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I.
The first time it happens, TJ is fifteen. There’s a fancy White House dinner, the kind that Doug hates but TJ kind of secretly likes because it’s small enough that the guests don’t just ignore the Hammond boys. They’re old enough now that they’re expected to sit at the grownup table, to make some small talk and not embarrass their parents. TJ appreciates it - he feels like a grownup these days, and he looks it too. He doesn’t look like he used to even six months ago - he’s filling out in the shoulders and has lost most of the chubbiness in his cheeks. His face looks different in the mirror every morning. His dad had to teach him and Doug how to shave a few months ago; it made TJ feel warm and happy inside, standing in a row in the Residence’s master bathroom, his dad booming out encouragement and laughing when Doug nicked himself on the chin.
Of course, there are other changes that are mostly terrifying. Like his growing certainty that he’s not the perfect son; like the nervous flutter that he gets in his stomach when Brandon MacNally pulls him outside to sneak a cigarette at school, the flutter that makes him want to lean in and press his mouth to Brandon’s and pull the smoke directly from his lungs.
Their dad approaches with an old woman on his arm, her hair a halo of glowing white, her face lined with wrinkles. She’s tall, though, and walking with purpose, and their dad seems to be leaning in to the conversation, listening like he really gives a shit about what she’s saying. It makes TJ sit up and take notice of her just moments before she takes notice of him.
“Oh,” the old lady says, stopping short and clinging a little tighter to President Hammond’s hand. “My lord.”
“Ms. Carter,” their dad says, obviously a little thrown by this reaction but talking smoothly over it, “may I introduce my boys - Douglas and TJ.”
“Lovely to meet you both,” Ms. Carter says, and TJ realizes she’s British. Her eyes are sharp and they don’t move from TJ’s face as she shakes his hand firmly. TJ’s getting taller - his growth spurt this summer made his limbs long enough to peek out from his sleeves - and he finds himself looking directly into her eyes. “It’s uncanny,” she says quietly, “how much you look like him.”
“Like who?” TJ asks, and his dad is looking at him too, now. TJ feels like he’s under a microscope. He feels Doug tense up next to him, crossing his arms in annoyance at being ignored.
“I had the great privilege of working closely with the 107th during the War,” she tells TJ, “and even more closely with the Howling Commandos. Your great-uncle was a good friend and you look so much like him.” TJ stares at her, then over to his dad, confusion obviously plain on his face. His dad has a smile that is more of a grimace, his eyes cutting to TJ’s mom across the room. “Oh dear,” Ms. Carter sighs, “I’ve been a spy for so long, but I always manage forget about family secrets.” Her smile is almost apologetic but not quite, and her tone on family secrets makes it clear that she’s not a fan of them. “Mr. President, I fear I may have overstepped some bounds. It’s just -” she looks back at TJ and her eyes are bright with memories, “looking at you makes me feel like I’m stepping back in time.”
*
The next morning, TJ and Doug find themselves in a family meeting with their parents, the White House PR director and, fantastically, TJ’s Grandma Margaret. “You see,” his mom is saying in that no-nonsense voice that makes TJ wish once again that she was more the milk-and-cookies type, “your Grandpa Barrish wasn’t my biological father, even though he’s the only one I really remember. Grandma married him when I was five, after my father passed away.”
Grandma huffs from across the room. TJ’s not sure why they asked her to even be there - his mom hasn’t let her say a word the whole time. “So I look like my actual grandfather?” he asks, and when his mom frowns and says “Grandpa Barrish was your actual grandfa-,” Grandma plows right over her.
“No, kid, you look like his brother, the indomitable and never-to-be-matched Bucky Barnes.” Grandma has a drink in her hand despite the early hour - scotch, most likely. “Bucky died a war hero in ‘44, working with Captain America himself. Mikey’s family never got over it.”
“Mikey?” Doug asks, just as confused, and still smarting a little at not being the center of the conversation.
“Michael Donovan Barnes. My first husband. Your mom’s dad. TJ looks a little like Mikey, but he looks a whole hell of a lot like his big brother. More now, with the moviestar cheekbones.” She grins at TJ, and TJ grins back.
“So our great-uncle is a war hero,” TJ says to Doug. “Why the big secret?”
“Because your great-uncle might be a hero, but your grandfather was a goddamn son-of-a-bitch,” Grandma says matter-of-factly, a grim smile on her face. “And someone didn’t want him dragging down the Barrish family name. Looks like the Barnes family genes might get the last laugh, though, thanks to you, kid.” Elaine glares at her mother, and Bud gets up to go confer with the PR guy.
Looking in the mirror that night, TJ tilts his head this way and that, trying to see the angles of his face better, the cleft in his chin, the blue eyes under dark eyebrows. He glances down at the history book open on the counter, a black and white photo of a guy in an Army uniform smiling up at him with the same eyes, the same chin. James Buchanan Barnes, it reads. TJ looks back up at the mirror. Thomas James Hammond looks back at him.
“Nice to meet you, Uncle Bucky,” TJ says, and his reflection smiles back.
*
II.
TJ is baked out of his face when he stumbles into the kitchen of the Residence at eleven at night. There’s some ice cream in the freezer and the rest of a bag of Doritos hidden somewhere in the cabinets and TJ is craving them. He doesn’t expect his dad to be there, and he definitely doesn’t expect his dad to be there with a guy TJ’s never met, but recognizes vaguely from the constant stream of C-SPAN in this house. The guy’s a little older than his dad, but handsome, tall and fit with bright blue eyes and a face lined with wrinkles that came from too much sun.
“Sorry,” he says, coming up short and hoping like hell that his eyes aren’t too red, that his clothes don’t reek. The way his dad’s mouth drops into a look of resigned disappointment, he’s pretty sure he fails. He thinks about what his dad’s face would look like if he knew that weed was the least of the stash TJ has brought home from college to help him through another Hammond Family Christmas From Hell and can’t quite hide his smirk. His dad glowers at him.
The other guy just… stares.
“You need something, TJ?” his dad asks, like TJ is interrupting some world-altering conversation in the kitchen late at night.
“Just a snack,” TJ says, because maybe he is interrupting something, but this guy keeps looking at TJ like he’s fascinating, and TJ doesn’t know if he likes it or not.
“Get it and get out, then,” his dad snaps. “Director Pierce and I are having a meeting.”
Pierce - TJ tries to place the name and comes up with something related to the DOJ, or the World Security Council. “Sorry about that,” he says to Pierce, smiling what he hopes is a winning smile and not a dopey one.
“Oh, it’s fine,” Pierce says, his eyes tracking TJ as he crosses the room to the fridge. “It’s good to finally meet you, TJ.”
Pierce’s voice is low and strong, dangerous. TJ feels a shiver work down his spine as he opens the freezer and pulls out some Ben and Jerry’s, and it’s not from the cold. When he turns back around Pierce is smiling at him and he’s still handsome but there’s something else there, something underneath that pings all of TJ’s alarms, and after two years as an out gay kid in the White House, TJ has tons of alarms.
“Yeah, you too,” he manages, and grabs a spoon from the drain rack. Pierce’s eyes stay locked on him as he edges out of the kitchen, back to the safety of his room.
“Remarkable,” he hears Pierce murmur, and TJ gets the irrational feeling he’s just been miraculously saved from the lion’s den.
“You’re getting paranoid, Hammond,” he tells himself as he slips into his bathroom. But he locks his bedroom door that night.
*
III.
“Care for a glass of champagne, sir?” the server asks, crystal flutes balanced perfectly on a tray at TJ’s elbow.
TJ doesn’t even flinch anymore, doesn’t feel the pull he used to. “No, thanks, water’s fine,” he says for the fourth time, but when the waiter is gone he heads over toward the bar to see if he can get some ginger ale in a champagne glass, just in case the fifth time is a little too tempting. He pats the inner pocket of his jacket where his one year chip sits, warm against his chest, and the girl behind the bar smiles winningly as she hands over the ginger ale without a single remark or even a knowing look. TJ tips her twenty dollars just for that.
“Mr. Hammond, over here,” the hostess - Gloria, they’re always named Gloria - calls from across the room. He takes a sip of too-sweet ginger ale and drops a smile on his face. He has work to do.
Somehow, between rock bottom and here, TJ’s discovered that he actually is good at raising money, as long as it’s for a good cause. The lovely Gloria is in possession of a hefty fortune, and TJ is at her Christmas party because, thanks to TJ’s charm (and the fact that he’s the son of one former President and one current one), it’s doubling as a fundraiser for UNICEF. In general, TJ’s kept a low profile since his mom’s election, splitting his time between his condo in DC and the family farm in Virginia, shuttling between his therapist and his sponsor. UNICEF made TJ an Ambassador for Children over the summer, and he’s thrown all the energy he once had for parties and nightclubs into glad-handing and fundraising. And he’s discovered that he likes being a good guy way more than he ever enjoyed his reputation as a bad boy. By the time he gets across the room, his smile is warm and genuine.
“Gloria, you look gorgeous,” he says, kissing her cheek. She beams at him. Susan, the head of TJ’s Secret Service detail, smirks at TJ discreetly from fifteen feet away.
“Not looking too bad yourself, Mr. Hammond,” she replies, her voice warm as silk, and if TJ swung that way he’d be honestly flattered. As it stands, he just winks at her and smiles wider when she laughs. “TJ, come over here, there’s someone you should meet.”
TJ’s expecting another society matron, maybe an Anita this time, or a Sylvia, but instead Gloria stops at the elbow of a guy who’s built like a Greek god, broad shoulders and tapered waist under a dark blue suit. “Captain Rogers,” Gloria says, and when the guy turns around, TJ’s whole body runs hot. He knew it was true - his mom was in the security briefings with SHIELD after the Battle of New York last summer and confirmed that, yeah, that guy dressed as Captain America was actually Captain America, back from the dead. TJ has spent more time than most reading about Captain America and the Howling Commandos, his connection to Bucky Barnes fueling an interest that borders on obsession. But he didn’t expect to meet Steve Rogers face-to-face, at least not without a modicum of fucking warning, both for himself and Captain Rogers. “I wanted you to meet TJ Hammond,” Gloria says smoothly, not noticing the way TJ’s gone still beside her. “He helped me put this evening together.”
“Nice to meet -” Captain Rogers’ smile falls as he looks at TJ’s face, replaced by confusion and hope and then grief, all crashing against each other. TJ can only imagine it, being confronted with the face of someone who was as close to you as a brother (maybe closer, a small voice in TJ’s subconscious pipes up) only to have it turn out to be a perfect stranger. “I-I’m sorry,” Captain Rogers says, “from your pictures I knew but- I didn’t think it would be - I’m sorry,” he says, eyes wide, and turns to flee through the french doors out to the back yard.
“Oh dear, what did I -” Gloria is saying, obviously confused, but TJ is already following the Captain out to the patio.
“Mr. Hammond,” Susan says, stepping into his line of sight.
“Agent Harris,” he manages, exasperated. “You know who that is, right?” She nods. “Then I think I’m in good hands, and I promise not to leave the perimeter. Just give me a few minutes alone with him, okay?”
Susan Harris is a hardass, but she was chosen specifically because she doesn’t make TJ feel like he’s suffocating on a regular basis, and she’s not so overly cautious that she puts herself above Captain America on a list of people who can protect TJ from the things that go bump in the night. She gives him a long look and steps out of his way. “Fifteen minutes and I come looking,” she says, and TJ takes off down the steps.
It’s December in DC, and TJ’s breath is easily visible as he stuffs his hands in his pockets to keep them warm. He can’t see anyone else on the lawn, but there is a dark figure in the gazebo, just a shadow. TJ pushes away the thought that Captain Rogers might not have wanted him to follow, that he probably doesn’t want TJ bringing up ghosts. But Captain Rogers is the closest thing he’ll ever have to a relative from the Barnes side of his family, and if Bucky were here, he’d want TJ to make sure he was okay.
“Captain Rogers?” TJ calls out as he gets close to the gazebo. The dark figure freezes, his eyes sliding over to TJ but not looking away this time. TJ can make out the sharp angle of his jaw, the sweep of his hair off his forehead. He’s beautiful - the black and white photos in the books in TJ’s room could never do him justice - and TJ aches to reach out and touch him, to assure himself that he’s real. He sees the Captain’s fingers twitch at his sides and wonders if he’s thinking the same thing. But the real that Steve wants TJ to be is Bucky. TJ is the one to apologise this time.
“I’m sorry,” he says, not looking away from Captain Roger’s anguished, searching gaze. “I didn’t see you on the guest list or I would have… I don’t know, warned you, I guess. I know I look like him. Like Bucky.”
“It’s - Natasha told me about you, but it didn’t really register.” The Captain says, and his voice sounds rough, edges of Brooklyn seeping through. “You sorta looked like him in pictures, but your hair is different, your clothes. In person it’s just - I’m sorry,” he says again.
“Captain Rogers, I never meant for -”
“Steve,” the Captain cuts him off. “Please, call me Steve. It’s just too weird if you don’t.”
“Maybe it should be weird,” TJ says wryly, “I mean, it’s pretty fucking weird.”
The Captain - Steve - huffs out a small laugh, but his fingers wrap around the railing of the gazebo tight enough that TJ can hear the wood creak in protest. “You sound like him too,” he says and TJ’s chest aches.
TJ steps up into the gazebo and sits on the low bench. Steve sits down next to him, his hands twisting in front of him. From here, they’re in near darkness, shielded from the windows of the party inside, but Steve keeps looking over at him. TJ’s heart is hammering in his chest. “He was my uncle,” TJ finally says. “Or, great-uncle. Nobody really knows that. My biological grandfather was Michael Barnes.” Steve sucks in a harsh breath. “Did you know him?”
“Mikey? God, ‘course I knew Mikey Barnes,” Steve says with something that could almost pass for a chuckle. “He was only fourteen when me and Bucky shipped out, though. Trouble with a capital ‘T’. He was a charmer, like Bucky. Big dimples, smart mouth.” TJ soaks it all in - his grandmother almost never talked about Michael Barnes, and when she did, late at night after a few warm glasses of scotch, it was laced with bitterness and yearning, not the fond wistfulness Steve has in his voice. “I looked ‘em all up when I woke up, all the Barnes kids, but they were all gone.” Steve continues. “Records said Mikey passed in ‘61, so I guess you never met him.”
“Never had the pleasure.”
“I didn’t know him as well I should have,” Steve says quietly. “Me and Buck were so busy playing at being grownups, trying to scrounge for jobs. Bucky’s place was always so full of people, so loud - I didn’t mind it, but it made Bucky restless. He talked about getting his own place all the time, but he never did. His dad was kind of… not the best, so Buck just kept hiding half his paycheck in his mom’s purse and sleeping at my apartment when it got too -” Steve glances up at TJ and trails off. He’s definitely not crying, but TJ can feel the heavy in-and-out of Steve’s breathing beside him, like he’s holding himself together by the skin of his teeth. TJ knows that feeling well.
“You don’t need to talk about him,” TJ says softly. “I’ve read a lot, and I know it can’t be easy for you, looking at me.”
Steve half-smiles; it looks broken on his face. “You kidding? You’re the best thing I’ve seen in seventy years.” He’s looking at TJ now, really looking, and TJ holds still and suffers under the scrutiny. He knows everything the public has ever known about James Buchanan Barnes, and he knows he’s bound to be a disappointment, Barnes cheekbones or no. Steve’s gaze is sharp and hot, and he’s fucking beautiful. TJ can’t help the way his own breathing speeds up. Steve’s eyes drop to his mouth, and TJ exhales slowly. “Nat, my friend, said that you’re qu- that you like… you know-”
“Yeah,” TJ cuts him to save Steve from struggling with whatever term for ‘sleeps with guys’ he’s grasping for in his World War II-era brain. “I came out in high school.”
“When you were a kid,” Steve says, one eyebrow raised, “living in the White House.”
“Go big or go home, right?” TJ replies, because that’s not what happened at all, it wasn’t a choice he wanted to make then, or the choice he would make again today, but bluster and charm has gotten TJ Hammond out of a thousand unwelcome conversations. This time, Steve laughs for real, a bark that makes his eyes crinkle, his head thrown back.
“Yeah, you’re just like him,” Steve says before he can think, and his face starts to crumple again as his words catch up to him. TJ doesn’t know why he does it, except that Captain America, that Steve is hurting. Somewhere in his gut, he knows exactly what Bucky Barnes would do in this situation. He leans in to close the short distance between them on the bench and presses his mouth, feather-light, over Steve’s.
Steve opens for the kiss as if on autopilot, angling into TJ like it knows the contours of TJ’s body by heart. TJ opens his mouth, lets the kiss deepen until Steve’s tongue is sliding against his, until his big hand is cupping TJ’s jaw tenderly. TJ gets a little lost in it, in Steve’s warmth and the small rumbling sound he makes when TJ’s fingers curl around his arm. He lets himself float on the feeling of being warm and safe and cherished. He wonders if Bucky felt this all the time, even when Steve Rogers was a tiny scrap of a thing in Brooklyn. It’s that thought that brings him back to himself, that has him easing back even as his body wants to press forward.
Steve’s eyes don’t open and TJ can feel him shaking. “Miss you so damn much,” he whispers, his forehead dropping to TJ’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against Steve’s cheek. “I’m so sorry I’m not him.” He folds a hand around the nape of Steve’s neck and keeps him close, letting Steve’s tears soak into the wool of TJ’s suit jacket until Agent Harris finally sends the cavalry after them, voices floating across the lawn.
“Sorry,” Steve says, pulling back and taking a few deep, centering breaths. “Jeez, you must think I’m -”
“I think you’re pretty great,” TJ tells him, squeezing his hand gently, and they manage to smile at each long enough that their smiles fade from brittle to genuine. “Let’s go raise some money for some little kids, Captain,” he adds, to save Steve from trying to explain away something TJ understands entirely.
Steve looks at him for another long moment before he nods. “Anything for the kids,” he says, standing up and collecting himself back into Captain America. TJ keeps his distance from Steve for the rest of the evening, catching his eye only as Steve is sliding on his jacket at the front door. Steve’s smile is small and sad, and TJ lets him leave without another word.
*
IV.
It’s been two weeks since Washington self-destructed; two weeks since a trio of helicarriers designed to kill a fair number of people TJ knows, including his parents, went down in the Potomac. The Hammond-Barrish clan has been on lock-down ever since; his mom and dad are back in DC, “standing firm against domestic terrorism” and surrounded by the members of the Secret Service who hadn’t gone into hiding once Hydra’s sleeper agents were revealed to the world.
The rest of the family are at the family farm in Virginia. TJ has been here since that first night, spirited away by Agent Harris and the her protection team (none of whom were Hydra; apparently TJ was pretty low on Hydra’s hit list) at the first sign that the US Government had no idea what was happening, except that a bunch of people were apparently fucking Nazis.
Doug and Ann are in the main house with their Grandmother. TJ claimed the guest house for himself - he’s two years sober now, and Grandma Maggie is knocking back gimlets like Hydra is going to use up the US strategic reserve of gin and TJ just. He can’t be around that. Not when he’s a bundle of nerves already. Not when he can’t sleep at night until he’s talked to his parents, until he’s sure they’re still okay. Not when he wakes up from nightmares about the White House on fire, with this pressure in his chest that won’t go away.
It’s not quite light out when TJ wakes to an actual, not metaphorical, pressure on his chest. His eyes fly open and he tries to scream but he can barely breathe - there’s a hand over his mouth and it’s heavy and solid, pressed there by a dark figure who is straddling his hips, pinning TJ’s arms to the mattress with his knees. “Shhhh,” the figure says, lifting his other hand, and TJ thinks this is it, this is the moment he dies, not from an overdose of cocaine or a lungful of carbon monoxide, but by a crazy Nazi with a seventy-year-old grudge.
But there’s no gunshot, no sharp pain other than the blinding light of TJ’s bedside lamp as the man flicks it on. When TJ’s eyes adjust, he can see the man clearly - dark clothes, too-long hair hooked over his ears, a few days worth of stubble on his face.
On TJ’s face.
The man has the same face TJ used to see in the mirror after benders that lasted days, when he emerged from a fog of drugs long enough to realize he hadn’t showered in a week. His eyes are the same blue, his chin has the same small dimple, his cheekbones… he has the Barnes cheekbones.
TJ makes a noise in the back of his throat that startles them both. The man tightens his fingers over TJ’s mouth and leans in until they’re just inches apart. TJ really can’t breathe now, between the pressure and the panic. His vision swims as he tries to get the face - his face - back into focus. “Why do you have my face?” the man asks, his voice thick with an accent TJ recognizes from that cold night in the gazebo, with Captain America pouring his heart out about two kids from Brooklyn. Nice to meet you, Uncle Bucky, TJ thinks just before he passes out.
*
When TJ wakes up again, the sun is shining through the curtains and the man - Bucky, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, best sniper in the Howling Commandos, secret lost love of Captain America who died in 1944 - is sitting in TJ’s desk chair, his arms resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on TJ’s face. There’s a knife dangling from his fingers. Bucky’s not wielding it menacingly, but TJ feels deep down that if Bucky wanted to kill him without a sound he could do it, and do it fast. Hell, he made it past no fewer than twenty armed guards to get into this room. TJ’s chest suddenly tightens again thinking of Susan and her team.
“The Agents outside - did you -”
“They’re fine,” Bucky says, voice flat. “Or maybe I killed every fucking one of them.”
“Those are… two very different options,” TJ says, sitting up as slowly as he can and keeping his hands in view at all times. He’s had training in this from Agents since he was twelve: How To Put Your Kidnapper At Ease. He didn’t think he’d need to remember this shit in his bedroom faced with his dangerous-looking dead uncle, but these last few weeks have brought a lot of surprises.
“I’m two very different people,” Bucky says with a cryptic smile.
“Is one of them Bucky Barnes?” TJ asks, and he’s watching close enough to catch the wince at that name. “You are, aren’t you.”
“Not for a long time,” Bucky tells him, his whole body stiff and still like it’s waiting for a blow.
TJ nods, curls his fingers around the edge of his mattress. “Well, Bucky Barnes is my great-uncle,” he says, “so as long as you didn’t kill my security detail, I guess it’s nice to meet you.”
As if on cue, Agent Harris raps at his door, three short taps that mean it’s all clear. Bucky is out of his chair and against the wall in a millisecond, his knife poised to do some serious damage if anyone opens the door. TJ shakes his head violently, silently willing Bucky not to do anything stupid. “I’m pretty naked in here, Susan,” he calls out, making sure that she doesn’t open the door. He’s grateful that his voice sounds clear and steady while his heart is beating a mile a minute.
“You gonna go for a run with Doug this morning?” she calls through the door. Bucky stares right back at him, his face blank but with something wild and pleading in his eyes.
“God, no - why the hell would I combine exercise with listening to my brother regurgitate platitudes from his marriage counselor?” he tosses back, not looking away from Bucky’s face. “Gonna stay in and get some work done on my UN speech about child labor laws, in case it actually manages to happen.”
“Got it,” she says, and TJ counts to ten as her footsteps fade away.
“I’m your uncle?” Bucky says, as though that whole interlude hadn’t happened. TJ exhales.
“My grandma married your brother Michael,” TJ tells him.
“Michael.” Bucky breathes in and out, his eyes unfocusing for a second like he’s reaching back into his brain for... something. TJ’s gut twists.
“Do you remember him?” he asks, as gently as he can. Bucky’s eyes snap to his.
“No,” he says, then, “...maybe. A little. It’s all -” he growls in frustration, motioning to his head.
“A little fucked up in there?” TJ smiles in sympathy. “Been there, man.”
Bucky leans his head back against the wall, his eyes drifting shut for a moment. TJ wonders if he slept at all last night, keeping watch in TJ’s room. Wonders if he’s slept at all in weeks. He knows he shouldn’t trust this man, but he also knows in his gut that this is Bucky, as impossible as it might seem, and if there’s one thing TJ’s had ingrained in him since the day he was born, it was that family comes first. That you protect your family at all costs. And this haggard man with TJ’s face is family, whether he remembers it or not.
“Let’s make a deal,” he says to Bucky, standing up slowly and reaching out his hand. “You hand that knife over, and I promise not to tell anyone you’re here for a while. Give you a chance to rest up, maybe do a little reading.”
“Reading?” Bucky says, his eyebrows arching up in wry surprise.
TJ reaches over and pulls one of his Howling Commandos books from his shelf. This one has a black and white picture of the whole unit on the cover, Bucky standing behind Steve’s right shoulder, all of them smiling through a layer of grime. “This one’s my favorite. Probably because one of your old neighbors called you ‘quite the charmer, but definitely a cocky bastard’. Sounded like a guy I’d like.”
Bucky reaches out to take the book in his other hand, flipping the knife and handing it to TJ by the handle.
“Excellent,” TJ says. “I’m going to go downstairs and make coffee, and not breathe a word of this to anyone. You want some croissants?”
Bucky just blinks at him.
“Okay, cool, I’ll poke around, see what else we have. Maybe some fruit? You seem like a guy who’d be into healthy shit,” TJ babbles. He’s got his hand on the doorknob when he abruptly turns back around. “You could totally kill me without this knife, couldn’t you.”
“Yup,” Bucky tell him, and TJ nods.
“Okay, thanks for the honesty, Uncle Buck,” TJ manages, despite the way his stomach is swooping to his knees.
“No problem,” Bucky says, almost smiling. TJ’s hands barely shake as he opens the door. “And I think I like croissants.”
*
Bucky’s a fast reader - genius-level fast - and he’s started supplementing his reading with google searches. He seems to be good at computers too, running encryptions on every search, and digging into the mega-dump of SHIELD and Hydra files that hit the net the day the Triskelion went down. He sometimes gets up and paces around TJ’s room, agitated by some piece of information that he’s uncovered. Once, he tells TJ to take a walk, “a long one, go, get the fuck out of here,” and when he returns TJ finds that Bucky has methodically pried open every metal plate in his arm.
“Whoa, what -” TJ says but Bucky just looks up at him, his eyes tight, his jaw clenched like he’s in pain.
“I had to make sure,” he says, and TJ doesn’t need to know more, just helps Bucky close up all the plates along the back of his shoulder, where the scarring is most prominent.
“They did this to you?” he asks, pushing another plate into place. “Hydra?”
“Yes,” Bucky says, and he doesn’t say anything else for two days.
*
TJ doesn’t know why he keeps Bucky a secret, other than the promise he made that first morning. He knows that Bucky’s connected to Hydra, that he’s dangerous, that he sometimes slips away into a blank nothingness that scares the shit out of TJ. But he also knows that Bucky Barnes needs him in a way that TJ hasn’t been needed in his whole life; he knows that this man who shares his face, shares his blood, has done things that fill him with shame, and if there’s anything TJ knows something about, it’s facing your own past and figuring out how to move forward.
It’s hard; on days when one of them needs some space he heads down to the main house to catch up with Doug and Ann, or to shoot the shit with his grandmother. He wants to tell her about Bucky, about Mikey’s big brother back from the dead, just to see a smile on her face that isn’t twisted with bitterness. But he holds back, just for a while longer. He knows that Maggie isn’t the kind of woman you spring on a guy, especially a guy as deadly as Bucky Barnes.
“Hey, kid,” Maggie says one afternoon, toasting him with a G&T. TJ’s supposed to meet Doug for a run, but in an odd reversal, TJ finds that he’s more on time than Dougie these days.
“Hey yourself,” TJ grins, dropping a kiss on her cheek and ignoring the bottles on the counter to grab the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge.
“Fair warning, I spiced that up with some Jim Beam last night.” Her mouth twists wryly and TJ sighs and puts the pitcher back in the fridge. He grabs a bottle of water instead, ignoring the look on his grandmother’s face. He’s spent a lot of time in therapy talking about that look, the one that says ‘good job, kid’ and ‘fuck you’ at the same time. He knows she hates drinking alone.
They spend a few moments catching up - Maggie has a network of Washington insiders who leave updates on the crisis in her inbox. In return, she sends hilarious missives about the high-class prison industrial complex that’s keeping the Hammond-Barrish clan in hiding. TJ knows they’re hilarious because even Susan snorts in amusement as she reads them, redacting security information before they leave the secure server in the house.
“What are you up to, TJ?” Maggie finally asks. “Spending a lot of time in your room these days. Just like junior high.” She waggles her eyebrows and TJ just grins at her.
“Catching up on some reading,” he tells her, and she laughs, short and biting. “Mostly just keeping my head clear,” he adds, because it’s true - being with Bucky means TJ doesn’t think about himself or his problems or how much easier this would be with some cocaine to lighten the mood. He’s pretty sure coke wouldn’t work on Bucky anyway, and is frankly terrified to find out what would happen if it did.
His grandmother gives him a long, hard look.
“Don’t worry,” he tells her. “I’m fine.”
And for the first time in a long while, he means it. He’s pretty sure taking care of Bucky is not a magic cure - he’s relapsed enough times to know those don’t exist - but he’s spending so much energy dealing with Bucky’s shit that his own issues have faded. It’s nice, to obsess about someone else for a change.
*
It takes a week before TJ catches Bucky sleeping, a book about the Commandos open on his chest. It’s another week before Bucky showers while TJ is awake, wandering out of the bathroom in a towel and rummaging through TJ’s drawers for clothes that might fit him. They’re the same height, but Bucky’s shoulders are huge, and not just the metal one. He takes to wearing TJ’s old sweats from BU. If it weren’t for the long hair and the haunted look in his eyes, he’d look just like college-age TJ after rowing practice.
It makes TJ’s chest ache for the kid he used to be, and he vows to take better care of Bucky than TJ did of himself.
*
TJ’s seen enough of the footage of the battle on the bridge to know that the black-masked figure with the metal fingers is obviously Bucky. If Steve figured that out too, well. TJ remembers how Steve looked in that gazebo, talking about Bucky. He’d bet that Bucky is the reason Steve’s dropped off the radar. Bets that Steve is out there, searching.
“I can try to send him word that you’re safe,” TJ tells Bucky one night as Bucky re-reads one of TJ’s old books, his eyes fixed on an old photo of the two of them, arms tossed casually around each other, smiling for the camera.
“No,” Bucky snaps, his eyes boring into TJ. “Don’t- I can’t. Not yet.”
“Okay,” TJ says, tentative. He knows that as much as he’s been able to do for Bucky, Steve would be able to do so much more.
“I just don’t want him to see me like this,” Bucky says, almost pleading, and yeah. TJ’s been there.
“We’ll talk about it later,” he says, and Bucky’s shoulders relax. “But in the meantime, maybe you should shave, if you’re worried about Steve seeing your face.”
*
Bucky shaves.
He and TJ stand side-by-side in the bathroom and look at their reflections.
It’s weird.
It’s weird enough that when Bucky lets his stubble grow back in, TJ doesn’t mention it.
*
Twenty-two days into whatever weird family bonding thing is happening with TJ and Bucky, there’s a setback.
Or, specifically, there’s a file that Bucky’s been trying to decrypt for two days, and a weird video that starts playing abruptly, startling TJ into dropping his coffee, and then Bucky is pressing him to the wall, his eyes frighteningly blank, his metal hand squeezing TJ’s throat.
“Buck, Bucky, stop,” TJ gasps, scrabbling at Bucky’s hand. He’s nearly off the floor, just the tips of his toes brushing the carpet. TJ’s vision blurs and he manages, “You’re James Buchanan Barnes, 32557038,” rattling off Bucky’s service number from memory. It snaps Bucky out of it long enough that he drops TJ to the floor in surprise, and then flees out the window and across the roof.
TJ coughs a few times, sliding down until he’s laying on the floor. He breathes and he tries to get his heart rate back to normal, and he waits, hoping that Bucky comes back.
He’s out of his depth, he knows this, but TJ wants to do some good, and he’s not honestly sure that anyone who isn’t Steve would be able to reach Bucky right now. He knows he’s not a saint. He knows he could barely pull himself out of the dark until just a few years ago. He thinks he owes it to Bucky to be there, to support him no matter what. But he also owes it to Bucky to help him face the past and the future, even if he doesn’t want to.
If Bucky’s not back in 24 hours, TJ’s going to contact Steve, and damn the consequences.
Twenty-three hours later, Bucky shows back up at TJ’s window, quiet and withdrawn. “I can go,” he starts, and TJ just waves him over to the couch where Bucky’s been sleeping.
“Get some rest,” he says, and doesn’t look away when Bucky winces at the rasp still in his voice. “There’s trail mix on the dresser.”
Bucky sleeps. TJ doesn’t call Steve.
*
Living with Bucky is sometime strange. He doesn’t seem to have a normal person’s sense of personal space. At the start, that meant that he would keep a bubble around him large enough that he was never close enough for TJ to touch. As the weeks drag on, though, Bucky takes to sleeping in TJ’s bed when he’s not there, or futzing around on his iPad, or wandering in and out of the bathroom even when TJ has firmly closed the door behind him.
It’s been the cause of a few embarrassing encounters, with TJ frozen behind the shower curtain, hand still on his dick as Bucky takes a piss or flosses his teeth.
The third time it happens, TJ is so frustrated he snaps. “Yo, Uncle Buck, you ever hear of knocking?”
“Not like I can’t hear you anyway,” Bucky says, “what with the enhanced hearing and all.” TJ flushes hot and cold all over. “But don’t let me stop you, it sounds like you’re having fun.”
“I hate you,” TJ grits out and he’s rewarded with the sound of Bucky’s laugh echoing off the tiles.
*
“Do you think about, you know, men? When you do that?” Bucky asks later that night, the darkness of the room surrounding them. It feels like when TJ and Doug went camping when they were kids, laying in the dark and sharing secrets.
“Yeah, that’s pretty much my standard,” TJ replies, grinning into the dark. “Just dicks, and a nice ass, and sometimes a few extra dicks. Though I have to say, breasts are still pretty distracting.” Bucky chuckles and TJ feels a warm glow. “What about you?”
“I’m… I tried, a few days ago, but. I don’t know. Didn’t work quite right.”
Bucky sounds small and young again and TJ looks over at him, just a blob in the dark. “What did you used to think about? Do you remember?”
Bucky’s quiet for a long time. “Yeah, I remember,” he finally says, and TJ’s chest aches.
“I bet he still thinks about you too,” he says softly, and Bucky’s form folds in on itself, arms wrapped around his knees. “He’s been missing you for a long time, Buck -”
“I don’t want… I want him to remember me like I used to be,” he says.
“I think it’s a little late for that.”
“It’s never too late, not for Steve,” Bucky says wry and sad all at once. “He took on a whole Nazi compound on the three percent chance I wasn’t dead, and then basically carried me out of there. Steve believes if there’s a will, there’s a way.”
“Maybe he’s right,” TJ tells him. “You’ve got a shitload of will, Bucky. Don’t think that doesn’t count for anything.”
“Maybe,” Bucky replies. “Or maybe he’s just a stubborn son of a bitch who doesn’t understand there’s no way we’ll ever get back to what we were.”
“Yeah,” TJ answers, because he knows that sometimes people change enough that they don’t fit together anymore. Like his parents, who orbit each other but never quite click, or like Doug and TJ who used to be able to read each other’s minds and now mostly make each other crazy. Bucky and Steve have both changed so much. But maybe Bucky and Steve are both broken enough that their jagged edges will fit together as well as the smooth ones. “It’s got to be worth it, though,” he says, trying for levity, “for a second chance at that ass.”
A pillow hits TJ in the face with ruthless precision. “Shut the fuck up, Hammond. Didn’t anyone teach you to respect your elders?”
“Go the fuck to sleep, old man,” TJ replies, laughing.
*
In the end, it’s more circumstance than choice that forces a decision on the Steve issue.
“Mom says they’re lifting the ‘Shelter in Place’ order later in the week,” TJ tells Bucky when he comes back from dinner at the main house and a phone call from the White House. Bucky’s shoulders tense. “I guess they’ve rooted out enough Hydra that they don’t have to worry about Nazi assassination attempts anymore.”
“They’ll regroup,” Bucky says darkly.
TJ sits next to him on the couch. “Probably. Dad seems confident, but mom’s a pragmatist. She’s agreeing to it because I think she wants us all in DC, so she can keep her own eye on us.”
“She’s had a lot to deal with this month, but she’s been worried about you,” Bucky nods. He knows that TJ talks to his mom every night, sometimes listening quietly from his perch near the window as TJ reassures her that he’s fine, he’s holding up, he’s not drinking. TJ tilts his head in agreement.
“And Grandma, and Doug and Ann. She wants us all in the White House for a while, staying in the Residence. For security reasons.”
“It’s a good idea,” Bucky tells him, but TJ can feel how still he’s sitting, like he’s waiting for a blow.
“I can’t get out of it,” TJ tells him. He tried over dinner, arguing the point with his mom even though he doesn’t really want to. Being safe with his parents actually sounds pretty good right now, even if he knows it’ll probably chafe after a few weeks. He really, really wants to hug his mom, like, a lot. But moving into the White House means leaving Bucky in the cold, and TJ’s not willing to do that. “You can stay at my condo, and I’ll come by as much as I can, at least a few times a week -”
“No,” Bucky tells him. TJ turns to argue, to tell Bucky that he’s not walking away, not willingly, but Bucky cuts him off. “You should contact Steve. It’s time.”
“Buck,” TJ looks at him, but Bucky’s so good at not giving anything away, and TJ can’t read him at all. “If you’re ready, I think it’s a great idea. But if you’re not, we’ll figure something else out.”
“It’s time,” Bucky repeats, not looking TJ in the eyes. “You get in contact with him, but don’t mention me by name. I’m gonna -” he gestures toward the window. “I’ll be back by tomorrow,” he says, his face still unreadable. “Tell him to come get me, if he wants me.” He’s out the window so fast TJ barely registers the movement.
“He’ll want you, you total moron,” he says fondly to the air.
*
TJ manages to get through to Steve only hours after Bucky takes off, leaving an oblique “a mutual friend of Mikey’s has been staying with me, and he’d love to catch up” message on the phone number Gloria the society matron had been able to dig up. Steve calls back in under an hour, his voice stiff from trying not to say too much on the open line.
“He’s there, now?”
“No, he had to run some errands,” TJ says, “but he’s swinging by tomorrow. Around lunchtime?” he adds, hoping it’s not a wild guess.
“Tell him I’d love to see him,” Steve manages, his voice catching at the end before the line goes dead.
Bucky arrives barely an hour before Steve.
“Whoa,” TJ says, blinking at the man standing in front of him. “Looking good, man,” he adds, a smile spreading across his face. Bucky’s had a haircut and a shave, and he’s wearing new jeans and a soft-looking black henley that hides the bulk of his arm.
“I just thought -” Bucky says, visibly uncomfortable. “It was stupid, right?”
“No. Probably unnecessary, but definitely not stupid. Did you steal those?” he adds as an afterthought.
“Put ‘em on your black card,” Bucky grins. TJ throws his head back and laughs. Bucky’s smile fades as he tilts his head toward the window. “He’s coming?” he asks, his voice steady, but there’s an edge of panic around his eyes.
“In about an hour. We’re good, everything’s fine,” TJ tells him. He takes a deep breath and opens his bedroom door. “Susan,” he calls out, “I’ve got a couple of surprises coming, and I don’t want you to shoot anyone, okay?”
“Am I going to want to shoot you?” she calls back, and TJ winces.
“Probably, but I am sure you’ll be a professional about it.” He turns to Bucky. “Okay, let’s do this.”
*
It took an epic fight with Susan to clear the main house (TJ’s still pretty sure Susan herself is just out the back door, ready to burst in at a moment’s notice), but finally it’s just Bucky and TJ, waiting in the living room for Steve to arrive. Bucky’s standing stock still in the center of the room, his non-metal thumb tapping out a staccato beat on his thigh. It’s Bucky’s version of fidgeting and it’s making TJ nervous.
“Sit down,” he says, patting the couch beside him. “You don’t know how long he’s -”
“He’s here,” Bucky says, his eyes closing tight for a moment before he opens them again. Sure enough, a moment later TJ can hear a car on the gravel driveway outside.
TJ opens the door before Captain Rogers can even knock, ushering him into the house. He’s taller than TJ even remembers, and he looks gorgeous in tan slacks and a brown leather jacket. Behind him is a man TJ recognizes from some of the grainy TV footage Bucky kept replaying in his room. He’s also gorgeous, with dark skin and a blinding smile that he turns on TJ.
“Please tell me he’s still here. Because if I have to spend one more minute in a car with this dude, I’m going to -”
“Bucky,” Steve says, his voice cracking on the name. TJ looks over to see Bucky standing where TJ left him, his eyes locked on Steve Rogers like he’s the best thing Bucky’s seen in a lifetime. Hell, a dozen lifetimes.
“Heya, Steve,” Bucky manages, and TJ can’t even look at Captain Rogers; he’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to watch national icons try not to cry in your living room.
“Hey, I could use some coffee,” the man with Steve says, glancing from Steve to Bucky and then over to TJ. “This place have a coffee machine?”
“We have two, actually,” TJ tells him, “and a cappuccino machine. In the kitchen.”
“Sounds good, lead the way,” he says, “I make a mean cappuccino.” They flee into the kitchen, turning the corner to give Steve and Bucky at least the illusion of privacy. The guy exhales heavily and TJ bites back a chuckle. “Well, this is awkward.”
TJ sticks his hand out. “TJ Hammond.”
“Sam Wilson,” the guy replies, and wow, his smile is even more gorgeous up close. There’s a murmur of voices in the other room, and Sam peeks around the corner. “I think we should make some coffee as slowly as possible. I’m pretty sure that the hugging part could take a while.”
TJ points him toward the machine in the corner and tries not to listen to what’s going on next door. Bucky’s fine. He’ll be fine. Steve’s with him, and that’s what Bucky’s needed for a long fucking time. TJ doesn’t need to worry about him.
The cappuccino machine is thankfully loud enough to drown out any conversation from next door. Sam works the machine (“two years at the student union coffee shop in college,” he says with a cheeky grin) and TJ gets out the tiny mugs that Anne insists are the only way to drink Italian coffee. When TJ tastes it, he can’t help the happy groan that escapes.
“Damn right,” Sam says and TJ laughs. Sam leans back against the counter and sips at his tiny mug. “You did good work,” he says quietly, tipping his head toward the other room. “Last time I saw that guy he was literally trying to kill me, so this is a vast improvement.”
TJ turns his mug on the saucer a few times. He feels like he should defend Bucky somehow, even though he knows that the Bucky Sam met isn’t the same one who’s been sharing TJ’s home over the last month. “The work was mostly him. He wanted to remember but he was just confused. Terrified. He just needed a safe space, you know?”
“Yeah,” Sam tells him, nodding. “But you can take a lot of the credit for making that happen.” They sip in silence for a few minutes until TJ looks up to see Sam watching him. “Sorry,” he says, smiling again. “It’s just - Steve said you looked alike, but it’s kind of crazy.”
“I know,” TJ smiles back. “I’ve had a twin all my life, but Bucky and me - I guess genetics are just weird.”
“Was wondering if I’d ever get to meet you,” Sam puts his cup down and crosses his arms. His biceps bulge against his polo shirt and TJ feels a flutter in his stomach. He tries not to roll his eyes at himself. “Steve always blushes when you come up in conversation.” TJ tries valiantly not to blush himself, remembering his night at the gazebo, but it’s a lost cause.
“It wasn’t like that -” he starts, not sure how much Sam knows, but Sam just drops his head and groans.
“Seriously? Man, Cap always gets the cute ones.”
TJ freezes for a moment. Sam just grins at him, his eyes clearly raking over TJ’s chest. “Are there any straight guys left in the army?” TJ blurts out.
“Air Force,” Sam corrects him, “and there weren’t that many straight guys to begin with.” Sam nods again to the living room. When TJ peeks his head around the corner, Steve and Bucky are still standing in the middle of the room, Steve’s hands planted firmly on Bucky’s waist, their heads bent together as they talk softly. Bucky’s hand is still shaking where it’s curled into Steve’s jacket, and his face has more raw emotion on it than TJ’s seen in a month. “We might be in here a while,” Sam says softly, his breath tickling TJ’s neck as he peers over his shoulder.
TJ turns, and he and Sam step back into the kitchen.“So tell me about yourself, TJ Hammond. Apparently you’re some sort of suave sex-god heartbreaker playboy, but being friends with superheroes means I know what the papers say is ninety-percent bullshit,” Sam says.
TJ reaches past Sam to place his empty mug in the sink, brushing his arm against Sam’s stomach in the process (and holy shit, those are some tight abs). Sam sucks in a quick breath and TJ smiles. “It’s not entirely bullshit,” TJ tells him, and Sam laughs.
*
V.
TJ is hanging out in Sam’s living room, his shoes kicked off by the door in deference to Sam’s impeccable condo. He has his arms crossed, his head tipped back against the couch cushions, and he’s just trying to remember to breathe. He hears Sam’s car pull up, hears the telltale sound of Sam singing as he gets out of the car, the last bit of whatever was last playing on his satellite radio station. TJ’s eyes slip closed; his stomach is full of butterflies and this was a terrible, terrible idea, but it’s too late now.
Sam comes in to the house through the side door, into the kitchen. “What the - BARNES!” he calls out, glancing around the corner to where TJ is sitting in the living room. “I appreciate your culinary adventures, man, I really do,” he says, turning back to sweep up some of the mess TJ’s left on the counter into the sink, “I mean, it’s a hell of a lot better than midnight raids on my kitchen, and whatever the hell it is, it smells great, but you have got to learn to clean this shit up.”
TJ winces and rises slowly to his feet, walking toward the kitchen like a man heading to an execution. He tried to clean up after himself, but honestly, that has never been TJ’s strong suit.
“This is your home,” Sam’s saying, “but sharing a space means respect for other people’s -” Sam turns around to see TJ standing in the doorway, “and you are not Bucky.” TJ raises both his flesh-and-blood hands and waves. Sam grins, the sweet, wide smile that makes TJ’s knees feel like jello. “Heya, TJ. Didn’t know you were hanging out today.”
“Sorry if I made a mess,” TJ manages.
“You did, but it smells like it was worth it,” Sam tells him, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms. His eyes are warm, skating over TJ in a way that makes him feel both more and less nervous about this entire situation.
TJ flushes a little, shrugs. “It’s nothing fancy. Even a moron can manage a decent bolognese.”
“Then yours is probably amazing,” Sam tells him, and TJ is consistently amazed at how Sam can drop a compliment into anything, especially when he knows TJ is so bad at receiving them. Sam lifts the lid on the pasta sauce and peeks inside. “Though I have to tell you, if you’re planning on feeding Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, you probably should have quadrupled the recipe.”
“Nah, Steve and Bucky took a drive down to the beach,” he says, trying for nonchalant even though it’s pointless. Your best friend and my crazy uncle left me alone in your home to cook dinner for you because they’re sick of us ‘making big cow eyes’ at each other is more accurate, but TJ’s trying to be at least a little suave, here. “Just you and me for dinner.”
“Is that so?” Sam asks, his smile slipping into something a little more suggestive, and TJ’s dick twitches in his jeans. Sam saunters toward TJ, his eyes never leaving his face. “Something you want to tell me, Hammond?”
There are about three million things TJ wants to tell Sam, starting with how much he admires Sam’s friendship and courage and steady heart and ending with how much he really, really wants to get his hands on Sam’s perfect ass, but literally all of them flee his head in the face of Sam’s gaze. He runs his hand nervously through his hair. “Well, before they left, Buck said something along the lines of ‘nut up, or shut up’, so.” He waves his hand helplessly around the kitchen, where he somehow thought that cooking dinner and making a mess would be the best way to tell Sam all the things he’s been feeling since they shook hands in TJ’s kitchen four months ago.
“Thought you’d wine me and dine me?” Sam asks, his eyebrows raised. He’s still smiling, his hands loose at his sides, but TJ can see the tense line of his shoulders.
“I thought about taking you out somewhere nice, but there’s always paparazzi…” TJ swallows around the tightness in his throat. “Fuck, I come with a lot of baggage, Sam. I’m a recovering addict. I’ve never had a real relationship in my life. My last boyfriend dumped me for his wife and I… didn’t handle it well. Also, in case you hadn’t heard, my mom is the President of the United States. If you were with me, people would sift through your life, your family’s lives. Hell, they’ll go through your fucking trash, Sam.” He stops, because what the fuck is he thinking, even trying to convince Sam that being with TJ is a good idea. It’s a terrible idea, it’s the worst idea.
Sam shakes his head. “TJ - my best friend is a 97-year-old supersoldier whose brainwashed assassin boyfriend is back from the dead, and somehow they both now live in my condo. I work at the VA with folks whose stories are enough to make me want to punch things every day. I’m okay with baggage. You’ve just given me seventeen reasons to say no. You want to try giving me a reason to say yes?”
TJ looks at Sam, who is still standing there, smiling and solid and beautiful. “I think I’m falling in love with you,” he says, the words falling from his mouth before he can stop them. Sam’s smile slips, and TJ’s not going to cry in Sam’s kitchen. He’s not. He took his shot, and at least now he can move on without any what-ifs, and -
“That’s a pretty compelling reason,” Sam says, and curls his hand around TJ’s waist as he steps impossibly closer.
“Sam -” TJ whispers, but Sam just leans in and kisses him, slow and sweet, and TJ might cry, he really fucking might, but he thinks Sam will forgive him. His arms wind around Sam’s broad shoulders and Sam makes a satisfied sound against TJ’s lips. TJ takes that as an invitation to kiss Sam the way he’s wanted to for ages, deep and wet, needy enough that he’d be embarrassed if it weren’t for Sam pressing him against the door frame with a groan.
“You’ve been holding out on me, Hammond,” Sam murmurs against his lips. His fingers are already skating under the hem of TJ’s shirt, and TJ shivers.
“Sorry,” he breathes. “I didn’t know if -”
“You’re a dumbass. Your whole gene pool is full of dumbass people.”
“Hey,” TJ grins, “might I remind you that my mother is the Pres -”
“Shut up about your momma and get your damn pants off.”
“Oh, that’s romantic,” TJ tells him, but his hands are already on his fly.
Sam just laughs. “Hey, this is what you get, pretty boy. Take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take it,” TJ tells him, and Sam kisses him again.
*
+I
The Medal of Honor is the highest honor that can be bestowed upon a member of the American Armed Forces, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs intones at the microphone. The crowd is huge, a mix of press, servicemen and women, history buffs and politicians. On the small stage set up on the White House lawn, President Elaine Barrish stands beside a figure in full military dress, down the pristine white gloves on his hands and the spit-and-polish black of his boots. The Medal has been awarded posthumously on numerous occasions, but never have we had the pleasure to re-award the Medal to a brother who has returned from the grave. In the name of Congress, it is my distinct pleasure to re-award this Medal of Honor today to Captain James Buchanan Barnes, for conduct above and beyond the call of duty...
The Chairman keeps speaking as President Barrish greets the Army officer who presents the medal and lifts it gently from the soft lining of its case. When she turns to the man in front of her, her back to the audience for a short moment, her face slides from a perfect Presidential smile to a mother’s furious glower. TJ Hammond barely keeps from cracking a smile - after all, there are fifty cameras pointed at him at the moment.
“Of all the stupid, ridiculous stunts,” his mother mutters, sliding the blue strap over his head and resting the medal against his chest. “You have no idea how much I wish I got to pin this medal on you. Right in the chest.”
“He told you he wouldn’t go for this, but you’re the one who wanted a public ceremony,” TJ murmurs, careful to duck his head out of sight of the cameras. “I’m doing you a favor, Mom.” She narrows her eyes enough that TJ knows he’s not done hearing about this - maybe he won’t ever be done hearing about this - but when he glances at the back of the crowd he spots a trio of familiar set of faces: Steve, barely recognizable in a bomber jacket and baseball cap, a week’s worth of stubble on his face; Bucky, dressed in a douchey pink button-down he stole from TJ’s closet and a pair of aviators that make him look like TJ on his worst day; and Sam, dressed to the nines in his dress blues and looking so good TJ’s mouth goes dry.
“Eyes up here, soldier,” his mom says, and she’s pissed but there’s a hint of humor underneath it. TJ winks at her, well aware the cameras will pick that up, and smiles wide when his mom just rolls her eyes and shakes his hand.