then he laughs. ‘Does Cass know you’ve seen it?’

Shame-faced, immediately. Sam can almost imagine the little kid in Brooklyn facing up to Father Whatever-it-was and confessing his innocent transgressions. Which is ridiculous in a man over one hundred. ‘He was so excited… I didn’t have the heart to tell him.’

Sam claps his arm around Bucky’s shoulders; keeps it there as they walk up the porch steps and into the house.

Chapter Text

It was the rain that had done it. The sudden opening of the sky and the light drizzle that had laden the air all day turned into a downpour. Rain is one thing; an unexpected soaking is another and even super-soldiers draw the line somewhere. Rain slanting into his eyes, Bucky had run up the steps and shouldered his way through the door before fulling realising where he was. 

It is the smell that catapults him back to the past: flowers, candle wax, incense on the cold air that catches at the back of his throat. His right hand reaches automatically for the font by the door, the holy water icy when his own wet fingers touch his forehead. That’s when he freezes, stilled, then with barely thinking about it completes the motion.

In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.

His hand is shaking when he finishes. He should go. He walks further into the nave, knees bending with the weight of memory and long-forgotten habit before the tabernacle. The red lamp burns over the altar. The presence of God in the house of worship. 

He should go.

He sits in one of the pews. Old wood, satin-smooth from decades of use, as hard and rigidly unyielding as any from his childhood. Grubby stained glass tells the lives of the saints; the statue of the Virgin, blonde and sorrowful in her blue robes; the gaudy paintings marking the Stations of the Cross, a path of suffering and martyrdom. 

Every Sunday. His mother brushing his hair down with water. Communion wafer sticking to the roof of his mouth, the sweet taste of holy wine. Body and blood. Standing before the altar beside Father O’Malley, the massed congregation behind them, filling the censor that would bless and carry the prayers of the faithful. 

Faithful. Faith. He had lost faith long ago, long before the Winter Soldier, before Siberia, even before Azzano. The mud and blood and sheer horrifying terror of war-torn Europe. 

It isn’t a wealthy church. Everything looks a little shabby and over-worn, just like St Jospeh’s had. An air of neglect hangs over it, mingling with the smoke from the guttering votive candles and dying flowers.

A small group of elderly women waiting patiently for their turn in the confessional. Except for the clothes they could be exactly the same knot of old ladies who had been in the tiny run-down parish church with the leaky roof of his boyhood.

Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. 

He almost laughs to himself.

It has been a long, long time since my last confession.

Bucky imagines telling the whole to the priest currently sitting in the box, pouring through the grille the misery, the despair, the torture, the endless killings. Blood enough to fill the rivers of the earth. He could list them all - names, dates, the precise manner of their deaths. A litany all of his very own.

What act of contrition would be deemed appropriate? Becky used to get a decade of the rosary for confessing to vanity. There were not enough rosaries in the world to measure out the horror of what had been done.

The priest would have a nervous breakdown on the spot. No-one should have to hear all of that.

No-one should have to live with all of that.

Holding the plate while Becky took her first Communion and trying not to laugh at her, her dress pristine white and satin bows in her dark curls. Helen, later, grudgingly in the same dress, hating all of the frills and fuss, but her face serious. Reverent. Faith is easy when there is nothing to test it, break it.

He looks at the broken body on the crucifix, the drooping head with its crown of bloody thorns. A saviour sent as a sacrifice.

Oh God, if there is a God, save my soul, if I have a soul.

All the sins of the world placed on one man until even the Holy Father turned his face away, unable to look at his own son covered in sin and shame. Sister Redempta, small and fierce, her Irish brogue still thick on her tongue, had taught him that. Rapped his knuckles with a wooden ruler plenty of times, too. If the Son of God could be made so wretched, what hope had any of them? What hope had he?

Though I speak with the tongue of men and angels-

What was that? Something old and familiar, something he had learned a long time ago. Something he had loved-

Love.

He had been loved. His mother, busy and brusque and it had been a hard kind of loving but she had loved him. Loved all of them. His sisters, he had played with them, teased them, looked after them God, he missed them- Steve. He had loved Steve. They had loved him. And now?

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three-

Sam. Possibly the most annoying person on the planet. He would take a bullet for Sam in a heartbeat, without question. Sarah- Sarah. Her smile. Her eyes. All of her. A.J. and Cass. Shuri - he smiles at the thought of her - Shuri, T’Challa, Ayo and Aneka, Ramonda, Okoye, Imani-

-but the greatest of these-

The weird text messages Yelena sends him, usually in the middle of the night, with some pop culture reference that she probably understands as much as he does. She’s become important to him, that strange half-feral child with her wide green eyes and aching, needing heart. She has her Kate Bishop and he’s glad of that.

-but the greatest of these is love.

He has people he loves. People he likes. Clint. Bruce. Rhodes. The Spider-kid. Thor and Brunnhilde. Scott Lang and the Van Dyne girl. That weird little raccoon thing. Miss Landry, jabbing her finger into his ribs and force-feeding him her jambalaya. Leon. Mr Liu.

After so long of not feeling, it’s a lot of people to love. 

Bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

He had endured. Astonishment that his heart, still beating, is capable of love. Of hope. 

Hope?

Yes. He has hope. Impossible, improbable, but true. He has hope. He wants more than the life he has had. He looks again at the broken saviour. Does he have faith? He had lost faith in the existence of God but he has seen gods, met them, fought beside them. And if that is true, then what else is? He has not prayed-

No. That’s not true. In Wakanda, he had stood on the periphery of the villagers as they had made their observances to Bast, their protector, he had listened as T’Challa talked about their beliefs, about the spiritual plain of his ancestors. He had, in the end, joined in the prayers to the great cat godddess, her fierce benevolence watching over her lands, her people. There had been a peace in that. Contentment.

Thou shalt have no other god before Me.

Maybe they were all the same. Maybe the universe was truly cold, indifferent, but maybe there was something- Maybe prayers said before a worn-down old copper tabernacle in a poor parish church in Brooklyn and prayers said to Bast under the clear Wakandan skies all amounted to the same thing. Maybe the benevolent God he had been raised to venerate didn’t care what he believed in, as long as he believed in something. 

Lady Bast, beloved of the gods, blessed are we in your love, most powerful mother.

Faith. Hope. Love. These three remain.

The downpour has stopped when he leaves the church, the sky still bruised and the air heavy. Rain-slick streets reflecting light from shop windows and passing cars.

Bucky tugs up the zipper on his jacket, plunging his hands into his pockets. It really is a run-down church, the stonework dirty and broken away in places, piles of cardboard and old newspaper banking either side of the steps. A pity, he thinks; it’s a nice little place.

Passing cars send up curtains of spray, fine droplets splashing against the sidewalk, every sound amplified through gurgling water. And through it something so small, so delicate that it would be unnoticed but Bucky’s hearing, heightened and sensitive even when he doesn’t want it to be, catches it. A pitiful mewling, somewhere close by.

The piles of cardboard, somewhere to his right. He burrows through, shifting bundles of sodden paper until he finds the tiny, pathetic scrap of life barely clinging on in its ruined shelter. Soaked, bones showing through the skin, white fur greyed by dirt and neglect. An orphan of the storm, alone and unwanted.

‘Mrow,’ it says, hoarse, curling into the warmth from his hands. A soul in need of saving.

Bucky pulls down the zipper on his jacket again, tucks the kitten safely in this makeshift nest and heads home.

Chapter Text

Sam checks his watch, checks the info being fed in from Redwing, checks his watch again. And tells himself to relax because in all honesty, it really hasn’t been that long and getting from point A to point Anywhere in New York is a massive pain in the ass, especially when point Anywhere is rundown warehouses in one of the few areas that haven’t been reclaimed and gentrified.

But the relief is palpable when he hears the low throbbing purr of a motorbike and even more so when it eases to a stop bare inches from where Sam is crouching and Bucky nods at him.

‘Scenic route?’

Bucky holds a hand palm-up. ‘I was across town - I got here as soon as I could.’ He looks around. ‘Old-school bad-guy hideout, huh? Think they get special rates?’

Sam snorts, edges up against the old packing cases and trashcans when Bucky crouches next to him. Bucky scans the area, taking stock of every entry and exit point available, mapping out routes. Fast, automatic. His eyes narrow, reading the legend along the side of a parked truck at the other end of the alley.

‘Does- does that say “Trust a Bro”?’ Voice dripping with scorn and disbelief.

‘Yeah…’

Bucky turns on Sam accusingly. ‘Who the hell are these clowns?’

‘Clowns,’ Sam says. ‘Okay, not literally but yeah, they’re idiots. Something Clint asked us to follow up.’

He relaxes a fraction, grunts. ‘So much for retiring.’

‘Guys like Clint never retire.’

‘That’ll be something for us to look forward to, then,’ Bucky mutters.

Sam permits himself a small smile, turns his attention back to the warehouse. ‘There’s only six of them-’

‘And you called for back-up?’ The scorn is back. Sam rolls his eyes.

‘We get in, take ‘em down, get out. Cool?’

Bucky nods.

‘Okay. I got intel on the layout. We’ve got-’ He stops, frowning, his head tilting. ‘What was that?’

‘What?’

‘That noise?’

‘What noise?’

Sam leans back from him, eyes narrowing. ‘Mister “I can hear a mouse clear it’s throat”-’

A scowl creases his face. ‘I have never said anything that dumb in my life.’

‘-But you can’t hear- That. That! There it is again.’ The sound, high-pitched, is coming from Bucky’s vicinity and Sam’s edginess bleeds over into a rough concern. ‘Dude, are you malfunctioning? Is there something wrong with your arm?’

Bucky lets out a long, heavy breath down his nose. There’s a headache building behind his eyes. ‘Can we just get in there and do this?’

Sam puts a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. Carefully. ‘Look man, if you’re not okay just tell me- What the fuck?’ He blinks. That isn’t right, that can’t be happening, but yup. Yup. Yes. The front of Bucky’s jacket is … moving.

‘What is that?’

Bucky glances down, back up. ‘It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.’

Crouched in an alley, waiting to ambush the bad guys who are, by all accounts, some of the biggest morons known to organised crime (which is saying something) and now the fun of maybe watching something burst out of Bucky’s chest. His eyes are fixed on the increasingly insistent movement, the leather rippling. ‘I know what happens next - I’ve seen Alien.’

Buck frowns, considering this statement and finding fault. ‘We’ve all seen aliens.’

‘Not the- Alien. The movie Alien-’ Sam braces one hand against the wall, rough brick catching against his fingers. ‘How can you have not seen the movie? Okay, that’s it, as soon as we get back we are watching Alien.’

A shrug, lips pushed out, thinking it over. ‘I’ve met aliens, I don’t feel like I need to see a movie about them.’

Sam leans fully against his patch of wall, incredulity written into every feature. His left leg is starting to get pins and needles. Be a superhero, they said; it will be fun, they said. Fulfilling, they said… ‘That’s like saying you’ve met people so you don’t need to see any mo- We’re watching the goddam movie, man!’

One corner of Bucky’s mouth turns up. ‘You know, you’re so easy sometimes.’ He eases the front of his jacket away from his chest and in the deep V above the zip the chest-burster has finally appeared.

‘Mrow.’

Sam’s eyes travel slowly from the fluffy white face up to Bucky’s. ‘Please tell me that that’s a Wakandan death grenade cunningly disguised as a cat and that you haven’t actually brought a kitten to a gun fight!’

Bucky, only half listening, tickles the creature between its ears, his face soft with affection. ‘In my defence,’ he says, mild, ‘I didn’t know it was a gun fight. You just sent me this address, said “Get here now”, so I got. Across the city. At rush-hour. You’re welcome.’

Sam closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Why did you bring the cat?’

‘I didn’t have time to drop her at home.’ Like this is the most reasonable thing in the world.

Sam shifts slightly, trying to coax the feeling back into his left foot. ‘Okay. Why did you have the cat with you to begin with?’

‘Well…’ He gently plucks at the white ears. ‘I don’t like leaving her alone. She gets nervous.’

Laughter shakes through Sam’s chest; he drops his head for a moment. ‘Okay. Adorable as’ -he gestures to Bucky’s person in its entirety, feline companion included- ‘all this is, we can’t take a cat-’

‘Alpine.’

A sigh. ‘Alpine into a warehouse with a shit-ton of bad guys.’

Bucky’s face creases. ‘Since when is six a shit-ton? And seriously, six? I’ve seen you take out way more-’

‘You don’t have to be here, Barnes!’ The words are terse.

Bucky grins at him, stands and carefully extracts Alpine from the depths of his jacket. With equal care he deposits her on the seat of the motorcycle. Two small paws stretch out to capture his hand. ‘Stay there,’ he says, while she chews on his forefinger, his tone strict. ‘Don’t go running off. Do not pick a fight with bigger cats. We’ll be right back.’

‘Mrow,’ she grumps. But curls herself up, paws tucked under her body.

Sam eases himself up, shaking out his foot and, yup, pins and needles. He hobbles slightly, walking them off. He glances back at the small white form on the seat. ‘No way she’s still there when we get back.’

Bucky shoots him a look that’s almost pitying. ‘She’ll be there.’ And then shrugs out his shoulders, his chin lifting and he moves with the military precision of countless missions. It’s weirdly reassuring, Sam finds, feeling the edge of his own nerves settle.

A little under an hour later and they are walking back towards the alley, Bucky sporting a fresh crop of bruises across his knuckles and Sam with a cut over one eye that’s more annoying than painful.

‘Man, if I never hear the word “Bro”, again…’

Bucky squints at him. ‘You don’t like “bro”, Bro?’

Sam emits a groaning laugh. ‘Do not start.’ He rubs a hand over his head, winces slightly at his fingers hit the lump forming at the back of his skull. ‘Clint was right: those guys are idiots.’

‘Yeah. And it’s really good to hear that whatever the fuck Leviathan is, it's still coming. Just once it would be nice to hear something different. Like, Leviathan got held up. Or, Leviathan’s been and gone already.’

Around the corner. Bucky’s bike stands where they left it and curled on the seat-

Sam shakes his head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

Bucky flashes him a grin. ‘Told ya.’ When they reach the bike he crouches down, runs one finger gently along the curve of Alpine’s back. Blue eyes blink up at him sleepily and she lets out a little mewl of accusation. ‘I know, took longer than we thought. You can blame Redwing.’

‘Hey!’ Sam glares, indignant.

‘Look, just because my pet is better than your pet-’

Sam adjusts the set of the pack snug against his back. ‘Redwing,’ he states with dignity, ‘is not a pet.’

‘No,’ Bucky says slowly. ‘No, it’s not.’ He scoops up Alpine, tucks her back into the safety of his jacket. Her head and one front paw poke out. Sam tries to hide a fond grin and fails.

‘You still crashing at my place?’

‘I wouldn’t want to get between you and your, uh, lady friend there,’ Sam says, ‘she seems the jealous type.’

A divot appears between Bucky’s brows. ‘Are you trying to tell me you don’t like cats?’

‘I like cats.’

‘Then stop being a jerk.’ Bucky settles himself on the bike, turns the engine over. ‘Wanna lift?’

Sam grimaces. ‘The way you ride?’

‘I am very safe in traffic,’ Bucky protests.

‘That’s not how I remember it,’ Sam mutters darkly. Then huffs out a breath and slings one leg over the seat behind Bucky. ‘Not much room back here.’

Bucky glances over his shoulder at him. ‘Not like I can move the seat up.’

Sam rolls his eyes. ‘Jerk.’

The engine roars; the motorbike leaps forward down the alley and at the corner they turn towards the city.

Chapter Text

The oppressive heat is not broken when the rain sets in it just lies beneath it, simmering, like a toothache dull and nagging and angry. Steam rises from the hot earth and twists itself around tree branches, settling in. Everything feels clammy, grubby. The house is not small but with three adults roaming around all day, it seems crowded. By the time the boys get back from school, it seems to have shrunk disproportionately. 

Low clouds almost sitting on the roof, everything outside grey and washed-out. End of the world weather, their mother used to call it and Sarah agrees with the principle. It’s the sort of weather that always leaves her feeling out of sorts, on edge, like she can’t sit quite right in her own skin. Her T-shirt sticks to her back, braids working loose of her ponytail and she can feel the frizz running along her hairline. Eyes dry from staring at her computer screen and one ear hot from having the phone clamped against it for so long. Working down at the marina is hard work, tiring, but it feels productive, it’s honest work and it’s good. A day spent acquiring licenses and insurance is necessary, in the end it will be better for the business and so ultimately better for all of them, but she is still resentful of the time spent on it. The incompetent phone-teller who hands her on to the even more incompetent supervisor and eventually the supercilious manager who knows less than the other two. She wonders if it’s a pre-requisite for employment in local government. Sam would have a lot of highly colourful things to say about that.

At some point in the afternoon, from her station down in the den, she had been vaguely aware of hammering going on somewhere in the house. Each beat seemed to match the vicious little voice in the back of her mind telling  her that all of these people are condescending and downright obstructive just because she’s a woman. 

Sarah rubs a hand roughly across her eyes, then around the back of her neck, still damp and clammy and then shoves her hair irritably back up into an untidy ponytail. She can feel one of the braids working itself loose and swears under her breath. It isn’t a big deal. She can fix it. She just doesn’t want to have to. Her limbs feel heavy as she climbs the stairs, her feet landing hard on each stair and she half-pulls herself up on the bannisters. Her neck and right shoulder are stiff, knotty from having the phone wedged between them and she can feel the tension running down, curving around and under her right shoulder blade. Sam has taken charge of the boys, promising her faithfully that they’ll be fed and watered, sent for baths and ready for bed if her interminable day is still going by the time she should be looking after her babies and making sure that their day ends with them safe and warm and happy and loved.

When she reaches the main body of the house she blinks against the gloom that’s taken up its nightly place in all of the corners and recognises with a further deflating surprise that it is far later than she had realised. Sarah pauses in the hall for a moment, swaying slightly, her head still dizzy from blue-light and staring at columns of figures for too long. The house is quiet, low music bleeding out from the kitchen and the rise and fall of voices. She pads through the living room and stops again. The shelves that Sam has been swearing he’ll put up for near on a month (but being Captain America takes up so much damn time, despite his best intentions) have been constructed, the wood smelling clean and new and yet somehow looking like it’s been there for always. The piles of books have been neatly arranged, spines perfectly aligned, and at a cursory glance that lengthens into a longer stare they seem to have been grouped together by genre.

So, that was the hammering. And something in it, in the unexpected care and precision of it all, makes her eyes prickle and she blinks, rapid. Sarah presses her lips together, concentrates on the breath that she pulls in, holds for a few seconds and then lets out again. Fingers trail across the new shelves, the wood smooth and fine and cool and she gets closer to the kitchen and the sounds resolve themselves: easy strings under Etta James’ crooning vocals; Cass’ eager voice rising and falling. From where she’s standing she can see directly into the kitchen, has a clear view of Cass’ narrow back perched on a stool, his elbows propped on the counter and he’s recounting an incoherent blow-by-blow of his new favourite book.

Opposite him, Bucky is nodding along, hands busy with jars and a loaf of bread that he is evidently turning into sandwiches.

‘…armour, only his armour is gold so it’s all fancy and shiny but Iorek’s armour is sky-iron, which is plenty tough- Hey, do you think sky-iron might be as tough as vibranium?’

‘I dunno, buddy, but let’s say it is.’

‘Okay, cool. So, then, they like fight and-’

Bucky holds up a hand with a blob of peanut butter stuck to the end of one finger. ‘Hold up. Do you want jelly on this or Nutella?’

Cass’ head moves from one side to another. ‘Jelly,’ he pronounces.

Bucky nods, picks up a jar and scrapes his knife around the inside, metal rattling against glass.

‘So, Iofur’s all like GRRRR’ -Cass holds up both hands, fingers flexed like claws- ‘but Iorek just goes RAWWRRR and then they really get into it and they tear each other’s armour off-’

‘Wait, I thought the sky-iron was supposed to be better than gold.’

‘Yeah, but Iofur’s really big, like Hulk big, I guess- Uncle Bucky, would Iron Man have won a fight against Hulk? ‘Cos that might kinda be like Iorek and Iofur?’

‘Uh…’ Bucky raises his hand, notices the peanut butter just in time so he doesn't end up running it through his hair. He licks it off his finger, ruminative. ‘I think Iron Man did beat him once, maybe.’

Sarah rests her head against the doorframe, listening to the ebb and flow of their conversation. Cass’ feet hook themselves around the legs of his stool, his soles pink, looking well-scrubbed; the lines of his body all pushed forward, eager and attentive. ‘I knew it! A.J.! Hey, A.J-’

A gentle hand lands on Cass’ skinny shoulder, stilling him and making him face Bucky again. ‘Indoor voice, remember? And let A.J. sleep.’ Bucky rubs his hands against a kitchen towel. ‘So, what happened with Iorek Byrnison?’

‘Oh, he kills Iofur in the end and he eats his heart-’

Under the glow from the under-counter lighting, Sarah can see Bucky’s eyes widen slightly, his brow creasing. ‘He- Are you sure your mom’s okay with you reading this stuff?’

She can almost hear Cass roll his eyes and her lips twitch. ‘He’s a bear, Uncle Bucky, that’s what they do and we see way worse on that wildlife programme you like.’

He huffs out a laugh, eyes crinkling. ‘Yeah, okay. So, after the heart-eating..? 

‘So, like, Iorek’s king of Svalbard again and he gets rid of the human stuff that Iofur had all around the island.’

Sandwiches get slipped into bags; Bucky studies them for a moment. ‘Okay, we’ve got sandwiches, we’ve got juice - you guys need snacks too, right?’

Cass nods, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘Uh-huh. Twinkies.’

Bucky leans forward heavily, his eyebrows climbing. ‘Twinkies?’

‘Yeah!’

Sarah’s mouth opens automatically because there is no way that she’d give those things house room and if Cass thinks he can wheedle Bucky into giving him money to buy them-

‘And just when I thought you were so cool,’ Bucky says sorrowfully, his head shaking. ‘But now… Twinkies!’

‘Twinkies are so cool!’

‘Nuh-uh.’

‘Yuh-huh!’

Bucky straightens up, folds his arms and gives Cass a long and considering look. ‘You know who doesn’t think Twinkies are cool?’

Cass holds his back straight, staring down the man who until possibly just this second was the coolest person in Cass’ world. ‘Who?’ Defiant.

‘Princess Shuri.’

‘Sh-she doesn’t?’ There’s a wavering uncertainty in the notes of the little boy’s voice.

Bucky nods, his face entirely serious. ‘And she is definitely cool, right?’

‘Yes!’ A reverent breath. 

Unfair, Sarah thinks, to use Cass’ mile-wide crush on the princess against him - but good strategy. Effective.

‘She likes apples. And grapes. Keeps ‘em in her lab. See, that’s why she’s so smart.’

‘Huh…’

Bucky cocks his head. ‘Would you like an apple? And grapes? I can tell Shuri how much you like the same stuff she does next time I talk so her.’

One of Cass’ shoulders hunches up; his feet swing loose. ‘Okay…’

One hand, glinting metal under the fluorescent lighting, reaches across and gives Cass’ arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Okay, two sandwiches, two juices, two very cool snacks. Time you guys were in bed.’

Cass slides off the stool, trails behind Bucky; he tries to mimic Bucky’s walk, that easy, loose-limbed swagger. It’s endearing and slightly heart-rending and Sarah bites down on the inside of her cheek. They disappear into the far side of the room and she can hear Bucky’s quiet voice sliding down into an even lower register. ‘A.J.’ Grouchy murmuring and she can picture A.J. grousing as he wakes, one fist balling into his eye socket. ‘C’mon, buddy.’ More grouching and then Bucky’s theatrical groan.

When he crosses back into her line of vision, Bucky has his right arm curled around Cass. A.J., in his Spider-man pyjamas, is hanging from Bucky’s left arm, feet pedalling the air. They head towards the stairs and Bucky attempts to deposit A.J. on the first one.

‘But-’

‘Not on the stairs,’ Bucky says, firm. The little boy looks up at him mournfully. ‘You could get hurt.’ A.J. continues his puppy-eyes. ‘I could drop you,’ Bucky tells him. This is met with disdain.

‘You never drop anyone!’ His words come out staccato while he juggles himself to keep hold of the vibranium, slippy under his fingers. ‘Like those two ladies you carried out of that building that was falling down and we saw it on TV.’

They had all seen it on TV, in real time, dust clouds obscuring everything, even the sun. She had felt every beat that her heart had skipped and then two figures and she thinks she’ll never get used to seeing them like that. Sam, wings open, soaring high; Bucky running through a hail of falling concrete and steel like it was nothing. Like they were all in some dumb action movie.

‘That was different,’ Bucky says. 'Not on the stairs.’ 

They stare one another down. A.J. slumps his shoulders and lets out an exaggerated sigh, letting go. ‘O-kay…’

He stomps up. Bucky and Cass follow. Floorboards creaking overhead, along the landing, feet moving between bathroom and the boys’ bedroom. Sarah eases herself away from the doorway and walks into the kitchen. Apart from the jars standing on the counter and one jelly-smeared knife, it’s tidy. He always cleans as he goes and at first she had thought it might be a military thing but then remembered that Sam never does that (although that might just be a Sam thing) and eventually Bucky had given one of those half-rueful, half-shy smiles that she’s only ever seen on him when he’s around her and told her it was a having an Irish mother thing.

The radio is still playing soft. She flicks it off and stands, staring out of the window over the sink and her fingers drum against the counter. Something crawling under her skin, twisty and uncomfortable and she can feel her nerves jangling. She’s still standing there when she hears his quiet voice again behind her.

‘Hey. Everything all sorted out?’

He looks cheerful, at ease, when she turns to face him. The hard line of his shoulders loose. Sarah jerks her chin towards the living room. ‘You put up those shelves?’

‘Yeah.’ He scratches the back of his neck. ‘The boys helped.’ His smile widens. ‘They’re getting real good at hammering in nails.’

Sarah nods slowly. ‘Sam was supposed to do it.’

There’s a gap. The one separating them, one either side of the kitchen, and the other one that suddenly opens up between them, sucking all of the ease and pleasure and simple contentment out of the air, a vortex of ill-temper and disconnect. The smile slips down his face, hardening slightly at the edges into something more cautious.

‘Rhodes called. Sam had to deal with-’

‘I asked him to look after the boys. He promised me he’d do that.’

He watches her, eyes moving over her face, trying to parse her words and her meaning and, of course because it’s the way of things and because he’s him and he’s still re-adjusting to the mundane, petty scratchiness of everyday life this becomes something more.

And the worst of it is that it isn’t just him.

‘I know. And he asked me to do it.’

‘He shouldn’t have.’

‘I don’t mind,’ he says, patient. 

Something thick and heavy sits at the back of her throat. ‘That isn’t the point.’

He doesn’t actually take a step back from her but he may as well have. His whole body seems to reel back and she can see the shutters come down behind his eyes, see the way that everything about him that had been soft and easy-going becomes sharp, edgy. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says, coldness lying oppressively on his words. ‘I didn’t mean to overstep-’

Her eyes flash. ‘I didn’t say that. That’s your word, not mine.’

‘I just thought you could- you could all do with the help.’

‘And that’s very nice of you.’ She inclines her head, trying to be gracious- ‘I’m sure you’re having fun playing house here-’

‘Playing house?!’ Incredulous, he stares at her and low as it is it’s still the loudest she’s ever heard him. Her heart hammers behind her ribs and it hurts, it all hurts and she wants it to stop. She keeps going.

‘The boys are crazy about you. It’ll be harder for them when you-’ 

‘When I what?’ A pause that rings with silence. She can feel it pounding in her ears. ‘When I what, Sarah?

‘Leave.’

If she’d punched him right in the chest, she thinks, he probably wouldn’t have felt it. But she sees this, sees the spasm around his mouth and the rise and fall of his breath, fast and shallow. He nods slightly, more to himself, but his eyes are on her and then he turns, swallowed into the shadows lying in the house as though he had never been there at all.

She’s being unreasonable and she knows she’s being unreasonable. And the fact that he won’t yell at her about it is infuriating. It drives her after him, back down the stairs to the den and he’s rolling up his spare T-shirts, stuffing them into the duffle bag he’d brought down.

‘I thought you were staying ’til the end of the week.’ Her arms folded across her chest, protective. A barricade against all the feelings that are threatening to choke her. He glances up at her, away. 

‘Figure it might be better in the morning.’ He grabs a pile of books, squashes them in on top.

‘You’re gonna crease everything like that,’ she says, aware of how ridiculous all of this is. His hands still for a moment; he shakes his head slightly, carries on. 

‘So, you’re just gonna run out on Cass and A.J.?’

He straightens, his mouth a hard line; she had expected to see a glitter in those eyes of his. All she sees is defeat. ‘I’ll tell them before they go to school. Look, Sarah, me being here seems to be causing you some grief so it’s probably best if I just go.’

‘That’s not what-’ She presses the heels of her hands into her eye sockets, pushes down the rough knot forming in her throat. When she swings her arms down her eyes are overly-bright. ‘You- You are incredible.’ It comes out hard, words biting the air. 

He lets out a short breath, hands curling around the book he’s holding, the spine buckling under the pressure. She tries to speak but doesn’t dare. Sarah turns and stomps back up the stairs.

In the kitchen she slumps onto the same stool Cass had occupied and cries hot tears of frustration. Cry is maybe too big a word. They simply overflow, tracking down her cheeks, still more each time she brushes them away. One hand comes to rest against her chest, her fingers finding the fine chain - gold-coloured vibranium. Delicate, elegant. It has a small pendant, the head of Bast worked in black and gold, tiny emerald-green chips for her eyes. Bucky had presented it to her with his usual half-shy smile after he and Sam had got back from Wakanda because you didn’t get to go this time, and she’s wondered about that this time approximately a thousand times each month ever since.

It’s pathetic, she thinks, a grown-ass woman sitting in her own kitchen in the semi-gloom, streaming tears. She should pull herself together. At least put some more lights on.

She sits.

It’s the faintest of creaks that gets her attention and she’s sure that she wouldn’t even had heard that unless he’d wanted her to. Bucky stands in the doorway, stiff. ‘Just came for some water,’ he tells her, crosses to the sink.

Sarah waits for the shush of running water to stop before she says, ‘I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.’ Her voice sounds thick. She rotates slowly on her stool until she’s facing him. He’s perfectly still; her hands grip the counter. ‘I- I was actually paying you a compliment.’

His eyebrows rise. His eyes look flat and pale under the dim lighting.

Sarah lets out a breath that shakes through her chest. ‘I know so many people who act like the world owes them a living, treat everyone mean because that’s how they were treated. Sometimes it’s real bad things that happened to them and I- I used to think, okay, it’s not nice and maybe it’s not right but maybe they’ve got their reasons. But then I- God, if anyone has the right to be mean, it’s you but you’re not. You-’ She gestures helplessly around the kitchen. ‘You fix the shelves and look after my babies and save the damn world and put up with Carlos and- And then sometimes I’ll remember what happened to you and I try to match that with who you are. And it’s incredible to me. You’re incredible. You’re a good person, Bucky.’

He isn’t quite looking at her. The rise and fall of his chest is rapid, his dog-tags glinting as he breathes. ‘I guess I don’t think of myself that way,’ he says finally, and his voice has an added huskiness.

‘Maybe it’s time you started.’

‘Yeah, I’ll get right on that.’

Sarah’s eyebrows go up. Her hands have relaxed. ‘Wait, are you trying to argue with me now that I’m apologising?’

One corner of his mouth turns, something rueful in the lines of his face. ‘Sorry. I used to be better at arguing - you can't be Brooklyn Irish and not be. I just lost the taste for it, along the way.’

She nods, pushes out her lips. ‘I’ve heard you argue plenty with Sam.’

‘Sam doesn’t count,’ he says, immediate, and they share a smile, something small and tentative, resilient despite its current fragility.

Sarah rests her chin in her hands. ‘I didn’t mean to take it out on you. I know it’s no excuse - I’m just having a…’

‘Jonah Day,’ he says.

‘Yeah.’ She nods, then frowns at the familiar chime of the words. ‘Isn’t that from..?’

The rueful quality is back in his face, around his eyes. They glow deep blue. He takes some of his water, places it on the counter between them. ‘My sisters loved those books. I used to have to read them to Katie.’

Sarah tilts her head, sceptical. ‘Had to?’

His gaze drops, lips pushing out and there’s an honest-to-God dimple in one cheek. ‘Well… I guess they’re not bad. For girl books.’

Sarah laughs and for the first time that day feels like she can draw a clear breath. She leans across, flicks on a lamp and the space is filled with hazy golden light.

‘This isn’t a game to me, Sarah,’ he says, sudden, and the quality in his voice catches her at the base of her spine and spreads. ‘I’m not playing.’

She swallows, her mouth dry. She watches him for a moment. ‘You just better know what you’re doing.’

His arms spread along the counter so he’s leaning closer towards her, gaze intent and serious. ‘Yeah. Yeah, I do.’

There’s a beat that stretches out into something longer. In the distance, beyond the cloud, there’s a sound of delicate thunder and she could swear that she feels a breath of cool snake across her skin.

And then Sam walks in, balancing sheafs of paper in one hand and his iPad in the other. One finger hooked through the handle of an empty mug. He stops, looks between them. ‘Am I interrupting?’ Voice all flat and heavy.

Bucky sighs, pushes himself up, takes his empty glass back over to the sink.

‘No,’ Sarah says, and stands. ‘We’re all good.’ She looks at Bucky, a question in her eyes and he nods fractionally, a smile ghosting his mouth.

Sam's eyes still flick between them, a divot deepening his brows and his lips tighten a fraction. He breathes down his nose. ‘Rhodey wants a word,’ he tells Bucky. ‘Told him you’d call him back in five.’

Bucky nods. ‘Right.’ A final glance at Sarah; he heads for the stairs.

Sam places his papers and everything else on the kitchen table. Sarah has started pulling things out of the fridge. Leftover chicken, vegetables. She’s holding a bell pepper in one hand, meditative. He clears his throat. 

‘I know you asked me to look after the boys-’

‘It’s fine, Sam.’ Her voice is steady. She adds tomatoes and a bowl of shrimp to her group of ingredients. She closes the fridge. He leans against it.

‘It’s just, this thing came up-’

‘Sam. I said it’s fine.’ 

‘I mean, if Bucky hadn’t been here, I wouldn’t-’

Sarah rolls her eyes. ‘But he was. He is.’ She pulls out a sharp knife, a chopping board. Sets a pot on the stove to start heating. ‘You gonna talk this to death or you gonna help me chop?’

She flicks on the radio. By the time he’s joined her at the counter Sarah is already humming along under her breath to the music. Sam smiles, picks up a knife and gets to work.

Chapter Text

Sam has a theory that he can make an effective and relatively (emphasis on relatively) comfortable bed out of the stiff row of bright-orange jump-seats on the Lockheed that’s flying them out of Myanmar and back to D.C. 

Bucky thinks that this is in the top three of Dumb-ass Sam Theories (TM) and had let him get on with it, allowing himself precisely one silent smirk when Sam had finally given up and thrown his sleeping bag down on the cabin floor, grumbling about it all the while. He bemoans the lack of a Quinjet and the (still relative) luxuries it had afforded.

‘I’m sure Rhodes will be springing for one any day now,’ Bucky had said.

‘New Avengers Initiative my ass,’ Sam had muttered darkly. Cranky when he’s hungry. Even so, he was asleep within minutes. Sam can sleep anywhere, Bucky has learned. He envies him that sometimes.

It isn’t that Bucky can’t sleep on flights but it’s only when he absolutely can’t stay awake any longer. Everything about a military transport is designed to grate against all of his heightened senses: the combined smell of fuel, grease, hot metal, cold air, the bodies that had inhabited the space before them. Every jolt of the fuselage under turbulence, the constant deafening roar of engines, the low murmur of pilots’ voices-

It is all unrelenting and he does his best to tune it out, focus on the immediacy of what he can touch under his fingers and try to associate pleasant or even just neutral experiences with them. His goddamn super-soldier senses persist in overriding all of that and so he’s resigned himself to transport flights being places of rumination at best rather than relaxation. 

And so, in his section of the cabin, Bucky lies and stares up at the ceiling, fractured ribs catching with every breath. Not so bad they’ll need re-setting. They’ll be well on the way to healed by morning. Or, at least, healing. Still uncomfortable, though. Like the stinging where his shirt is sticking to patches of grazed skin and blood along his right side, not enough blood to be concerned about but enough that he’s aware of it.

When awake, Sam swears that he doesn’t snore and ignores the rational argument of how the hell would you know, you’re asleep? in favour of the more Sam-friendly statement of I’m too cool to snore.

Which is not an argument. He snores, the sound weirdly comforting over all of the other sounds.

Everything in the Lockheed rattles, metal-on-metal, he can feel the vibrations through his whole body, rattling his teeth. His ribs protest and he shifts slightly, arching his back until he can take a breath that doesn’t feel as though a bone is poking its way into his lung.

Their latest mission - superhero shenanigans, Sarah calls them with that tight brightness behind her eyes that means she’s terrified for the both of them but will never admit it - had been triggered by old alien tech with Latverian upscaling that had been sold on to a splinter group of very angry, very militant Flag Smashers. It had ended with a chase through a construction site on the outskirts of Yangon, workers with scared-shitless faces racing through falling scaffolding and brickwork under instructions barked out in Bucky’s patchy Burmese.

Hard work, construction. He remembers the feel of it, deep in muscle and bone, old memories of sites in Brooklyn and sometimes, if you got a fancy gig, even in Manhattan, sitting on top of the world on a girder on one of those fancy buildings that F.D.R. had put up all over the island. After that, when he had been dodging both Hydra and the Steve-Sam combo, he had worked his way across Europe on construction sites. Easy work, then. Few questions, cash in hand. Some things never change.

The jet shudders at it hits turbulence, bolts jangling, the thump-thump-thump of props beating against tumultuous air-

Fingers curl around the slick nylon shell of his sleeping bag and he concentrates on the feel of that, of the sharp lines of the dog-tags lying against his chest.

He had spent just over three months on a site near Lodz, one of the longest periods he’d spent in any one place. The foreman’s name had been Marek, a big man with a wide slightly vapid face and a love of heavy metal. Always some T-shirt with the faded logo of Led Zeppelin or Deep Purple stretched over his considerable beer-belly. A decent man. Not a strictly honest one, perhaps, but okay. He’d let Bucky sleep in the portacabin for a good few weeks, officially as the nightwatchman after the site had shut down for the day but more because he had nowhere else to go and Marek had taken pity on him.

Pity aided by Bucky’s ability to pick up a half-tonne load without breaking a sweat and it’s only now, when he really thinks about it, he realises how strange it was that no-one had questioned it at the time.

Just like when he could keep up with Steve all around Europe no-one had questioned it, including him. After a lifetime spent slowing down so that Steve could match pace with him it had never occurred to him that now he shouldn’t be able to keep up with Captain Fucking America. Adrenaline, if he’d ever really thought about it and he hadn’t, not really. Maybe he hadn’t really wanted to. That his hearing was more sensitive, that he could see a target, take a shot that no-one else could-

He’d been a sniper. He’d just thought (when he’d not-thought thought about it) that he was getting better at it. That in war time when everything was a kind of insanity anyway, when his skinny, stunted best friend was suddenly a super-soldier and a man peeled off his face to show a livid red skeleton face beneath, the fact that all of his senses had gone into overdrive didn’t seem so remarkable.

What a goddamn fucking idiot.

But then they all had been. When he’d caught a bullet in the shoulder and had been perfectly fine two days later Dum Dum Dugan had just laughed, clapped him on the back and said, ‘Now there’s a guy with hair on his chest.’ And they’d moved out to take down their next target.

He hadn’t remembered any of that in Lodz. He’d seen the faces, read the accounts in the museum in D.C. when he had stood and seen a name that had once belonged to him and hadn’t recognised it; had seen his own face in a line with other men and they were all held up as heroes. He had not known any of them. The memories had come later. 

But on a building site in Poland he had felt something that afterwards he would identify as camaraderie, something that had felt familiar even though he couldn’t name it.

They hadn’t been friends, exactly, the other men. But they had talked to him, made jokes that he didn’t understand, laughed and encouraged him to laugh with them. He must have seemed very strange to them, he thinks, but they hadn’t seemed to mind. When they had realised that he could drink more vodka than all of them combined and still safely be the designated driver they had taken him out, placed bets on him in impromptu drinking contests and he had gone along with it, complying but because he’d wanted to, not because he had to.

He had never said much, and that was okay. Maybe because he didn’t talk they did, filling in the silence. Telling him about their homes and their families and wives and girlfriends. Maybe that was why Mikolaj, a bear-like nineteen year-old with a slow, sweet smile had one night shown him a picture of his girlfriend except that his girlfriend was actually his boyfriend. He had stared anxiously at Bucky- Jakub, they had called him. Kuba, when they were feeling extra-friendly.

‘You won’t tell anyone, Kuba?’

Once, long ago, he might have felt shock. He would have been taught to feel disgust with those vague, ill-defined warnings against things that were unnatural. 

Torture is unnatural. Taking someone’s memories, everything that had made them who they were, turning them into a weapon is unnatural. Loving someone…

‘I won’t tell anyone, Mikolajek. I promise.’

Mikolaj had smiled, bought them more beers and then confided in him about his best friend growing up and how they ended up more than best friends. There was a sweetness in that story, an innocence, that he had liked.

It had been only a few weeks after that, when the site had shut down for the day and he was making up a bed on the broken-down old couch in the portacabin; Marek still out front, checking over the materials and specs for the following day - a Mötley Crüe T-shirt on that day, brand new and everything. And a shiny black car, all gleaming paintwork and chrome, had pulled into the lot. A man with a weasel face and a shit-eating grin that didn’t reach his cold eyes had stepped out. Expensive coat. Cashmere, probably, it had that sort of sheen.

There had been an inevitability about the whole situation and through the cabin’s grimy window Bucky had watched the tense lines across Marek’s shoulders when the newcomer had approached him, the way Marek’s eyes had flicked about the lot, searching and desperate and hopeless. The slump of his shoulders in defeat. Bucky had felt a spear of anger, cold and sharp and focused slowly climbing up his spine and wrapping itself around the base of his skull and he had moved without thinking about it. 

Cashmere-Coat had organised crime practically stamped on him, the stench of it rising from him, right down to the weird thin little pony tail at the nape of his neck and the prison tats across the knuckles of his right hand. A street-punk made good. 

Marek’s eyes had been focused, miserably, on the ground by this point, absorbing the words like protection and payment and then the words had stopped because a metallic hand had closed around the man’s throat, holding him a foot in the air and Bucky had told him, as though it were really needed to be said, that all I have to do is squeeze.

Without the long sleeves and gloves that he usually wore to try and hide the most obvious part of his inhuman-ness, the silver arm with its red star had been on full display, the prosthetic whirring audibly as it recalibrated under the man’s weight. He had shaken him, the way a terrier shakes a rat and the tough guy in the expensive clothes had pissed himself in fear, a dark stain spreading across the front of his trousers.

And he had seen Marek’s face, slack and wide-eyed and uncomprehending and staring at him. Anger flickered out, shame crawling into its place, slimy and heavy and sickening. Bucky had released the man, body falling crumpled in the dust and dragging in wheezing breaths.

And moved on before Marek had had a chance to pull himself together and say something, anything, to him. Bucharest had been the next stop. He had liked Bucharest, liked the people, liked the language, the full softness of it in his mouth.

In the cabin of an American military transport at 30,000 feet, Bucky thinks about that old construction site and Marek and what might have happened if he’d stayed on instead of running. Maybe Marek would have bought him a beer at the cheap bar on the corner and they would have carried on as normal. Maybe not. He hopes that they’ve been okay. He hopes Mikolaj and his boyfriend are still happy.  

The rhythm of Sam’s breathing changes, shortening, more shallow. A cough. ‘Hey, you awake?’

Bucky says nothing. Sam will go back to sleep soon. He always sleeps on flights.

‘I can hear you computing over there.’

‘Fine, yes, I’m awake.’ Grouchy. Even to his own ears he sounds grouchy. Huh. Maybe Sam has a point about that.

‘You okay?’

‘I’m okay, Sam.’ It comes out softer, almost lost under the steady low roar of the engines and the rattle of straps and metal tubing from the jump-seats either side of them. Bucky squints into the dark. ‘Are you hungry?’

He can hear Sam moving, the muttered curse under his breath as he rolls onto something hard or sharp or both, the rustle of a sleeping bag and thin blankets. ‘What?’

‘You get cranky when you’re hungry,’ Bucky tells him. He’s told him this a thousand times before. Sam still remains a snack-free zone, which is just irresponsible, juvenile and dumb. Not necessarily in that order. ‘I think I’ve got a protein bar in my bag.’

‘Then you eat it,’ Sam grumps. ‘And when’s the last time you ate?’

Bucky thinks about it. ‘Uh…’

‘God, I knew it!’ More rustling. He can make out the dark silhouette that is Sam sitting up. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you, man?’

‘Do you kiss your nephews with that mouth?’ He feels nettled. Attacked. And for no good reason whatsoever. The sleeping bag feels heavy, oppressive. He unzips it, throws back the now-loose corner. ‘I can go without eating.’

‘I know that.’ Sam’s voice is low, controlled. ‘I know you can. It doesn’t mean you should. It doesn’t mean you have to.’

Bucky raises a questioning hand that he knows Sam can’t see. ‘Why are you making such a big deal about this?’ He sucks in as much of a sudden breath as he can when the something sharp doubles down on its efforts and nearly punches a hole in his lung. Well, shit; maybe those ribs really are broken after all. Bucky shifts position until the pressure lessens.

‘How’re your ribs?’ Pointed. Bucky groans. Sam and his goddamn empathy.

‘They’re fine.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘They’re fine, Sam,’ he says, voice heavy. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Yeah, ‘cos jumping out of a moving car and landing flat on your back on a pile of bricks makes no-nevermind to you.’ There’s heat there now. He can feel Sam frowning.

‘How-’

‘I saw the footage. Redwing, remember?’

Right. Redwing. He knew there’s a reason he hates that damn thing. Always poking its nose in where it doesn’t belong. Or whatever. There’s a pause and when Sam speaks again his voice is still weighted but it’s held down by softness and something else wrapped around it that Bucky can’t quite name. Not yet.

‘You can’t keep taking hits like that, Buck.’

He sighs. ‘I’ve always taken hits like that.’

The wrong thing to say. Sam’s body jolts, a hand slamming down on the metal floor beside him. ‘That doesn’t make it okay!’

Bucky makes himself sound reasonable. It’s simple, really, if he can make Sam understand. It’s not that big of a deal. ‘I can take the hits. You can’t. I take them so you don’t have to.’

‘You’re my partner, not my human fucking shield!’ Sam scootches back down into his sleeping bag, giving his intractable military-issue inflatable pillow a good punching. ‘Go ahead, though, get yourself killed - what the hell am I supposed to do then?’

Bucky shrugs his left shoulder, still not sure why he’s adding the physical theatrics to this conversation. Habit, probably. He imagines that Sam somehow knows it’s all happening. ‘I dunno, be sad for like five minutes?’

There’s a huffed out breath dripping with cynicism. ‘Five minutes, yeah, for a whole goddamn five minutes I’ll be sad for the motherfucking asshole too goddamn stubborn to stop his own ass getting killed.’ His voice is rising, something rough and cracking at the edges. Bucky feels his throat constrict, like a hand closing around it - ironic, he thinks, vaguely - and blinks hard, staring up at the ceiling with its wiring and annoying little array of blinking lights. Words press up through the thickness in his throat, coming out with a solid gentleness that still surprises him sometimes. 

‘I’m still right here, Sam.’

‘That’s the point, man.’ Sam’s voice is still surprisingly frayed, stretched out over nerves and exhaustion and emotion. ‘You’re supposed to be right here. You have people who give a shit about what happens to you. You can’t keep going on like that doesn’t matter.’

‘It matters.’ It does. He means it. It matters more than the whole world to him.

‘Then act like it.’ For a moment, he sounds exactly like Sarah. When he continues, he sounds like Sam again. It’s easy to forget sometimes just how alike those two really are. ‘Look, I get it - kind of.’ Another pause. ‘Can I ask you something?’

Bucky closes his eyes, hands bunching together. ‘You can ask. Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.’

‘Fair enough. The whole “I can go without eating; I can go without sleeping” - is that because you don’t think you’re worth more than that?’

His stomach flips. All of those queasy half-formed thoughts that he prefers not to take out and have a real good look at. Over seventy years of not being worth more than that- Somehow it’s Ayo he sees and her intractable mix of sympathy and impatience when he would tell her I’m not worth all of this.

‘I don’t know.’

And on the other side of the hold, in the dark, he can hear something in Sam break.

‘Okay. Okay, that’s- Not great. Other people think you are. Quite a lot of ‘em.’

‘I know.’ Thready. His throat aches holding it all in.

Sam takes his time after that, settling into his sleeping-bag. Bucky can imagine the serious lines of his face, the frown fixed between his brows. ‘But it isn’t enough that other people care about you, you have to care about you. You have to care enough to still be standing at the end of the day. And I don’t just mean on a mission. You need to be kind to yourself. You need to practice self-love.’

‘Self-’ Bucky’s head comes up and he squints into the dark, incredulity colouring his voice. ‘Self-love?’

‘Yes. Self-love. Take the time to do the things that are good for you. That make you feel good.’

Eyes widening and with a mild sense of growing hysteria, Bucky stares across the cabin while Sam warms to his theme, his counsellor’s voice in full flight: ‘Work on your motorbike, go to a baseball game. Play with your cat.’

Bucky flops down again. ‘Oh. That’s a relief.’ After a moment he adds conversationally, ‘Y’know, when I was growing up self-love was the thing that made you go blind and you had to tell in confession.’

A moment’s bewildered silence and then it’s explosive, the choking snort that comes from Sam’s side of the aircraft. ‘Man, that is not- Did you think I was-’ He starts to laugh and it's infectious. The laughter is worth the pain flaring across Bucky’s ribs. Duller than it was. Healing. The splintery thing poking into his lung is less pokey.

‘I think the phrase you want is self-care,’ Bucky tells him.

‘It’s the same thing.’

‘It’s really not.’

Another snort. ‘Go to sleep.’

Bucky zips himself back into his sleeping bag, pillows his head on his arms crossed behind his head, grins up at the winking lights. The plating in his left hand shifts slightly, yielding under the pressure and the faintest electromagnetic hum is oddly comforting. And it is entirely Sam’s own fault, a train of thought sparked by his … unfortunate … turn of phrase, but all that Bucky can think about now is Sarah, her long hair spilling over her shoulders, her eyes bright and sparkling and her wide beautiful smile.

Chapter Text

1.

Nothing of Sam’s previous visits to Wakanda had really prepared him for this one. Then it had always been covert: they had been welcomed, yes, treated with kindness, respect, and the relief of it had been almost painful but with it there was always the awareness that as soon as they left it would be back to hiding, running, to long cold nights, bad food, little sleep. Even the last time had been in readiness for a war that still seems like it was only last year but in reality it has been over five. Sam still forgets that sometimes and every time when he remembers, when he’s confronted by all of the life that he’s missed, it catches him in the stomach and for a moment he forgets to breathe until his lungs burn and he finds himself again.

That was then. 

Now they are collected by a sleek, silent car that pulls up outside of Bucky’s apartment block and its driver is equally sleek and silent on the short drive to a field just beyond the city limits. Not an airfield, just a field. A small herd of cows watches them with mild bovine interest, chewing ruminatively on the lush grass, ears flicking against the annoyance of flies buzzing about their heads, their lowing rumbling on the air like a commentary. They are deposited in the field and just when Sam is readying to spit out what the hell, man the air shimmers and the elegant curved lines of a Royal Talon Fighter materialise themselves a few feet away.

Sam had had lines prepared. Jokes. The shit he would shoot with Bucky (or at him, to be honest) about being the token white dude in Wakanda; maybe he just checked the box for them on some kind of diversity drive; it was be nice to a honky week-

Somehow none of it had made it to his lips or even filtered into his mind from that moment, or really it was from the moment when the ramp at the rear of the jet had lowered and the tall proud figure in her red tunic and gleaming armour had stood, her head raised high above the silver rings around her neck and-

There’s a clash of metal on metal, rhythmic, as Ayo repeatedly slams the base of her spear against the floor when she sees them. It marks the time as they approach, a military tattoo that carries them to the edge of the ramp where it lies against the grass. When Sam glances at Bucky he expects to see lines of tension in every aspect of the man’s body and is ready to be there and instead sees a quirk around Bucky’s lips and something clear and softening in his gaze. When they reach level with Ayo she stills and everything about her is as taut and sculpted and feline as the figure of Bast that watches over Birnin Zana. Dark eyes glinting, watchful and she turns their full force on Bucky. There’s a warmth in those ferocious depths.

‘Kuhle ukubona wena, Ingcuka Emhlope. Ipakethe ilindele ukubuya komntakwabo.’

He smiles fully, nods and his voice is soft. ‘Ndiyavuya ukubona nawe, Ayo. Kwaye kuhle ukuba ubuyele ekhaya.’ The words come out formally, a carefulness in their pronunciation that lacks the fluid ease of Ayo’s address. But she looks pleased, in as much as Sam can parse the meanings of the infinitesimal flickers that cross her face. Bucky turns slightly, a hand extending to include Sam in the exchange. ‘You know Sam.’

Ayo inclines her head, gracious. ‘Captain Wilson.’

He nods, feeling his spine stiffen under that dark gaze and suppresses the impulse to salute. ‘Captain Ayo. Nice to see you again.’ 

The acknowledgement of the greeting is a scant brush of long eyelashes sweeping across her cheeks and then she turns her attention back to Bucky, her head tilting back a fraction and she studies him. He holds himself straight and still under her scrutiny, everything so silent that Sam could swear he can actually hear the imperceptible electromagnetic hum of Bucky’s arm. Ayo nods, once. ‘You look well,’ she pronounces.

It’s an almost-laugh that rushes on his breath. ‘Between you and Shuri I couldn’t be anything else.’

‘Yes. Do not forget that,’ she adds, severe.

‘I know. I won’t.’

She moves fractionally, a slight inclination of her head for them to pass into the jet’s interior. Bucky rests his fingers lightly on hers that are still curled about her spear as he goes.

It’s a long flight to Wakanda, even in the Talon Fighter and Sam spends a disproportionate amount of time exploring the jet and working out the odds of Rhodes or S.W.O.R.D (and he’s still not sure what that even is) or just about anyone being willing to stump up for something similar for them.

‘No bet,’ Bucky states flatly when Sam runs it by him.

‘Yeah,’ he says sadly, but it’s good to have ambitions. The last time he was on a private jet was, oh right, Zemo and he indulges himself in a quiet sneer at the thought of the Bond-villain aristocrat sitting in a nice little cell in maximum security in the middle of the ocean while he, Sam Wilson of Delacroix, LA, is happily lounging in a huge leather seat that’s nicer than any piece of furniture in his apartment. Or all of his furniture put together. He had relaxed into it as soon as he had sat down, letting out a sigh of such deep contentment it was almost unseemly.

The jet is luxurious but its comforts are human not frivolous, everything designed for practicality and ease. Not the flashiness of an oligarch nor even a  common or garden billionaire and he tries to imagine Ayo’s face if anyone accused her of ever having been flashy in her whole life. The walls are panelled with intricate symbols and Sam takes a selfie in front of them that he sends to the boys.

Mere seconds and they reply, including Bucky in the response and when Bucky’s phone pings he reads the message, glances up at Sam and his eyes crinkle a fraction. Nose back in his book. He still drags endless paperbacks with him wherever they go, stubbornly refusing any kind of Kindle because it just isn’t the same. He likes the feel of paper between his fingers and the smell. Sam likes to tease him about it but the fact is he gets it. He gets that it’s familiar and grounding. And the fact that Bucky is such an avid and voracious reader - and there’s absolutely no reason why he shouldn’t be, but still - is just one of those things that gets to him every time, like a sucker-punch that he should see coming but somehow never does. 

And it’s not like Bucky is asking anyone else to carry the damn things for him.

He’s been reading pretty much since they took off, stopping now and then to stare out of the window or ask Sam about some pop culture reference that Cass made two weeks ago and he’d forgotten about until now. Sam had been expecting Bucky to be skittish, nervy, had somehow thought that Bucky asking him along had been a sort of asking-without-asking for moral support in the wake of the whole Zemo - yup, him again, Goddamnit - thing but the closer they get to Wakanda the calmer Bucky seems. When he does check the time, drum his fingers lightly on the butter-soft leather of his own seat it is impatience rather than anxiety.

The phones ping again.

Sarah: The boys showed me the picture. Nice work for some! I spent the day swapping out the fuel pump on the boat.

It’s accompanied by a photo of Sarah, her clothes and hands and even her face smeared with oily black streaks and she wears an expression of exaggerated despair. 

They look across at each other and the guilt and horror in Bucky’s face is so comical that Sam almost laughs.

Sam: You’ve just given Bionic Man a heart attack. He’s gonna parachute out and swim back to make up for it.

Sarah: That’s why Bucky’s forgiven - at least he cares. 

Sam: How is it HE’S always the one who gets forgiven?!

Bucky: Because I’m adorable. And I understand how to do proper penance.

Sarah: FACTS!!

Sam glares at him at across the cabin; Bucky returns a look of his patented wide-eyed innocence and goes back to his book. There had been a wistfulness in Sarah’s face when Sam had told her about the trip, her fingers stroking the piece of expensive-looking silky yellow fabric she’s taken to wrapping around her hair at night. He had felt guilty, felt it twisting around in his gut and settling like a stone. They go all around the world, landing in exotic locations on a pretty regular basis now but they mainly get to see the concrete bunkers and abandoned warehouses, military installations and industrial parks and on an international scale all of those places are pretty much interchangeable. They may as well be in Jersey (which they have been and Bucky hadn’t stopped whining because as a native Brooklynite just breathing the air offended all of his sensibilities). This is different, this is an indulgence and for all Sam is always on other people - okay, mainly Sarah and the Staring Machine - to do things to care for themselves, he usually overlooks doing that for himself. Sarah had rolled her eyes at him then and made that exact point. 

‘Go. Enjoy yourselves. I want you to - you need this. You both need this.’

Which was endearing and also all kinds of annoying and she didn’t have to put quite so much emphasis on the both part while smoothing out the folds of her fancy hair wrap thing with a soft little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

There’s a change in the quality of light, shadows lengthening across the cabin floor and Bucky’s head turns, eyes squinting a little as he looks out of the window again. ‘We’re almost there.’

They descend through cloud and then vast stretches of green race beneath, flashes of lakes, deeper greens of valleys and then mountains rear up and just when it seems they’re about to fly right into them and Sam remembers this from last time and he had hated it then, too the whole landscape shivers and the gleaming skyscrapers of Birnin Zana open up beneath them, golden in the evening sun.

He hears a low sigh beside him, an exhalation of breath that carries the sound of warmth and relief and peace and when Sam looks across at Bucky the expression in his friend’s face is something that catches him right at the back of his heart. It’s like a yearning that has been met, a much-needed blessing that has been bestowed; it’s the same look he gets at the bottom step of Sarah’s house, the moment he always takes before setting his dusty boots on her porch. A moment’s grace. 

Bucky sees Sam’s gaze and he smiles.

2.

Nothing in previous visits had prepared Sam for the full royal welcome once they had been escorted to the palace, either. Yes, he had been there before but that had been just passing through and most of the time they had been in the village on the outskirts of the city where Bucky had been living, which was exactly the reason why they had been there in the first place. Although, it was Natasha who had wanted to stay in the village rather than in the offered rooms in the palace; Steve hadn’t said much, had gone along with it, looking pale and twitchy, a tightness around his mouth and his eyes shuttered and now that Sam thinks about it that was all pretty weird; not the Natasha thing but the Steve thing.  

And he doesn’t have much time to think about it now because after they had landed at the palace and been swept through corridors guarded by more ferocious warriors who all either stamped heavy-booted feet or crashed spears to the ground or slammed fists into their chests he was informed by Ayo with her usual gravity that they were about to meet the Wakandan queen. 

On previous visits Queen Ramonda had been either in retreat marking the loss of her husband or out of the city carrying out her duties in the more remote parts of the kingdom. And in theory meeting her should not be any more- well, not intimidating than meeting T’Challa but then it’s difficult to be intimidated by someone that you’ve first fought against and then alongside and in between have befriended but somehow the mother of a king is just a lot more impressive than the king. Somehow. 

It doesn’t help that when Sam ventures a question about Ramonda, Bucky gets this … look … on his face that Sam still can’t decipher but makes him feel that in general he should make sure that his fingernails are clean, and he’s washed behind his ears and that he has come correct.

The semi-circular room is large and the floor-to-ceiling windows flood the space with golden light and give a near-panoramic view of the city. They are almost eye-to-eye with the massive figure of Bast, which is enough intimidation for one day, Sam thinks, but then this day isn’t done with them yet.

The doors at the far end of the room fling open and before they have fully finished their trajectory a group sweeps in.

T’Challa and Shuri he knows. The king is serious, unflappable, as always; the princess’ face is pinched as though she’s biting her cheeks and trying not to laugh. Neither of them hold his attention because in front of them is-

Well.

Her silvered braids in their ornate arrangement crown her head, flowing robes drifting gossamer-like as she moves and her face is proud and fierce and beautiful.

And if someone told Sam that this was the goddess Bast come to life he might just believe them (he knows the God of Thunder, after all, so why not?).

The entourage stops a few feet of them and there is silence that seems to stretch into forever as the queen observes them, her face with its high cheekbones and deep dark eyes appraising them. Bucky steps towards her and his head lowers and for a moment there is an edginess, contrition running through all of his lines and the husky undertow in his voice.

‘Ubekekile uMama.’

Ramonda’s head tilts back slightly, her gaze taking him in. And then she takes two steps towards him, takes his face between gentle hands and her forehead rests against his.

‘Wamkelekile aksaya, Qaqambile.’ She pulls back, her hands still framing the lines of his jaw. ‘Or perhaps I should change that to Rolihlahla.’

The flush spreads across the back of his neck, red and prickling like a burn. ‘It would be deserved,’ he says, voice thick. 

Her look then is fond, tenderness as she brushes the comma of hair away from his forehead and tells him that he looks well but needs to eat, and that mistakes are still mistakes but that mistakes can still be forgiven; she keeps one hand resting on his shoulder.

Bucky takes a step back and his eyes are over-bright, the colour at the points of his cheeks still high and he gestures vaguely towards Sam. ‘I don’t think you’ve met Sam Wilson, ngumhlobo wam olungileyo, uMama.’

And the full force of Ramonda’s dark gaze is turned on Sam; he summons up a smile and keeps his spine straight. He’s met royalty. He’s met gods. He can count them as friends. He can, 100-per-cent, deal with this. He clears his throat and meets those dark eyes with their sweep of dark lashes and amused glint.

‘Hi- I mean hello, I’m Captain Wil- ‘Merica. Cap- Sam Wilson, Captain America. Y’all can call m- Please, call me Sam.’

Ramonda inclines her head graciously.

‘You will both be our guests for dinner, of course,’ she states, her voice rich as gold and there is no opportunity to answer before she turns away with her usual regal stateliness, gliding towards the doors. Written across her face, and unseen to her guests, is the same mixture of amused mischief that her daughter usually wears.

‘Smooth,’ Bucky remarks under his breath.

‘C’mon, man,’ Sam mutters, cheeks reddening. 

When the doors slide closed again, Shuri doubles over with the laughter that she can no longer contain, her eyes bright. ‘Oh, Bast help us! That-’ She pulls in a ragged breath. ‘That was worse than when T’Challa sees Nakia!’

‘Hayi!’ The young king aims a reproachful look at his sister that has precisely no effect. She grins at him and twines both of her arms around Bucky’s right, her head just about able to rest on his shoulder. 

Bucky presses a kiss against the gleaming braids and for a moment he wraps his left arm around her, holding her to him, his cheek against the top of her head. He releases her. She keeps her hold on him, looking up at him happily and then disentangles herself just enough that she can snag her brother into her orbit, centering herself between them.

‘Do you think that Captain America will make a good step-father for us?’ she asks, all wide eyes and a gurgle of laughter in her throat.

‘Shuri…’ T’Challa’s gaze is warning; there is a betraying twitch about his lips.

‘I think you’d be lucky to have him,’ Bucky says, deadpan.

‘I hate you.’ Sam tilts his head, looking at Bucky’s profile along his eyes. ‘Just how many names you got in Wakanda, anyhow?’

‘Enough to make him one of us,’ T’Challa says and his tone is mild but his meaning is very clear.

Which is fair enough, Sam thinks. 

Chapter Text

1.

Hydra labs had always been much of a muchness. Metal, concrete, more metal, all in nice shades of grimy grey. Harsh white lights aimed right in his eyes, everything behind them shadowed. No windows, no air. No real flair for design. You would never get a coffee-table book of Great Hydra Labs of the World. Lots of sharp pointy things, they’d been really big on those, too, usually things they’d like to stick into him when they weren’t putting his head in a clamp and a rubber guard in his mouth (if they were being nice about it) and firing enough electricity through his skull that it would feel like his blood was on fire.

Shuri’s lab is none of those things. Airy. All of that natural light spilling in through the huge windows. Everything sleek and clean and shining. No-one screaming. Although, the one doing the screaming had usually been him so just that in itself is a nice change.

It’s still a lab, though, and he still feels that instinctive twist of fear in his gut when he sees metal trays with sharp instruments but Ayo had been right behind him and he hadn’t really wanted to knock her down if he’d tried to run.

He’d pasted on a sickly smile instead and waited for the tremor in his right hand to stop because he knows that he is being ridiculous. He still feels like an idiot over the way he feels about some things. Which is also sort of ridiculous. 

By the time he’s sitting on the edge of one of the treatment tables and Shuri is bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet talking at him, he’s too busy watching her with a fond smile to worry about the dumb-ass way his banged-up brain works these days. The thin leather strips worked into her braids are red, matching the bright sneakers she’s wearing. She never stops moving, always hands fluttering or stepping from one foot to the other, fingers dancing over the screen of her sleek tablet.

Ayo stands to one side, the steady considering presence in this scene. Off-duty so she’s wearing a long black dress that’s almost as severe in its lines as her armour. Gold hoops sitting snug under her ears, gold banding her neck and wrists. 

He tunes back in to what Shuri is saying, blinks at the squiggly blue lines of the hologram she’s pointing at and when she looks at him expectantly he nods and says, ‘Yeah, uh, sounds great.’

Her lips press together, a hint of petulance at the edges. ‘You were not listening!’

‘Of course I was.’

She jabs a finger at the hologram. Nails painted bright yellow. She likes bright. ‘Then tell me what this is.’

He sneaks a glance at Ayo; she is impassive and offers no help whatsoever. He examines the squiggles again. ‘Uh…’

Shuri mutters something under her breath that he knows are some of the very worst words Xhosa has to offer and were some of the very first ones he learned from the old men in the village, usually yelled at the goats when they were staring down from half-way up a tree. Goats can be real little shits, sometimes. Her fingers pinch together across the tablet’s screen and the hologram shifts, the lines racing inwards and he’s been looking at a detail in the rendering of his left arm.

‘Oh.’

‘Give me your kimoyo beads,’ she orders.

He hands them over meekly. She holds them up, examines them, then places one in the palm of his left hand and starts tapping on her screen again. The bead emits a pulsing blue light. He can feel faint vibrations ripple through the plating, a warm feeling spreading into his bones where the vibranium implants are bonded.

And then it stops and she hands him back his other bead and puts away her tablet. He raises his eyebrows. ‘That’s it?’

She pulls in a breath that goes down so deep she actually rises on her toes. ‘If you had been listening-’  

He laughs. ‘Okay, okay.’ She probably could have just e-mailed him the programme and he could have done it himself. Which isn’t the point. The beads are a familiar weight in his pocket. Ayo has unbent enough that she’s actually leaning, ever so slightly, against the table. She must be tired, he thinks. 

‘Show me your phone,’ is Shuri’s next order and he hesitates slightly at this one and is about to protest that he has plenty of people he talks to regularly, thanks, and then thinks that that’s probably not why she wants it. He pulls it out of his jeans pocket and passes it across. Shuri turns it over in her hands, looking at it as though she isn’t entirely certain what it is. And then holds it between the thumb and forefinger of her right hand and presents it to Ayo.

‘Please call the museum and tell them that they have a new exhibit: the first cellphone ever invented, generously donated by James Barnes.’

‘Hey-’ He tries to make a grab for it and it disappears in the curl of Ayo’s long fingers. ‘I need that,’ Bucky objects. And it’s unfair - it’s a nice phone. His formative years were characterised by having the females in his life gang up on him. Now he still has that, plus Sam. Which is so much worse.

‘This one is better,’ Shuri says and holds out a thin slab of shiny black.

‘But-’

Her eyes roll and she waves a hand at him. ‘All of your contacts and information are on it already.’

Of course.

‘Oh!’ Eyes wide now. She stands directly in front of him. ‘Captain Wilson should be here for this, but I will explain it to him later and show him how it works.’ Her fingers hover above the seam of his shoulder, close but not touching him and the old question is in her eyes. Bucky nods a fraction and then her fingers gently press against three points. ‘There is an override. If you are hurt or if something happens to your arm and you cannot remove it yourself, someone else can do it for you. You should have known this before,’ she adds, accusing, and he blinks at her stupidly, the thing in his chest cracking so hard that the relief of it hurts and he feels like crying. ‘But you went away to America and you did not come back.’

A letter from home that the girls had written, each adding a few paragraphs and Katie’s clumsy letters at the bottom please come home and the ink blotchy and stained with tears. 

He blinks, looks at Ayo and she is very straight again. ‘I was angry,’ she says. And he nods.

‘Fair enough.’

Shuri looks between them, frowning. ‘What? What happened?’

He wants to say nothing, he wants to say it’s over now, it doesn’t matter but he owes her more than this. And she must see it in his face because she tries to turn away suddenly but he catches hold of her wrists, fingers loose and gentle but insistent, aware of the fragile bones beneath his grip. ‘Shuri.’

Her eyes when she meets his are wary and their is something in their depths that asks him don’t do this but if they are going to recover from this, if they are really going to move on then he has to make her understand, all of it, and it has to be now.

‘I know I hurt you. And I’m so sorry for that.’

Her gaze drops along with the lightness in her face and there is something mulish about her mouth, the lines setting hard. She raises her chin again and  she pulls one hand from his grasp, fingers fluttering in the air in a gesture he’s come to know so well. ‘I know. I read the letter you sent to T’Challa.’

Agonising over the words. Weeks later and then an unexpected summoning to a coffee shop in Harlem where T’Challa sat at a rough-hewn wooden table with an expensive coffee looking in theory like every other young man in the place and yet simultaneously wholly unlike them in every conceivable way. 

‘She’s very upset,’ T’Challa had told him, in response to his query about Shuri and there was something indulgent in his tone, something that said, she’s just a kid, something protective the same way that Bucky had been about his baby sisters and in his mind they are still all his baby sisters even though-

The line of her jaw is sharp, eyes glittering. ‘You are learning to use your head again. It doesn’t always work properly.’

And it would be easy, so very easy to buy into that lie and let them all pretend that that is why. He’d do anything rather than have this conversation but he’s the one who started this and he has to finish it because he knows, deep down, that if he doesn’t it will end up being- not the end of all of it, but something changed in a way that will leave a taint on everything. Use your words, that’s what Sarah always says to the boys when they’re working through something and it still feels strange hearing that because kids getting to have their say wasn’t something welcomed when he was their age and he is so out of time in so very many ways- 

‘That’s as may be but that’s not the reason,’ he says, firm. ‘I knew what I was doing. I made a decision-’

She twists away and he catches hold of her again, makes her face him. She takes her lower lip between her teeth, white points biting into the skin, her gaze obstinately fixed past him. ‘I made a decision.’

She looks at him then. ‘And was it worth it?’ Her eyes glitter, words spitting hard.

There’s a pause in this push and pull and he tries to ignore the heightening of everything around him, of the throbbing in his ears from a heartbeat that is not his own and the tearing breath in the rapid rise and fall of Shuri’s narrow chest. He fans out his fingers, releasing her and she stands close to him and the wounds that she’s tried so hard to conceal are visceral.

‘It was necessary. I think. It wasn’t a good decision, maybe it wasn’t the right one. I don’t know. It was what I thought was needed at the time; the only play we had. And I knew what the consequences would be. I was prepared for that.’

She shows her teeth, sucking in the air. ‘You were prepared? To lose everything we had given you?’

He closes his eyes. That horrible, nasty little truth that had been sitting in the back of his mind for so long, festering and spreading until everything was coloured by it. He doesn’t want to; he knows he has to say it.

‘I-’

Say it.

This will break everything.

Say it.

‘I didn’t think I’d live to see the consequences, so it didn’t matter all that much. I didn’t matter.’

There’s a sound in the back of her throat, something breathless and harsh like he’s hit her. He looks at Ayo and her face is stony, eyes as flat and dark as obsidian and oh yeah, he’ll be hearing more about this later.

Shuri’s face quivers, her slender frame not big enough for the violence of the pain and anger that slams through her. ‘And you think that doesn’t hurt? That’s worse!’

He feels the tear in his chest and a thousand images dance across his eyes, dark curls falling into blue eyes, childish hands slipping into his, buying ice-cream cones and steering small bodies vibrating with excitement through the rides at Coney Island, sunglasses pushed up into blonde hair- no, none of his sisters had had blonde hair. That came later. His sisters. Shuri isn’t his sister. Right. He blinks and the world is still tilting, everything whiting out at the edges of his vision. Shuri. He knows her, concentrates on her. So tiny and fragile and strong and overwhelming in her love. ’I’m sorry.’

Tears spill down her cheeks, studding her eyelashes. Her hands ball at her sides like she doesn’t know what to do with them, fingers digging into the flesh of her palms. He wishes she’d hit him rather than this; it would be far less painful for all of them.

Good job fixing it, Barnes, he thinks. Really great work.

There is no easy fix and he can’t just make this better. He puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her down beside him and she sits, head bowed. She sniffs, brushing the back of her hand across her nose and he reminds himself how young she is. He takes her hand, holding it between both of his.

‘You know, my sisters were your age when I went away. I wasn’t much older. I thought I’d get to go back to them and my life and-’ His throat is so tight he can barely get the words out and he knows, he knows he shouldn’t put this on her but now that it’s started, that he’s started it, he can’t stop and fuck but the not saying it hurts even more. ‘I’m trying to get used to being the person I am now and it’s hard, Shuri, it’s so fucking hard and I don’t know if I can do it, and I know I shouldn’t talk to you like this-’

Her arms are tight around him, holding on and he buries his face in the long sleek braids of her hair and she cries into the crook of his neck, her tears hot against his skin. When it’s over she stays curled into him, snuffling into the wet patch around the collar of his T-shirt. He looks over her head at Ayo. Her eyes are bright and her hands are laced tightly together.

‘You’re a fool, James Barnes,’ she says, something brittle in her voice, ready to shatter.

He nods. ‘Yeah. I know.’

‘Rolihlahla,’ Shuri grumbles into his chest. Her head presses against the seam where metal meets flesh; it feels strange, the different sensations jarring against each other. He laughs slightly, holds her closer and presses a kiss against her hair.

She sits up, red-eyed and her flickering smile is watery. ‘And now I have to re-do all of my make-up.’

He moves the long braids away from her shoulder, smoothing them down. ‘You look great without it,’ he tells her and she makes a sour face at him. 

‘Ugh. Men.’

She slides off the table, takes herself across to her desk and starts going through the drawers, pulling out face wipes and brushes and little round pots. She keeps her back to them.

Ayo’s fingers have uncurled; she lays her hands palm-down flat on the table. ‘You could have said something before,’ she says. ‘You could have told us.’

His throat feels raw like the memory of all those screams, from before, has lodged there. He shakes his head. ‘I couldn’t.’

Her mouth twists and she looks away from him. He can see the flutter of her lashes as she blinks. When she looks back she is steady again. He manages a small smile. ‘It’s getting better, though.’ 

She nods.

When Shuri comes back to them her eyes are still puffy behind the new layers of mascara and kohl liner. Something rosy dusting across the sweep of her cheekbones. She laces her fingers through his.

He takes her chin carefully in his hand, vibranium humming against her skin. ‘You know I love you, kiddo.’

She sniffs, fans her free hand in front of her eyes. ‘Don’t make me cry again. I have just repaired the damage from last time.’

Not irreparable. Not broken. A little roughed-up, a little prickly at the edges still but it’s okay. They’ll be okay.

‘All right. How about we go to Step Town and you help me pick out a gift for a friend?’

He’ll regret this, he knows. He knows it from the sudden gleam in her dark eyes.

‘What sort of friend?’

‘A … friendly one.’

She strikes him sharply on his right arm. ‘If you want my help you have to tell me more. Who is it? What is their name?’

‘You don’t need to know that.’

She sucks in a breath, cheeks dimpling with the mischievous joy of realisation. ‘Is it a woman?’

‘Shuri…’ A groan. Regret, already.

‘I would say it is the sister of Captain Wilson,’ Ayo pronounces in her usual grave, final way. 

‘What-’ he starts and really means how?! and it’s the closest to a smirk that he has ever seen across Ayo’s proud features.

Shuri is talking at him again, listing an increasingly inappropriate set of suggestions.

‘I just- Just something simple,’ he says helplessly. Shuri hangs onto his arm, bouncing and breathless. She isn’t listening. Ayo falls in beside them. 

They’re still bickering about it when they reach Step Town. 

It feels good.

2.

The village is just as Bucky remembers it, right down to the bad-tempered goat with the milky eye tethered to a post that acts as the unofficial sentinel, all loud bleats and attitude. And attempted bites. When it isn’t trying to kick you. Or butt you.

‘Yeah, look out for him,’ Bucky tells Sam serenely approximately three seconds after Sam leaps out of its way, narrowly avoiding being impaled on a pair of sharp horns.

‘What is that, your spirit animal?’ Sam snipes, sending a death glare to the goat. And Bucky. In no particular order.

It’s punishingly hot, humidity lying low and Sam is starting to understand how Bucky feels so at home in Louisiana - it’s as bad here as the bayou in summer.

‘That’s what you get for visiting in the rainy season,’ Bucky tells him. Like this was in any way Sam’s choice, like this whole trip was his idea. Man but it’s hot…

Still, there’s something nothing short of adorable watching Bucky Barnes being swamped by a group of village children. The cries of Ingcuka Emhlope! had gone up as he had been close enough for them to see who it was and it’s so like being down at the dockside back in Delacroix that Sam feels his eyes sting and there’s a sense of unreality, everything untethering for a moment before knitting itself back together. The shape of life somehow a little different than it was before. The smaller children swarm up Bucky’s body, hanging off his arm, wanting rides on his shoulders. The older ones chatter away, pointing at things and they are bright and eager

Some of the faces are older than Bucky remembers, those who lived through those missing five years, and it comes as a shock seeing them, still, but there’s something sweet and poignant in the way that they all re-figure themselves, the changes in circumstances not really changing them. 

One figure, a little quieter than the others, had sidled up to him, waiting until Bucky noticed him. Mandla, just a kid when he’d first met him, all long gangly limbs and big eyes. A quiet voice and funny, whimsical dreams that he’d confide to Bucky when they’d be spreading out the feed for the goats. He’s a young man now with a baby of his own. Notumato. She’s a tiny thing and Mandla holds her tenderly, face glowing with pride.

His eyes find Sam. He’s been adopted by a group of village women, the elders, and he’s probably trying out the bits of Xhosa that Bucky has managed to teach him (barely managed because Sam is terrible at languages and Bucky doesn’t have the patience to teach anything to anyone unless they are under the age of sixteen).

Sam will be okay for a few minutes. He can practice his flirting skills, which are clearly in dire need of improvement.

Bucky wanders towards the little cluster of huts where his own had been. Garden patch out front, well tended. Someone else’s home now and for a second he amuses himself with the thought of it being a sort of holiday home for banged-up superheroes when they’re a little more broken than is usual or bearable.

Wait, though, someone else had made that joke or something like it. Sam, maybe? No. Not Sam, it’s too cynical for Sam even at his grouchiest. It sounds more like someone whose life has been about as charmed as his own-

Oh. Of course. Natasha. Wet hair pushed back after her dip in the lake, drying off in the sun, water droplets glinting against her skin, caught in her eyelashes and you think they’d be open to a little enclave of worn-down Avengers and ex-assassins?

An ironic twist to her lips and a little sigh behind her words.

Hi, Natasha. I’m sorry about what happened to you. About everything that happened to you.

She’d made a point of spending time with him when she was in Wakanda and now, when things aren’t quite as fuzzy around the edges (and in the middle, if he’s honest) of his mind as they were then he appreciates it more. She’d been kind in a way he hadn’t expected, not the way that Sam is kind - sort of rough and practical and kicking him when he needs kicking - but just- Decent. 

Funny, people don’t really use that word any more, not in the way he means it and he can’t really explain it but it’s that. What she had been. To him, at least.

Bright laughter on the air, children running about. Hey, Natasha, you remember when we played tag with the village kids? Most of them are all grown up now. You wouldn’t recognise them.

They’d run at her when she’d walked down towards the village, fascinated by her blonde hair and green eyes, making her crouch down so that they could investigate her. 

She’s wearing a blue cotton dress, bright patterns and a little too big for her that she’s borrowed from Nakia. Skirt a bit too long and the top a bit too loose but it’s cooler, more comfortable than the tight combat clothes she had arrived in.

The children have pulled her into a game of tag across the stretch of grass between the goat-pens and the first line of huts. Bare feet slim and pale and fast and her body twisting, avoiding the hard little hands that keep grabbing at her and missing. Trying to keep the pair of cheap sunglasses she’d picked up from the market balanced on her nose. The kids shriek, high on laughter and breathing in the fresh air and the joy of playing with their new-found friend.

Bucky sits on a hay bale, picking at the twine binding it, watching them. It’s nice just watching them, it feels simple and indulgent and peaceful in ways he hasn’t felt in- Jesus, since forever. He’s forgotten what this feels like; it’s almost frightening, feeling like this again. Natasha waves over to him and he waves back. She avoids another kid and waves again, beckoning him over.

‘Come on!’

He smiles, shakes his head. ‘Nah, they’re used to chasing me.’

She runs then, arms pumping, full pelt right at him and almost skids to a halt and grabs hold of his hand. ‘If I have to, you have to. I’m outnumbered.’ All her strength braced against his and it’s more a show of resistance. He actually laughs. And she’s laughing when she drags him across the grass, shrugging one of the straps of her borrowed dress back up her shoulder. Mandla, usually so quiet, hollers with triumph and launches himself at Bucky.

Bucky spreads out his one arm, bending low and growling at them like he really is the wolf they call him and they scatter, screaming happily. Bodies colliding. He lands his hand on Natasha’s shoulder. ‘You’re It.’

‘Traitor!’ 

She chases him and she’s fast but he’s faster until he gets tackled to the ground by three of the children - and why is it the girls are always the worst? -  and flops onto his back, groaning theatrically while they giggle and Natasha kneels beside his head, tagging him repeatedly.

‘That’s cheating’, he says. 

She shrugs, glasses sliding down her nose. ‘You’re just a sore loser.’

‘This game is not over!’

And she really does let out a little shriek, like she’s a child herself, and it’s probably just for their benefit, but she still does and he laughs at her for it. And he’s almost got her again when he sees another blur of motion on the periphery of his vision.

‘Shit, the goats!’

And the damn creatures jump everywhere, scattering, and they’re falling over goats and goat-kids and human kids and their own feet and Natasha’s laughing so hard she’s almost crying and she acts as his left arm, helping him round up his four-footed charges before they round up the children and he sends them off to get water or fruit or really anything so that he can collapse quietly on the grass under a tree. Natasha lands beside him, pushes her sunglasses up into her hair. Breath hitching and her cheeks flushed with the heat and the exertion.

‘I thought that was supposed to tire them out.’

‘They never tire out,’ he says, and he’s almost wheezing, because he may be a super-soldier but he’s also about a thousand years old and he can still get exhausted. Kids are exhausting. All the kinds of kids. It’s a good kind of exhausting.

‘You gonna stay here for good?’

He stares up at the leaves stirring above their heads, green deep against the bright sky. ‘I dunno. I haven’t really- I don’t think about what comes next all that much.’

She nods, leans back on her hands. ‘Nice little hut, your own goat-’

He groans. Her eyes crinkle. Leaf-green. Dress the same colour as the sky.

‘Some nice Wakandan lady to settle down with.’

Bucky huffs out a breath of laughter. ‘I don’t think a hundred-year old, one-armed guy with a half-fried brain is high on anyone’s list.’

Her lips push out for a moment, considering. ‘I think there’s probably a very niche dating app for that somewhere.’

He nods, thinks about this carefully. Then: ‘What’s a dating app?’

Her head tilts and there are two different things in the depths of her eyes and before he can quite catch at either of them they’re gone again and she laughs, ironic. ‘A previously undiscovered circle of hell.’

‘Oh.’

Her head tilts the other way, thoughtful, and she approaches this with care. ‘Who’s Helen?’

He stops breathing. He must do. That’s why his chest is suddenly on fire. ‘Wh- what?’

Caution. She keeps her voice soft. ‘Just before. You called me Helen.’

The world tilts a little and he breathes in and out, roughened. Shit. Shit. ‘I, uh-’

Fuck.

‘Sh-she was my sister. My middle sister. You- You must’ve reminded me of her.’

Natasha doesn’t look like Helen. Does she? What does Helen look like? Did Helen. Did. What did she look like? He can’t remember. When he tries to go near those memories it leaves him feeling sick and shaky, like he’s pressed down hard on a bruise that covers his whole body.

‘I’m sorry.’

She shakes her head. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry for.’

He draws his knees up to his chest, rests his forehead against them. Long moments. ‘You don’t look like her,’ he says, voice muffled. He lifts his head, looks at her again. ‘It’s- I think it was the game. Helen is- was a kinda tomboy.’

Natasha’s lips quirk. ‘So was I, a bit. Bet her hair wasn’t dyed blue like mine was, though.’

‘Probably not,’ he agrees. He can feel something unspooling; he catches hold of it, pulls it back in. ‘We were all pretty close. We had to be.’ He frowns. Bits and pieces floating through. ‘The girls formed a club.’

On the fire escape, with a piece of tatty paper taped up.

‘Barnes Club - No Boys Allowed.’

Natasha’s eyes widen slightly. ‘Rude!’

‘Right?’ He laughs, lets himself relax. ‘Thanks.’

‘I didn’t do anything.’

‘Yeah, you- You did.’

She watches him, considering, and then pushes herself up onto her knees. She moves slowly, leaning closer and one hand rests on his right shoulder, steadying herself, her weight against him. She’s caught the sun across her cheekbones and the tip of her nose and the points of her shoulders. She kisses his cheek, her lips chapped and dry. She smells of sun-warmed skin and something not floral exactly, but heading in that direction.

When she sits back he blinks at her and he can feel a burn across the back of his neck.

She leans back on her hands again, face up to the leaves and the sky and the sun and there’s contentment in the breath she lets out, eyes fluttering closed.

A voice pierces through, high-pitched and petulant. Bucky looks across. Sisipho, standing with her hands on her hips; a whole eight years old and bossy with it. She repeats her demands, glaring at both of them.

Natasha is still lounging, but her eyes are open. ‘What now?’

Bucky is laughing slightly. ‘First, they’ve decided on your nickname: Ingonyamakazi. It means Lioness.’

One corner of her mouth turns up. ‘I’ve been called worse.’

‘It’s because they think you’re fierce, which is a compliment, but mainly it’s your hair. They’ve never seen anyone with blonde hair in real life before.’

She laughs. ‘That’s kinda sweet. Wait, what’s the other thing?’

‘Now they want to play football,’ he says, solemn. ‘Not the American kind, the other one.’

Her head shakes. ‘Oh no. No. I don’t know how to play.’

Bucky grins at her and this time he’s the one who grabs hold of her hand and pulls her up with him. ‘Now’s your chance to learn.’

For a long time after that, when he had thought about Helen, she had worn Natasha’s face. He’d been weirdly okay with that. Other memories that got entangled had a way of freaking him out, they were upsetting, but this was- This was okay.

He remembers Helen now, remembers all of them. Becky, plastering the walls above her bed with all of her favourite movie stars. Tying a bright scarf around her hair and singing along when Carmen Miranda came on the radio. God, she’d loved Carmen Miranda. Dancing in the kitchen. But Helen was the one who’d got a job modelling at a local department store. Tall and willowy beside Becky’s petite curves. Dark haired, they had all been dark haired.

Helen had taken the job for the extra money to take evening classes in book-keeping. ‘So I can get a better job and that will be more money and you won’t have to work so hard, Buck,’ she’d told him, serious and slightly goggly-eyed because she’d been coming down with a cold and he’d given her precisely one finger of the scotch they kept for medicinal purposes and it had gone straight to her head.

Teaching Katie to dance by having her stand on his feet. Her joyous shrieks when he’d taught her the Lindy Hop.

He should tell Sam about Natasha and the goats and the football. She’d been pretty good at it, in the end. Scored a goal and everything. Sam would probably get a real kick out of that. He knows Sam misses her. 

Hey, Natasha. You made some things okay for me. Better. I think I kind of miss you, too. I hope you found your enclave somewhere.

Maybe it’s selfish to miss her when he hadn’t really known her. 

Maybe Sam has a thousand memories of Natasha like that. Maybe he’d tell Sam and he’d laugh a bit and then launch into a Natasha story of his own. Which is fine. 

He’ll definitely tell Sam. One day. Just not yet, maybe. It’s nice having that memory of her. Something untainted and sweet that’s just his.

He’s found the tree. Still standing, still dappling the ground with filtered light and shade. Green leaves bright, blue above. 

Bye, Natasha.

3.

Bucky’s been wandering for a while, seemingly aimlessly, but he’s lived here before so it’s not like he’s going to get lost or anything. Sam keeps an eye on him, anyhow. Just now and then. 

His shirt’s sticking to his back, skin clammy; he pulls at the collar of his shirt, trying to create his own little personal microclimate. It’s cooler towards the edge of the lake and he drifts towards it. The light bounces off the face the water, glittering hard and he squints against it. A faint breeze, wavelets against the shoreline. It’s pleasant, the stillness filling his head the way it would beside the lake next to the old Avengers compound. He used to walk there a lot too, sometimes with Wanda when she was still just a scared kid, missing her brother, and she was so grateful for any kind of affection. 

She’s been through a lot. They’ve all been through a lot, but still. He should call her.

There’s a goat-pen even down here. He continues hugging the curve of the lake, heads towards it. There’s just a few of the creatures trotting around, one even lying down with its legs tucked under itself. They’re kinda cute, he thinks.

‘Hey,’ he tells them. They look at him. Unimpressed. One of them twists itself around to scratch at its ear with one of its back-feet.

Maybe they’re all Bucky Spirt Animals - they all have the same death-glare. He looks around, locates Bucky standing under a tree. Deep thoughts, from the look of it.

Sam stares across the water. He hasn’t been back to the old compound since-

Well, there’s no reason to go back but there’s a lot of memories there and a lot of them are good ones. Some of them are really hard and he isn’t sure, still, just how he feels about the last one.

Standing by the lake and the weight of the shield in his hands. Bucky had given him a smile, encouraging, after they had watched Steve walk away. Bruce peering through thick glasses and slowly realising that the frail but still upright figure is his friend. Was his friend.

They had both watched him go and Bucky had put his hand on Sam’s shoulder and it had been nice, a gesture of- not solidarity, exactly, maybe, but support and Sam had appreciated that but maybe Bucky had done it just as much to anchor himself because what was left of his world was falling apart- Jeez, you fucking think so, Sam? You think?

And right then, right at that precise moment, he turned to Bucky and said, ‘I don’t think I can do it, man. I shouldn’t keep this.’ 

And the smile had slipped from Bucky’s face and something had fractured in the fragile friendship that was forming. 

He had looked at Bucky and maybe he had expected a pep talk, something inspirational (while posing stoically), empty words that would prop him up. Expecting him to just understand the reasons why when their experiences of the world were so different in every possible way. He had held the shield between his two hands, gripping so hard that the edges had bitten into flesh and he had wanted nothing more than to throw the thing away but it always came back, like it was a fucking boomerang, and it dragged at his hands and his heart and his brain and yeah, a really great decision to look to Bucky to keep him standing when the man was barely holding himself together and then resenting him, slightly (okay, a lot), for not being there. When Bucky’s tenuous sense of self was slipping between his fingers and the shadows behind his eyes came to the fore.

Sam had gone back down to Louisiana, getting to know his nephews, getting to grips with Sarah and the edges she had grown in the intervening years, helping her wear them back down again to something more familiar.

Bucky had disappeared to Brooklyn with vague promises to stay in touch and he had, at first, responded to Sam’s sporadic texts - admittedly, sometimes days passing before he would reply (Sorry, forgot to reply; Sorry, not in a good place right now; Sorry) and then the stilted messages slowed and then stopped until he had turned up again wearing a new shade of bitterness that sat ill on him and it had touched a deep raw anger in Sam that went all the way back to those numbing moments on the lakeshore and weathered hands that had weighed him down with that goddamn legacy. Well-intentioned but so badly thought-through. Steve’s unshakeable conviction in the rightness of his decisions, no matter what anyone else thought. Or felt. He wonders if it had ever occurred to Steve how close they would come to destroying themselves before they had pulled each other out of the morass of confusion and fear. He had tasted fear on his tongue every time he had looked at the shield, run his fingers across its cool vibranium curve.

Vibranium, warmed from the Wakandan sun, bumps against his shoulder. Solid, reassuring. He bumps back.

‘It’s going to rain,’ Bucky says, leaning against the wooden crossbeam running around the goat pen. One of the creatures trots over, rears up until hooves hit wood, gold eyes slitty and calculating and it grumbles in Bucky’s face. He scratches it absently behind one ear.

‘Rain? What, you feel that in your knee or something? ‘Cos that would be absolutely the most old man thing you’ve ever said.’

‘No, jerk,’ he says and he doesn’t quite catch the upward turn of his lips in time. He gives in, smiles. His eyes are soft and clear. ‘You can smell it.’

Sam’s face creases. ‘Smell it?’

Bucky has found bits of straw, starts feeding them to the goat. It munches, glares at Sam. He fucking hates goats, he decides.

‘Yeah, that…’ He inhales. ‘That smell. You can’t tell me you can’t smell the smell.’

Sam inhales. Okay, yeah, there is … something. Sweet-ish. Earthy and herbal.

‘It’s the scent you get when it rains after it’s been dry for a spell. It’s called petrichor.’

‘Petrichor.’

‘Yeah,’ Bucky says, patient, and waits for Sam’s smart-ass reply.

‘Huh. That’s pretty cool.’

Bucky looks pleased. ‘It is pretty cool.’ He’s really easily pleased sometimes. It’s-

It’s one of his less bad qualities.

The goat grumbles again when the straw runs out. ‘Cupboard love,’ Bucky tells it, brushing off his hands. 

Sam turns, leans his back against the pen’s wooden upright and looks across the roll of grass and the skyline of Birnin Zana rising above the tree-tops. ‘You thinking of retiring here? Getting yourself a hut?’

It would be understandable. No-one could blame him, God if anyone deserved it… As long as he kept his phone with him. Always. And answered his texts. On time. And emailed. Maybe the odd FaceTime like he does with Cass and A.J.

There’s silence and he glances at Bucky and there’s a strange expression in his face, something far-off and a little wistful and-

Shit. Shit. Fuck…

Okay. That’s okay. He was literally just thinking that that would be totally okay.

Bucky smiles, slow. ‘Not a bad retirement plan. Maybe. Someday.’

‘Someday?’

A divot between his brows. ‘Yeah, Sam, someday. Like, one day. In the future, maybe, one day.’

His stomach unknots itself. When the fuck did that happen anyway? ‘If the aliens don’t get us first.’

‘Or the androids.’

‘Or the wizards.’

‘Jesus- There’s no such thing as wizards! With or without a hat,’ he adds.

They move away from the pen and the lake. ‘Listen, all I’m saying is-’

‘No. No! Wizards are not a thing.’

‘They are,’ Sam says heavily, ‘so too a thing.’

Bucky marches them up the incline that feels like a medium-sized hill (at least) from Sam’s non-super-powered perspective. Asshole.

‘Will you hurry up? Ramonda doesn’t like people being late for dinner.’

‘We are not going to be late,’ Sam says and he’s not wheezing, not a bit. If he is, it’s the altitude and the humidity. And maybe he’s a little allergic to goats, who knows. ‘And don’t think I’m scared of Ramonda.’

‘Hey,’ Bucky scowls at him. ‘Don’t you mean Queen Ramonda? Show some respect, man.’

‘She told me to!’ He rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist. Bucky slings an arm around his shoulders.

‘That’s great. You’re doing well. Y’know women really like it when you just be yourself and as it turns out you being yourself is a goofball.’

‘Goofball? Old man word!’

‘I am old, Sam.’

‘Ancient.’

‘Shut up.’

Sam snakes an arm out, up across Bucky’s back, the palm of his hand lying where the flesh and metal meet.

Chapter Text

The car eases to a stop alongside the kerb, headlights picking out a low-hanging branch, the bright new paint job on Mr Liu’s old truck and beyond that the flat red discs of a pair of eyes, racoon probably, Sam thinks. He sits for a moment, hands still loose on the steering wheel, absorbing the stillness and the music trickling in from the car stereo. More country-tinged than he’d usually go for but it has a nice bluesy lilt. Sam passes a hand over his face, kills the engine.

Beside him, slumped in the passenger seat, head against the window, Bucky jolts slightly, blinks and looks over at Sam, his hair rumpled and his eyes bleary. ‘Want me to drive for a while?’

‘No, man, it’s cool. We’re here.’

Bucky frowns, blinks again, stares beyond Sam to where the Wilson house lies in its setting of old Louisiana oaks and banks of flowering magnolia. ‘Oh.’ He scrubs at his left eye, metal plating scraping against his skin. It always makes Sam wince when he does that; it does’t seem to bother Bucky. ‘Sorry, I just-’

‘It’s cool,’ Sam says again. ‘How many days were you watching that drop-site - three?’

‘Four.’ Bucky holds up his right hand, just the thumb tucked in. His head shakes, sharp. ‘I know what you’re going to say.’

Sam looks at him, eyebrows rising slightly, waits. 

‘It isn’t that.’

‘Isn’t what?’

Bucky pulls in a breath, releases it. ‘Isn’t because I- Look, Torres was out of it with that bug and you were on the other side of the country. There was no-one else.’

Sam’s shoulders lift. ‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘Fine, but you looked. You had a look.’

‘I did not have a look.’ Sam bites the inside of his lip, swears to himself he won’t say it. ‘And if I did have a look, it’s just to make sure you’re okay.’

‘I’m okay.’ Voice calm, level. Bucky had allowed himself to relax enough to actually fall asleep for a couple of hours, which was an improvement. Also the motion of the car, probably. Look, Sam, I’m growing.

‘Okay, then.’ Sam’s fingers drum lightly against the wheel. ‘And I appreciate what you did.’

‘You mean saving your sorry ass?’

‘And now you’ve ruined it.’ The corners of Bucky’s mouth turn up and Sam feels his own twitch in response. He releases the seat-belt, takes a clear breath. ‘Seriously, though. That guy would have taken me out.’

Up on a roof with an RPG trained on Sam-

‘I know. That’s why I threw him off the roof.’

‘Did you know there was a pool down there?’

Bucky’s fingers fumble with the catch of his own belt. ‘M-maybe?’

A snort of laughter that he can’t help; Sam shakes his head slightly and then his dark eyes take on a happy gleam. ‘Creeping all stealthy, going all full commando - we should start calling you Howling Panther.’

Bucky’s face is serious, impassive. ‘Panthers don’t howl.’

‘No, it’s ‘cos White Panther, Howling Com-’ Sam’s shoulders slump a fraction. ‘It was a joke, Buck.’

He nods. ‘Yeah, I got it.’

‘You didn’t laugh.’

‘I don’t have to laugh to get the joke.’ A pause. ‘And it’s still White Wolf. Wolf, Sam.’

Sam’s face flickers. ‘Okay. Okay, but…’ He rallies. ‘You can’t tell me wolves don’t howl.’

‘They do,’ Bucky agrees. ‘And if you’d told the joke right, it might even have been funny.’

‘Well, you still got it. And if you get the joke, you laugh,’ Sam tells him, irritation starting to flare. Conversations with Bucky are sometimes like dealing with a three-year old of the more recalcitrant variety. ‘You just do.’

Bucky’s face screws up. He’s found an old parking stub and is idly folding it into a tiny concertina. ‘Are you seriously asking for a pity laugh?’

‘That’s not- It’s a funny joke.’ Sam waves a hand, descends into a grouching  rumble. ‘What do you know, anyway, you’re a joke free zone.’

‘I tell jokes,’ Bucky objects.

‘Oh?’ Sam turns fully, eyeballing him with an intensity worthy of Bucky himself. ‘Okay. Go ahead.’

The folded paper springs up and down between his fingers. ‘You want me to tell you a joke right now?’

‘Yeah. If you can tell me just one joke. Just one, I’ll… Do your share of the next mission report. Okay?’ And there is no way that he’ll end up doing that paperwork.

‘Okay.’

‘But I have to laugh at it!’ No way that’s happening, either.

‘You’ll laugh,’ Bucky says and sounds far too confident about that.

Silence.

‘Go on.’

More silence. Bucky’s lips push out.

‘Any day. Any day…’

‘I’m thinking.’

Sam laughs, shaking his head. ‘God, this is pathetic.’

Bucky turns suddenly, one elbow coming up to lean against the top of his seat. ‘Okay. Why did the schmuck from Brooklyn cross the road?’

Sam stares at him, because this is an old man joke even for an old man. Bucky looks back at him, waiting for the response. Sam sighs, his voice flat: ‘I don’t know, why did the schmuck from Brooklyn cross the-’

‘None of your fuckin’ business!’

Sam laughs, his shoulders shaking. ‘That’s terrible.’

A grin plasters itself across Bucky’s face. ‘Still made you laugh, though.’

They ease out of the car, Bucky giving his left shoulder its full 360 rotation and letting it settle into its recalibration. Sam takes a moment, stretching out his own shoulders, feeling the knots across his shoulder-blades loosen. It’s a perfect spring night, balmy, air scented with magnolia and just enough coolness to cut through the rising heat. The house lies waiting, inviting. ‘Man, it’s good to be home.’

‘Sure is,’ Bucky says and then pauses, eyes darting to Sam. 

Sam busies himself hauling flight bags out of the trunk and smiles slightly. Bucky grabs the bag Sam hands him, slings the strap over his shoulder, pulls out his phone. And frowns.

‘Hey, Sam-’

Light from the screen illuminates his face and the lines that have formed around his mouth and jaw.

‘What?’

Bucky points at his phone. ‘You seen this?’

Sam dumps his bags on the ground, pulls his phone out. A series of messages spread over the hours they were on the road.

Sarah: We have some visitors - say they’re friends of yours. They seem like nice girls.

Sarah: I can put them up for the night. They can probably definitely take care of themselves but they could do with some decent food and a place to stay.

Sarah: Mac ’n cheese is a big hit. AJ has a crush (it’s not what you think).

Sarah: Are you two still alive?

Sam reads and re-reads the messages, trying to work out if there’s some sort of code that he’s missing. If Sarah has a gun at her head and is trying to tell them something covert, but why would armed goons let her tell them there was anyone in the house, they’d just wait, surely, until-

‘Sam!’

Bucky’s face is clenched and all the soft angles and tired lines of two minutes ago are back to hard and taut and ready. They start towards the house, feet careful on the ground.

‘You want me ’round the back?’ Bucky’s voice is low, lips barely moving in that way he has when he’s all business and being quiet about it. 

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, give me one minute to get into position-’

The front door opens, light spilling across the porch and framing the figure standing there with her hand on her hip. ‘What are you two fools doing out there?’

‘Sarah? Everything okay?’

Even from this distance Sam can see her roll her eyes, huff out a breath. ‘Why would everything not be okay?’

They make the porch and Sam feels the last knot of tension unspool when he sees his sister’s face, eyes soft and amused and a flush across her cheeks like she’s been laughing. ‘Your texts-’

‘You should try checking your phone sometimes.’ 

Sam is still frowning; he glances at Bucky who is still slightly frowning but a lot less than before and definitely more gaze-y because - right…

‘Who is in there?’

Surprise flickers across Sarah’s face. ‘She said she’d message you.’

‘Who-’

She hugs him, lips brushing his cheek, arms strong. She releases him, turns to Bucky and puts her arms around him before he’s finished saying, ‘Hey, Sarah.’

Nothing lingering, a quick embrace like she’s just reassuring herself that they’re both intact.

They go into the house, into the living room and stop again. TV on, that comedy cop show that Bucky likes. Two young women staring at the screen, giggling.

‘…’Twas a cat.’

‘You will not win me over with your use of ’twas.’

‘’Twasn’t trying to.’

‘James Barnes!’ From her position on the couch, nesting in blankets and cushions, Yelena waves cheerfully, popcorn spilling from the bowl balanced in her lap. ‘And Captain America! Hello, Sam Wilson.’

Sam can hear Bucky breathe heavily down his nose behind him. ‘Lena, you were  going to text us? Let us know you’re here?’

Her head tilts. ‘Oh. My bad.’ More popcorn; her eyes drift back to the TV.

Two large dogs lie curled on the floor, one head rising and looking at them out of its one eye before flopping back down. Alpine has arranged herself between them.

The other girl on the couch disentangles herself, legs kicking against blankets and still almost tripping over them when she finally makes it out, righting herself with the straight-spined snap of a gymnast. She tosses dark waves over her shoulders. ‘Hi! Hello…’ Bright blue becomes even impossibly brighter and her face flushes, cheeks dimpling. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe it’s actually you! Both of you-’ Her eyes land on Bucky’s left hand, and widen. ‘Is that actually your vibranium arm?’

‘Kate Bishop, I said be cool!’ Yelena moans loudly from the couch.

‘I-’ Kate pivots. ‘I am being cool! I am a very cool person.’ Pivots back, shakes the hair out of her eyes again. ‘Hi, I’m Kate Bishop. Also known as Hawkeye. I mean, not like I’m just taking that- I actually suggested Lady Hawk, but Clint was like “no, you’re the new Hawkeye”- Bad, that was a bad impression. Anyway, yeah, I’m Kate.’

‘Yeah, we figured,’ Bucky says.

‘It’s nice to meet you, too,’ Sam says and offers her a kindly smile. ‘We’ve heard a lot about you.’

Fizzing, Sam thinks, that’s the word. So full of excitement and energy like she’s about to explode with it. The flush heightens in her cheeks. ‘And I know so much about you!’ She takes in a breath, lips squeezing together. Trying to be cool. ‘I mean, not like in a creepy way-’

Yelena lets out a long groan, sinks down into the blankets and covers her face with a cushion.

‘Just, y’know, from the news. And what Yelena’s told me. She talks about you a lot,’ she confides, in a whisper that’s somehow louder than her regular speaking voice.

‘Заткнись!’ Yelena emerges, baleful. ‘That is not true, I don’t do that!’

Kate nods, round-eyed. ‘All the time,’ she mouths.

Sarah, leaning against the doorframe and watching the scene unfold with evident enjoyment, pushes herself up. ‘You girls need anything else?’

‘No thanks, Ms Wilson,’ Kate chirrups.

‘I told you - it’s Sarah.’

‘Yes, yes you did.’ Kate’s arms swing, nonchalant. ‘Sarah.’

Sarah’s hand lands on Sam’s arm. ‘There’s still plenty of mac-’n-cheese left.’

He nods, places his hand over hers for a moment.

Kate skips back over to the couch, burrowing into it. She looks impossibly young and Sam fights the impulse to grab his phone, call Clint and demand, ‘Are you out of your fucking mind?!’

But doesn’t because he knows Clint isn’t. He wouldn’t drag some eager-eyed kid into their world if he didn’t think she could handle it. She probably nagged him into it, he thinks.

Wanda was probably younger than Kate Bishop is now when they first met her, when she joined them. The Spiderkid was younger still. Then there’s Shuri. Shit, Sam was about Kate Bishop’s - dammit! - Kate’s age when he joined up. Bucky too, back in the day.

He’s getting older, Sam thinks, a detached sort of surprise. He’s got old doing this. When the hell did that happen?

He flops into one of the old armchairs, squashy and soft in all of the right places from years of use. Bucky eases himself into the other, something still coiled in his lines. 

‘So,’ Sam says. ‘I’m guessing there’s a reason for this visit.’

Kate’s been raking her fingers through her hair, pulling it up into a ponytail and stops, lips pressing together and she looks at Yelena, something anxious and uncertain.

The blonde chews stolidly on her mouthful of popcorn until she swallows. She raises the remote and flicks off the TV.

‘You asked me to find out about Leviathan.’

‘I asked you to ask your dad about Leviathan,’ Bucky clarifies.

Yelena makes a little moue with her lips, shrugs her right shoulder. ‘I did. He has intel.’

Which had better be more than Leviathan is coming, Sam thinks tiredly. ‘What is it?’

Another shrug. She digs into her popcorn, discards an un-popped piece with a look of immense disapproval. ‘He’ll tell you when he gets here.’

‘When-’ Bucky jolts forward, his voice rising in a way that Sam has never heard before. ‘Alexei is coming here?’

Yelena nods. Beside her Kate sits quiet, hands clasped in her lap, eyes skittering between her and Bucky as though she’s the only one who’s noticed that the atmosphere in the room has shifted.

‘He’s really excited. He keeps going on and on about the good old days.’ She deepens her voice, laying on a Russian accent even thicker than her own. ‘“Зимний Солдат is my good friend, we drink much vodka together, ha ha ha.” дурак,’ she adds.

Bucky’s hands grip the padded arms of his chair, fingers pressing into the fabric so hard Sam is sure it will burst. He pushes himself up. ‘Sarah said there was food. I think I’ll- Sam, you want food?’

He’s already going.

‘Try it with hot sauce!’ Yelena yells at his back. She turns the TV back on.

In the kitchen Bucky stands with hands flat, one either side of the stove, staring at the pot of gloopy pasta sitting on the warmer. Sam approaches him cautiously, trying to gauge his mood. This feels new. Not desolate, not angry, not the spiral into darkness and despair that he’s seen before. 

‘Hey, man.’ Quiet. ‘Who is this guy anyhow?’

A breath of laughter and the line across his shoulder relaxes. ‘You ever heard of the Red Guardian?’ Sam is blank, shrugs. ‘The Scourge of the West? The Siberian Tiger?’

A shake of the head.

‘Don’t tell him that. He thinks he’s world famous.’ He’s still staring at the pot of Sarah’s mac-’n-cheese like he’s scrying the steam fogging against the glass cover. ‘Alexei. He’s… God, talk about being careful what you wish for.’ Bucky lets out a slightly shaky breath and when he speaks again he sounds more like himself. ‘He’s a bit of an idiot, really. But- But he’s okay.’ A smile wanders across his face and disappears again. ‘I’d hide the scotch, if I were you.’

Sam moves across the kitchen, leans against the counter next to Bucky, takes in the ficus drooping on the window-sill, the flyers for community events stacked messily and weighted down by an old NOLA snow globe that Drew had given Sarah once as a joke. Cass’ book report on The Hobbit is pinned to the fridge. Gold star. Sam smiles slightly. 

‘You gonna eat that or just commune with it?’

Bucky rouses himself, pulls out two bowls, two spoons. The homey aroma of creamy cheese hits Sam when the lid is taken off and his stomach contracts in anticipation.

They stand, companionable. 

‘So… You two were drinking buddies?’ Hard to imagine. It doesn’t fit with anything that Sam knows of then. Most of it he doesn’t really want to know. He can only think about it in small pieces because any time he tries to look at the whole the horror and the pity of it is all too much to take in.

Bucky moves his spoon around the bowl. ‘Not exactly.’ He looks up, something far away in his eyes but there’s still light there. It makes some of Sam’s sharp edges dull a little. ‘It- It’s a long story.’

‘Feel like sharing?’

A moment and then his head shakes. ‘Not right now.’

He nods, takes a mouthful of his pasta and closes his eyes for a moment, savouring everything that is home. When he opens them again, Bucky is reading through Cass’ report, a smile twitching the corners of his mouth.

At some point Sam finds himself telling the story of their own run-in with the Tracksuit Mafia. Kate had laughed and then asked with something like a genuine concern about someone she called the Imagine Dragons Guy. Her description sounded vaguely familiar from the warehouse full of banged-up (when he and Bucky had left it) Tracksuits they had left for the tac team to deal with. Kate had nodded, resigned but with a hint of regret. It was endearing, Sam thought. A nice kid. Good heart. Something down to earth about her that rubbed well against Yelena’s bizarre mix of world-weary scorn and innocence and that felt so familiar-

Of course it did. Sam settles back in his chair, laughing at himself and there is a heavy banging on the front door. Yelena throws the blanket off her legs, barrels towards the sound.

Sam is up before he even thinks about it and he hears a deep booming voice that seems to fill the whole house in a language that he doesn’t understand but knows from the cadences is Russian.

Bucky moves slow. He had been sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Yelena’s side of the couch and now he stands, displacing a grumbling Alpine who had been happily dozing in his lap, watching the doorway into the living room, taking deep breaths and his chin slowly lifting until Yelena bounces back in and a large, slightly shambolic figure follows her.

A big man with not-quite tamed hair and a more neatly-trimmed beard. Slightly gone to seed, his burgeoning paunch hanging over the belt of his trousers. Gold that glints behind the teeth he shows when he grasps Sam’s hand in a crushing grip. His eyes keep darting about like he’s scoping all the exits, like he’s looking for something. Or someone, perhaps. He nods happily when Kate waves at him from the couch, eyes rest on Bucky’s still, upright form for a second and then move on.

Bucky keeps his eyes on the Red Guardian, moving with a studied purpose. ‘Hello, Alexei Vadimovich.’

Alexei’s brow furrows and he nods, suspicion in his face. ‘Hello.’ His head turns, eyes searching again, and then stops, snaps back, his gaze kindling and he studies Bucky’s face, one hand suddenly rising. ‘No… You? It cannot be-’ A broad smile breaks across his face. ‘Солдат! My friend!’ He gets an arm around Bucky’s shoulders and his eyes find Yelena. ‘Look! Why you not tell me? He looks so different.’

Yelena rolls her eyes. ‘I did tell you, I even show you photograph- Ты такой смущающий, я не могу в это поверить.’

Bucky extricates himself from Alexei’s half-embrace and holds himself very upright, his head held high. ‘Alexei.’

The Russian looks at him, expectant, and holds the firm blue gaze aimed him.

‘My name is James Buchanan Barnes.’ There’s a weight to how he says it, something firm and definite. Defiant. ‘You can call me Bucky.’

There’s a moment and the remembrance of the story that Bucky had not told Sam plays out between the two men. The scarred hinterland of the past acknowledged, unspoken. And Alexei grins.

‘Bucky Barnes!’ Delight in his face. He clamps two large hands on Bucky’s shoulders. ‘Come! We drink, my friend.’ He addresses the room in general. ‘You are all my good friends! We drink much vodka, yes? Like old times.’

Bucky’s eyebrows knit together, pained; he’s back in the semi-circle of Alexei’s brawny arm. ‘There’s no vodka, Alexei.’

The big man shrugs. ‘Is no matter. I brought plenty.’

A sigh. ‘Of course you did.’

Sarah has always felt at ease with a certain amount of chaos around her; not thriving on it the way that Sam says she does, not exactly, but there’s something in the messy business of a full house, amiable squabbles, good food, bodies finding ways of accommodating each other that feels comfortable and right.

Still nice to take a few moments of quiet, though, out on the porch. There’s a chill on the air and she pulls her plaid shirt closer around herself. Frayed at the collar and with one button missing but it’s as soft and warm and worn as a familiar embrace. 

The screen door opens, swinging easy on the new hinges that had been bought, oiled, and installed to replace the old rusted ones that had squeaked horribly every time anyone went in or out. Bucky emerges onto the porch, body still half-turned back into the house so she has a view of the lines of his shoulders and the back of his head, hair standing up a little where he’s been running his fingers through it. 

Laughter from inside, and a rumbling boom of a voice. 

‘That- That’s a great story, Alyosha - maybe save the rest for later?’ He closes the back door firmly, the screen falling back into place when he moves away, settling with a quiet thunk against the frame. Bucky stands for a moment, lets out a breath and when he turns and sees her he stops, a quick smile flicking across his face.

‘Oh. Hi.’

Sarah remains leaning against the porch railings. ‘Hey.’

‘Would you rather I…’ He gestures vaguely back towards the house.

She shakes her head and he joins her, keeping a respectful few inches between them.

‘Your friend’s very, uh, interesting.’

Minute calibrations across his face before he finally says, ‘I don’t think that I’d call him a friend, exactly.’

‘Oh?’ Her head tilts, amusement catching in her eyes. ‘He seems to be very clear that you are.’

Bucky’s head ducks, something working around his mouth. ‘Yeah, well… We’re not not friends, I guess.’

She smiles at that. The in between of what Bucky says usually so much more speaking than his actual words.

‘The girls seem sweet.’

Fondness as he looks at her and she feels everything blur a little around the edges. ‘Who does A.J. have the crush on?’

Sarah laughs. ‘Neither. It’s the dogs - true love.’

‘Oh…’ Another soft laugh, something rooted in a genuine caring that runs deep. But there’s a tension lying beneath it, nervy; she knows him well enough by now to see it.

Sarah studies him for a moment, then leans both of her elbows against the wood. Still splintery, paint flaking off. She picks at it. ‘Is it bad?’

She hears his breath catch, release. 

‘It’s… not great. I don’t think the world’s ending, so there’s that.’

‘So, not not friends and no end-of world. Could be a lot worse,’ she tilts her head back to look at him and his eyes look deep and dark, almost indigo under the low lighting coming from the porch lamp and the heavy shadows swaddling the house. ‘Have you eaten?’

He nods. ‘Yes. We both did.’

One corner of her mouth twists, affectionate. ‘We’d all know about it if Sam hadn’t.’

He looks almost triumphant at her words. ‘I keep telling him he gets cranky when he’s hungry!’

‘So cranky.’

They share a laugh, something light and filled with warmth. And what she’s going to ask, what she means to ask, is if he wants more food but what actually comes out is: ‘Are you ever going to kiss me?’ 

He stares at her and she feels heat flame cross her cheeks. Grateful for the darkness that hides it; but then maybe it doesn’t, because he’s a super-soldier with his super-soldier vision and he can probably see her more clearly than almost anyone has before in her life. ‘I mean, that is where this is going, right? Unless I’m going crazy.’

That does something. He blinks and there’s a strange tangled breath in the back of his throat and his chest shakes. ‘You- You’re definitely not the crazy one,’ he says, voice all roughened and uncertain. The fingers of his right hand move a fraction, reaching, before he stops again. Then he takes two steps towards her and she straightens, trying to make sense of the tumble of emotions she can see playing out behind his eyes.

His hands land on her waist gentle and uncertain, his touch so light she can barely feel it. He moves slow like he’s giving her time to change her mind, to bolt, but if anything he looks like the one who’s about to run. Sarah puts her hands on his shoulders, leaning into him a little, just enough.

When his lips touch hers they are warm and dry and a little awkward. 

‘Sorry,’ he murmurs almost immediately, his forehead against hers. ‘It’s been a long time.’

Her stomach is fluttering. She can feel herself shaking and hardly anything has happened. ‘It’s been a long time for me, too.’

‘I think it’s been a lot longer for me.’

‘This isn’t a competition, James.’

She can feel his breath against her cheek and the slight huff of laughter. He lifts his head and his hands come up to cradle her face, fingers tracing the lines with a heartbreaking delicacy. Flesh and metal against her skin and both so different but so warm. She shivers with it and her hands slide down his chest, around until she rests her palms against his back.

‘Sarah,’ he says, soft, like her name is a blessing. He kisses her.

There is no uncertainty this time. It is soft, slow. Deep and languorous. She smiles against his lips, feels the answering note in his. 

‘Damn, Sarge,’ she says, shaky, ‘you sure got the hang of that again fast enough.’

His eyes crinkle, the clear bright blue rimmed by a darker shade. He brushes the braids that have escaped her hair grip away from her shoulder. ‘Helps when you have a good partner. And you’re not even eighty yet,’ he adds.

That wins a jolt of surprised laughter. That day feels like a lifetime ago. ‘I am not knitting you a sweater.’

One corner of his mouth turns up. ‘That’s okay - I do my own knitting.’

She has hugged him before, many times. Even earlier tonight when he greeted her with his usual slightly lop-sided smile, one arm firm around her waist when she had put both of hers around his neck, but those times are not like this time. When their bodies are pressed together, one of his hands at the small of her back and the other cradling the back of her head, fingers pressing lightly into her scalp. When she can feel all of his lines and planes and the way the shape of him fits against her, the muscles in his back bunching under her hands.

‘Knitting?’ she asks, breathless, when she can speak again, even though she can barely think.

‘Army,’ he murmurs, his lips along her cheek, her jaw, the hollow behind her ear. ‘Very self-sufficient.’

She captures his mouth, raising herself on tiptoe so she can wind her arms around his neck and he tightens his embrace, almost holding her off the ground. He smells of spice and black coffee. Her body aches with a longing made sharper by the feel of him, the taste of him.

He’s shaking as much as she is.

When the lull comes they stand, swaying gently together. Bucky lifts his head, breath vibrating through his chest. ‘Sarah, I- I don’t just want to kiss you.’

‘Oh?’ It comes out much higher than normal.

His eyes widen. ‘No!’

‘No?’ Flatter.

‘God, I mean, yes, of course I want to- But that’s not what-’ His head drops back with a groan, a pained expression creasing his face. ‘I used to be good at this.’

Sarah bites back a smile. ‘Just say it, whatever it is.’

He takes a steadying breath, takes her face between his hands again and peers at her intently. ‘You. The boys. This house. This … life. I want all of it, Sarah.’

She stares at the centre of his chest, her fingers tracing the outline of his dog-tags through the fine soft cotton of his T-shirt. ‘I think you missed out on a lot of living,’ she says, quiet.

‘I lost out on the life that I wanted. What I thought I’d have,’ he says, a hint of gravel beneath his words. ‘But I feel like now- You asked me once what the inside of my life would look like.’

She nods. One finger follows the line of the chain up to where it emerges from his collar, glinting against his skin. ‘I remember.’

‘I had an answer then but-’ He winces. ‘Now that I hear it in my head again, it’s pretty corny.’

She looks up at him then, her cheeks rounding in a smile. ‘Go on.’

The thumb of his right hand rubs against her jaw. ‘It looks like you.’

She drops her head and doesn’t trust herself to speak. Her throat is too tight, anyway.

‘I told you it was corny.’

She nods. Her chin is cupped in his hand.

‘Doesn’t make it less true, though.’ He raises her head gently. ‘I told you: I’m not playing.’

Sarah swallows against the lump, clears her throat. His eyes are over-bright. Beautiful. He is beautiful, all of him. His battered soul and his bruised, generous heart. ‘This life you want, it’s right here. You just have to take it.’

He buries his face in the crook of her neck and she wraps her arms around him, her fingers tangling into his hair.

Kate, kneeling on the couch and staring idly out of the window into the darkened roll of grass and trees beyond stiffens suddenly, a little gasp, and almost slithers back down, leaning across and whispering eagerly into Yelena’s ear. The blonde’s eyes dart to the window and then they both start to giggle. And then curl in to one another, Yelena’s face softened with a rare tenderness

Sam’s eyes flick to the window and the shadows he can see moving vaguely on the back porch. Five minutes, he thinks grimly. He’ll give them five more minutes and then he’s hauling the pair of them back in here.

He settles back into the armchair. From the depths of the chair next to him, Alexei’s voice rises as though continuing a conversation. ‘Always it was my ambition to fight beside Captain America.'

Sam cocks an eyebrow at him, healthy scepticism written across his face. ‘I thought it was your ambition to just plain fight Captain America.’

Alexei had taken it pretty well, all things considered, when Bucky had broken the news to him that the Captain America he had fought in Siberia had been a failed super-soldier experiment in a knock-off costume. All just propaganda.

The big man shrugs. ‘Ambitions evolve.’ He shrugs out his arms, lets out a deep sigh of satisfaction. ‘This is a good time to be alive.’

Sam’s eyebrows rise and he stares at Alexei, incredulous. ‘A good time? Now? When we’re facing…’ A hand lifts, falls. He still isn’t entirely sure.

Sitting deep in his armchair, craggy lines creasing his face, the Red Guardian nods. ‘We have good friends, good allies.’ He looks indulgently at the pair coiled together on the couch, Yelena playing with Kate’s long dark hair. ‘People in love.’ And then leans across, grasping hold of Sam’s arm, strong fingers digging into his bicep. ‘Listen to me, Sam Wilson. Everyone lost everything. Everything. But now - now we have everything. We will not lose it again, eh? No-one will take it away from us. We fight. You, me, Bucky Barnes, my girls.’ He gestures grandly, taking in the whole house, the whole world, with a sweep of his arm. ‘These are the good days.’

Sam feels his lips twitch. The world realigns, even if only for a moment. ‘Well, I’ll drink to that.’

Alexei pours out two shots. ‘Будем здоровы!’

The vodka hits the back of Sam’s throat, slides down smooth. Alexei sinks back into his chair. Sam’s eyes wander back to the window and the swaying shadows and he smiles. 

They can have another ten minutes.