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Chapter Text

He discovered it, as he did many things nowadays, by nearly getting struck in the face. Stood on a Manhattan corner, mid-morning, waiting for the walk light with two coffees snugged in a cardboard carrier, Bucky watched youngsters careening down 92nd Street.

They rode stout bikes with stunt pegs, banana-seat beach cruisers, and one commandeered a Harley-style hog with handlebars that reached way back. Several pedaled wheelies along the double-yellow line in a roadway jammed with vehicles: yellow cabs, flashy BMWs, sleek electric cars, dusty buses, and two-toned clunkers. Several boys leapt off their bikes to chase them, racing on spindly legs to switch steeds. Two caught up to new bikes, drawing them up into wheelies, while the others scuttled backward to capture the rearmost bikes.

The third lost control. His bike sped towards the New Yorkers collected around Bucky. Reflexively, he caught the handlebars with his gloved hand, but the bottom wheel struck his leg, the impact sending his cargo sailing. Each nearby businesswoman, tattooed dog walker, and college student stepped smartly aside as steaming coffee splashed dramatically on Bucky’s jacket, pants, and boots.

The teen skidded to a stop nearby. He was a lanky fellow, and his most striking feature was a puff of curls that descended into a fade with several stars shaved around his ears. In contrast to Bucky's duds, he was clad head-to-toe in soft gray sweats, graffitied words splashed across his narrow chest, and pants rolled to his knees.

Grimacing as two cups of joe glugged against the pavement, the kid pedaled his hands ineffectively as he exclaimed, "Bruh!"

Bucky squinted at him, "Huh?"

The boy hurriedly knelt, scrabbling at the cups, righting them, "Sorry, sorry, sorry! I think this one has some left." He shook it, then tucked it back in the cardboard holder and straightened up.

Bucky was surprised to note his height, they were essentially eye-to-eye as they wordlessly exchanged bike for coffee. Swinging the bike so it faced the right direction, the kid craned his neck to clock his friends' location.

He said, inexplicably, "You Venmo?"

"What?"

"Hand me your phone."

Bucky reached, dripping, into a jacket pocket to fish it out.

"What even is this?" The kid sounded disgusted. "You know how to text?"

Offended, Bucky muttered, "Yes."

Rapidly typing with both thumbs, the kid said, "Here's my number. I'll get you back for the coffee? Bet."

He slapped the phone into Bucky's hand, pausing to give the glove a double-take.

Bucky said, "You don't need to--"

"No time! Text me!" The kid swung the bike on its rear wheel and hopped on, hollering after boy-shaped-specks zig-zagging across the asphalt horizon.

The traffic light clicked to green, the corresponding walk signal appeared, and street-level humanity surged forward. Pedestrians eddied around Bucky, stepping over the coffee spill with eyes glued to phone screens. Nothing left doing, Bucky tossed the empty cup and carrier in a bin, hefted the remaining cup, and set his feet towards Sam and the 92nd St. Y.

Chapter Text

In the conference room, Sam was sacked out in a rolling chair, arms crossed tightly to hold himself upright. Placing the paper cup beside Sam’s open laptop, Bucky noiselessly settled into the seat he'd temporarily vacated. First he dabbed off the worst of the coffee spill, then he took out his phone and started scrolling.

"I'm awake!" Sam jolted beside him.

"No one here but us chickens," Bucky muttered.

Sam peered around, rubbing his eyes, "Ms. Goldberg and her assistant are still off putting out that fire, huh?"

"I guess. Good power nap?” Bucky said, locating the kid's number and trying to decide on a label. Bike boy? Coffee killer?

"Had better," Sam stretched. His spine popped and crackled, which Bucky politely pretended he couldn't hear.

These meetings were life-sucking. Sam in particular had been going full-throttle for months, working six, sometimes seven, days a week to parlay the Captain America role into an NGO. Soon after he and Bucky, (with tagalong Shuri, not that he'd say that to her face), returned to the US to assume a version of his patriotic duties, Sam announced he was founding an effort called Circle Up, modeled in part on the VA peer support groups had Sam previously organized in DC. This time the focus wasn't on the mental health of military vets, but on supporting established post-Blip repatriation programs as well as job training and creating new anti-recidivism programs for young adults.

Thus far, with Shuri's assistance, Sam had identified a list of likely partners (beginning of course with Wakanda's Oakland and Harlem-based outposts) and traveled relentlessly between the Bay Area, New York City, and Chicago to pitch the program and promise resources to not-for-profits and faith groups. Why Sam insisted Bucky join him, he could not fathom. Unlike Sam, he'd never worked in an office, had no context for jargon like "Board governance" or "mission-creep", and what he understood about modern incarceration could be summed up in Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues, a song that impressed Bucky when he heard it on Sam's Welcome To The 21st Century, Steve (and Bucky) playlist.

"Why is this half-empty?" Sam griped, shaking the coffee cup. "You drink it, or just spill it down your jacket?"

Glancing up from his phone, Bucky eyed Sam eyeing Bucky's situation: his coffee-splashed contrast to Sam's smart, slate blue button-down tucked into flat-front slacks (apparently pleats went out of fashion).

"See, there's your problem," he retorted. "You could be a more positive person and describe the cup as half-full."

Before Sam responded, they were interrupted by the return of the director and her assistant, both smiley, small-statured white women in flowing blouses. The women gave Bucky odd looks, although the senior was more discreet. Neither questioned how a 100+ year old, twice-soldier once-assassin managed to suffer something as mundane and preventable as a coffee spill. Bucky felt his face do something when the younger woman's attention lingered a little too long and Sam elbowed him, eyes warning: friendly.

After some apologies for needing to step out, the women and Sam re-engaged. He powered his laptop back up while Bucky's butt powered down and his joints threatened to ache in the anticipation of acute boredom. The meeting, something to do with job skills training the Y had been struggling to get off the ground and how Circle Up could lend support, ate up the remainder of the morning. Bucky's contributions comprised entirely infrequent, affirmative nods and once (just once, Sam) jerking to awareness when someone asked him a direct question. Too many minutes later, the director took her leave, and the assistant turned to them on the way to the elevator, "Mr. Wilson, Mr. Barnes, we have a popular, new exhibit on the first floor I'd love to share with you."

When they entered the lobby, however, Bucky's attention snagged on a minor commotion. At the check-in desk two young people engaged in a battle of wills, one a willowy young woman and the other, to his mild surprise, was the bike kid. His advanced hearing let him easily listen in.

The young woman said, "I'm not going to mark you on time if you're not on time!"

"Bruh," the kid said. "I had something to take care of. I'm like ten minutes late, tops."

Interesting. Bucky tapped Sam's arm to signify his departure.

"You go ahead," he said, and to their host, "Pleasure to meet you."

"Ten minutes today, ten yesterday, and ten tomorrow," the young woman waved her hands around emphatically. "How many minutes is that? Do the math and get a WATCH."

"Nobody wears a watch anymore 'cept, I dunno, grandpas and tech bruhs."

"Excuse me," Bucky spoke quietly, but both kids startled anyway. Glaring, the girl pressed a hand to her chest. The boy perked up, "Hey, it's you!"

Bucky considered how he might move the older kid along but when he opened his mouth, out came, "You said something about an, uh, app? Er, verma?"

Seizing the opportunity of his colleague's distraction, the boy chucked a duffel bag behind the desk. "Venmo. I don't think you can download it to a flip phone but hold on. We'll figure something out."

As he moved bodily behind the desk, the girl scooted out, shot them a sour look, and departed. Instead of bothering with his admittedly limited phone, Bucky pushed up his jacket sleeve, revealing a thin band with several magnetized kimoyo beads. He hadn't actually looked for the app, but his trust in Shuri's thoroughness (and thoughtfulness) was absolute; he tapped to engage the holographic browser and scrolled money transfer options.

Silence. Bucky glanced up to the kid's full on saucer-eyes. Right. After Wakanda, where analog and digital spheres interlaced organically, he often failed to understand how far behind the States' state of tech could be. Switching into his 'nothing-to-see-here-folks' voice, Bucky said, "Just need to type your phone number in here and . . . ok, kid, you can send me $5."

"First off, it's Titus . . . sir," the kid corrected. "And no dice. I saw that was Starbucks. I got you for $15.'"

What strange variety of child was this, so willing to part with cash? "Titus, then. $5 and the name of whatever you call what you were doing on those bikes."

"You never seen a ride out? How long you been livin' here?"

He did math: Early '40s, few years here and there in the 50s, how long had Project Insight had him on ice in the 00s? "Fifteen years, on and off?"

Sam appeared at his shoulder. "This geezer harassing you?"

The saucer eyes were back. "Ooooooooh," Titus’s gaze pivoted between Bucky and Sam. "THAT'S why you're wearing one glove!"

Sam went to toss his empty cup while the kid reset himself with a head-shake.

"There," he tapped decisively at his phone. "Sent. Thanks for, uh, being patient, Mr. Win-- I mean Sergeant Barnes. And for not uh . . . um."

"Barnes is brilliant at not uh-umming," Sam returned. He grinned at Titus, and shot Bucky an appraising look that he found himself deeply reluctant to acknowledge. While respectful of his complicated, emotional-landmine dotted past, Sam was unrepentantly nosy when it came to Bucky's present. Time to go.

"Good meeting you, Titus." He said over his shoulder, striding towards the door.

"Next ride out starts at Washington Square Park," kid called back. "Saturday 2:00 pm. Cap can come, too!"

Chapter Text

In the wee morning hours, when Bucky was woken by nightmares, suffering insomnia, or otherwise could not override his mind, he engaged the Great American Pastime of scrolling the Internet in bed. Shuri had supplied him with an assortment of devices but the simplest and easiest to access was attached to his wrist (although Bucky had refused Shuri's maybe-a-joke offer to implant a holographic browser in his prosthetic). He rarely removed the bracelet, even to shower, finding its simplicity a comfort. Like his tendency to wear plain, dark clothing, Bucky preferred that which wasn't fancy.

Except . . . he did sleep on plant fiber sheets of Wakandan-make, stretched across a not-quite-firm-enough futon, which essentially comprised his entire bedroom. The space was large enough only for the bed, a chest for his minimal (Shuri claimed "meager") personal effects, and side table with lamp. Except Bucky resided in an efficient (NYC-speak for "minuscule") apartment in a brick row house several blocks from Sam's Crown Heights childhood home. His landlord, herself a veteran of several recent wars (conflicts? occupations?), had been pleased to rent to a fellow service member, tactfully overlooking the 70-odd years where Bucky had been a brainwashed assassin violently disrupting Western interests.

Sometimes, in that bed and suffering sleep-destroying guilt, Bucky embarked on deep Wikipedia dives that took him through darkest evening until the sun pinked his single, street-facing window. Other times, he fell into a doze near dawn and shouted himself awake. Early on, the landlady assured Bucky that his 4th floor walk-up had excellent sound proofing. Still, he feared that too many early-morning disruptions could lead to him being forced to move in with Sam.

A light tinkling sound from the kimoyo beads alerted him to a text. Muzzily, Bucky swiped away a Wiki article on reindeer he didn't recall opening. Often enough, Shuri or Sam --less often Peter or Riri-- sent a late-night or early morning missive, some nonsense hiding surreptitious checking-in. Except this message did not feature cute cats or a nauseating 5-second video of Peter swinging through Queens. It showed a posse of boys on bikes. Bucky recognized Titus in the lead, his fluff of hair and strange yellow clogs blurring across the screen. Elbowing his pillows into a better position, he half-sat to get a steadier view.

Yep. That was definitely Mr. 92nd Street Y, whooping and riding low on a bike whose front wheel looked ready to take off into the sky. Titus winked theatrically at the camera and leaned further back, stretching down an arm so his hand skimmed horizontal to the ground. The effect was a grace trimmed with the possibility of breaking a finger or few, maybe an arm. Perhaps going over backwards as the bike bobbed along. None of this happened and then Titus's bike gilded left, letting a new rider with both wheels ground-bound fill the frame. A smaller kid, shirtless, his dark chest shining with sweat, pedaled hard. He leapt from pedals to the seat, sparkly hightop sneakers catching sun. A chorus of kids’ voices hooted and cawed, raucous and proud.

With the clip concluded, a new text appeared: Just dropped --u get the exclusive

Despite knowing better, despite spotty memories of being a devil-daring teen in his off-time at the docks where he'd labored in his youth (now converted into luxury condos, of course), he dictated aloud, to his kimoyo beads: This safe?

Although he'd meant the bike antics, Titus responded: Yeah no I shouldn't talk to strangers online but u don't seem creepy so

Huh. What was considered creepy today, if not a professional ghost, or, as Stark once described him, one "popsicle murderbot, retired?"

Bucky: Thanks?

Titus: U must be ok since u hang w/Capn Am. Can you pls like this video we're trying to get more likes and subscribers

This felt too complicated for 2:00 am, but Bucky pressed on.

He texted: Subscribers?

Titus: Yeah on RedHook RideOut our YouTube channel

Bucky: I don't understand those words in that order.

Titus: 🤣🤣🤣🤣

Titus: Click the thumbs up 👍🏾 or u can subscribe

Bucky: Is this some kind of business?

Titus: Its my side hustle Anybody who is not a nobody has 2 at least

That sounded familiar. Occasionally, Sam referred to Avengers work as his 'side hustle from Hell.'

Bucky: Isn't your first job school? Which makes the Y your side hustle and far as I've seen, this bike thing makes you late.

Titus: 🤣 Judge much?

Titus: If u count school & I dont bc thats lame, I have 5 jobs

Titus: I also teach swim & lifeguard

Titus: Also, RHRO is on YouTube & Tik Tok but since ur not a kid I sent u the YT link not TT

Not a kid. An understatement bigger than the Empire State Building. Or likely that was no longer the tallest building in Manhattan these days. What was –Nordstrom Tower?

Bucky: I'll bite. Where else can I see your work?

Titus: Make sure to thumbs-up! Like this: 👍🏾👍🏾 Here's a few more u might like that arent me or my crew K goodbye talk to you again prolly never

What followed was a succession of short clips, several starring Titus. Others showed 'bike dancing,' which looked like climbing up and down a spinning bike and a sped-up 'alleycat,’ which was a type of street race featuring heavily tattooed bike couriers sporting baggy shorts overlaying tights and more than one leather fanny pack (even a man-out-of-time like Bucky knew those weren't hip). These were fun to watch, but he found he wanted to see more of Titus and crew --he was developing a soft spot. Their exuberant delight and failure were infectious, even as the boys tumbled off their bikes, limbs dramatically thrown out, and spilled across the pavement like milk.

Soon Bucky is watching two look-alike teen boys share funny reaction videos to popular songs produced long before they were born (decades after Bucky's birth), grown men gliding with enviable grace on roller skates, and endless clips where young and old alike attempted curious dance choreography in locations as varied as public transit stations and suburban living rooms. By the time his alarm twinkled, Bucky noted one recurring phrase.

Although 6 AM was likely earlier than Titus's wake-time --he seemed the kind of guy who'd need the blankets dragged off his prone, drooling body-- Bucky assumed a message sent warranted a response. If not, there was always Wikipedia. Or Sam. On second thought, not Sam.

Bucky: What can you tell me about black boy joy?

Chapter Text

"Man, would you stop?" Sam complained, barely getting a hand up in time to hide his jaw cracking, shoulder tightening yawn.

Sam glared. Bucky shrugged, but internally he smiled. He wasn't any more bored or tired than usual. In the before he'd crouch for hours, sometimes days, tracking a mark. Even in the Army, where dullness and exhaustion were the rule, not an exception, and outwardly reacting was impermissible. Therefore, in the now, if Bucky's face wanted to yawn, he gave it full permission. Inevitably, Sam followed suit and then loudly complained. Small, perverse joys never got old.

They sat in a small room, surrounded by metal file cabinets and overstuffed chairs, after introducing Circle Up to a Pastoral couple leading a small neighborhood congregation. To Bucky, partnership seemed unlikely. Two minutes in, after shaking hands with the young, smartly-dressed couple and settling into the space, he'd gotten the sense it would be a no-go. He was starting to understand the rhythm. While numerous community based organizations in Brooklyn, Queens, and the Bronx expressed excitement about Circle Up, (including Titus's Y, which had already scheduled follow-ups with Sam), a surprising number turned it down. Bucky could barely imagine what would inspire anyone to refuse free money; Sam had guesses.

He suspected that some people saw right through Circle Up's crunchy sit-in-a-circle-and-hug-it-out approach, spying at the program's core a subversion that directed resources to astute people who knew exactly what to do with them. Bucky's opinion: Sam gave people too much credit. Bucky figured people were way denser than Sam could admit, and distracted to boot. Fifty years of captivity had also taught him about how people loathe to cede power. Case in point, Sam resenting Bucky's influence over his yawns.

Speaking of, Bucky wished the Pastors would get on with it. They'd stepped out of the room to hold a hushed conversation which Bucky heard loud and clear through the half-shut door. Their whispers focused on how to turn down these plainclothes superheroes without seeming rude, although Bucky wasn't able to discern the reason for their disinterest. Popular opinion was that Sam truly did good out in the world when he wasn't punching in the face of that same world. In contrast to opinions around Bucky being an automatic rifle-carrying mad man of dubious morality who shouldn't be walking around free, drinking iced mocha lattes. Which, fair.

Lifting his hand to shield Sam from yawn #8, Bucky looked at his phone as it chirped.

Titus: Its not a movement its a way to be & also a hashtag so people can link stuff & find it easier

Bucky: But #Metoo is a movement, right? #Oscarsowhite?

Titus: I guess

Bucky: Is there a list somewhere of the joys?

Titus: What u gonna do with it? U get #blackboyjoy is for black boys right

"What you got going on over there?" Sam asked.

The leadership duo chose that moment to return and, five minutes later, Bucky was riding in a claustrophobic elevator with a silent Sam. Bucky felt torn between the impulse to distract his friend by calling attention to the age of the elevator which, with its metal gate that had to be pulled closed in order to run, might actually be older than himself. Little cheered Sam up more than poking fun at Bucky's age. Before he could speak, though, his phone buzzed again. Bucky tucked a home-printed brochure clipped with the church's business card under his arm to free up both thumbs.

Bucky: Don't worry about it. I'll learn more on my own. Ten minutes before you're late for work.

Titus: Shift starts at 4

Bucky: Here's your chance to be early.

Continuing to concentrate on his typing, Bucky trailed Sam from the elevator, through a revolving door, down a final flight of stairs out to the wide, bubble-gum spotted sidewalk, halting before one of those ubiquitous steaming pipes sticking up from the ground. Tripping hazards, everywhere.

"I wondered if you'd trip over that," Sam commented.

Bucky rolled his eyes, "The Winter Soldier falls down an open sidewalk grate?"

Titus: No its my lifeguard gig C u at the #rideout

Bucky cast his spotty memory back. When was the last time he'd ridden a bicycle, the 40's? He doubted Hydra ever had him chasing down marks on a track bike. Those were still a thing, right?

"Buck," Sam interrupted. "Who can you be texting? Did you make a friend?"

Bucky: And break my neck? Pass.

To Sam, he said, "I have friends."

Which stopped Bucky in his tracks. Was it possible to befriend a child? In the before, more so in NYC than in Indiana, someone Titus's age would essentially be an adult --holding down a job to help the family, or in charge of important labor on the farm. No one dictated who did or did not enter into relationships with a teen, for better or far, far worse, depending on the circumstances. In the now, adults and kids interacted in pre-set roles; as parents, teachers, mentors, or cranky old men who shouted about getting off their lawn (a trope in Sam's revolving catalog). None of these indicated what was considered appropriate between a super soldier and the owner of a bike that struck him.

Sam said, "Last I heard, your Rolodex contained me, Steve, Shuri, and Okoye, but I can see something's going on here. I won't pry."

"Why would you be in a watch?" Bucky stared hard at Sam.

"Watch--?" Sam laughed, "Oh. No. That's a Rolex, a Rolodex is a--"

Across the street, Bucky spied a hipster watering hole, standing out in monochrome contrast to the bright bodegas, Spanish-language electronics stalls, and fabric stores. He interrupted Sam with, "Need coffee."

"You still haven't explained how this caffeine thing works," Sam said. "Since booze doesn't."

As he turned to lead the way, a new text emerged.

Titus: Pro tip: appreciate don't appropriate

Chapter Text

"Sergeant Barnes," Shuri returned his text immediately. "It is 3:30 am. Why are you not asleep?"

Fair question. Also not one Bucky wanted to answer for fear it'd lead to extended conversation. There was a feeling creeping up on him now --yep, that was regret. Reaching out to the Princess was a gamble. Sometimes she could be counted on to simply answer a question. Other times, well. Now his kimoyo thrilled softly and it was too late to feign sleepiness or something else that would make it acceptable to not pick up.

"Hi," he said sheepishly as he engaged the holographic video function. "My text wake you?"

Shuri was pajama-clad and wearing a brightly patterned sleep cap that stood up like a lumpy cloud. Her concerned expression watered the garden of his guilt, the vines of it creeping up his neck to his face to make that part of his body, a regular traitor, bloom rosily.

"This really isn't important," Bucky added.

"Oh, stop," Shuri scolded. "You're not depriving me of anything I can't roll over and get more of. I wanted to see for myself that you are well."

"I am," Bucky confirmed, and then rubbed both hands over his stubbly jaw, cheeks, and eyes.

It had been another late night curled around his tablet in bed . The more information he consumed, the more convinced he became that he understood little. Appreciate don't appropriate, Titus had texted. For clarity's sake, he'd followed that trail --skimming the Twitter wars, considering past public discourse about elfin music producers sporting native headdresses, and rolling his eyes at odd terms transferring from youth to adults. Then again, who was he to talk with his 'fellas' and 'bustin' your chops?' Probably his slang could use a 21st century update, but no way would Bucky start running around demanding that people 'spill the tea' and he wasn't about to lay claim to #blackboyjoy. Far as he was concerned, different groups of people had a right to different flavors of fun.

Yet . . . something nagged at him. Maybe it was the unfamiliarity of focusing acutely on an aspect of his identity he never bothered to consider. Late night existential crisis belonged to the incredible harms he had wrought, to physical and psychological wrongs he could never, no matter how many additional years he lived, right. Who cared about a Midwest-born, NY-raised white dude curious about the antics of Black children, especially those clearly intended for public consumption? If he wanted to borrow from the spirit of their play --was that wrong?

"What do I need to know about appropriation?" He asked without a further preamble.

Hologram Shuri's expression shifted from concern to curiosity.

"I am prepared to accept your apology on behalf of the Kingdom of Wakanda and all of Bast's children, Blessed Be," Shuri said gravely.

Bucky paused, but when she bowed her head in an equally grave manner and fixed him with a serene expression, he cracked a grin.

"Ok, is this about my prosthetic, or the shield? Because I figure those are regular, run-of-the-mill theft."

"About that you would be correct," Shuri said. "But here we see those particular gifts were freely given --this time around. What worries you?"

"What doesn't worry me?" Bucky shifted until he was half-sitting, blankets and pillows bunched around him. He grasped the dog tags hanging from their chain around his neck, and ran his thumb across the bumpy text. "Where to start? I think . . . I made a friend?"

"How is that worrying!"

"He does these . . . bike tricks? It's a thing, a kid thing. I haven't been on a pedal bike in half a century. Anyway, fella introduced me to this concept --you heard of Black Boy Joy?"

Shuri settled in on her side of the hologram by resting her chin on her fist. "A phrase emblematic of how Black Americans respond, sometimes, to centuries-old, systemic struggles for equality and justice with resilience, panache, and joie de vivre? Companion to Black Girl Magic, although I look forward to when our phrases are less reliant on gender binaries. But that's a lecture for a different class."

". . . okay," said Bucky.

"I am not from your country; the less I say publicly about American cultures the less trouble I'll land. Counter question?"

"Shoot."

"What's the context?"

"Uh?"

"Are you and your new friend planning to post your pale face with the hashtag Black Boy Joy beneath it, on one of those trouble platforms?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then what?"

Bucky shrugged. Still clutching the dog tags, he sent his other hand to pluck carefully at the blanket, (always had to moderate that hand’s cybernetic strength), making sharp peaks and valleys. "I just-- I see. I don't know. Spent the last many weeks on Sam's Circle Up thing and I see it wearing him down. He says bupkus, but . . ."

"You worry. Which is your middle name, as the saying goes." Shuri interjected. "James 'What the Hell is Sam Doing Now' Buchanan Barnes."

"He's Captain AMERICA, Shuri. You think Sam does anything not tied to keeping that ship afloat?"

Shuri ducked her head in agreement.

"Anyway. What Titus and his friends get up to; he sent me these videos and I went down a rabbit hole. Got to thinking, why not Sam?"

"Why not, indeed. You might consider . . . asking him on a date," Shuri's face brightened with an unholy innocence.

He gave sharp eyes and silence. When she grinned wider, he acquiesced.

"The man barely sits for a beer."

"Hire your new friend."

Bucky raised an eyebrow.

"You require his expertise; compensate him. And never use that hashtag."

"Again, wasn't planning on it. I can't. Kid already has ten jobs."

"Barter then. Pay him in cookies --I know you bake. Go make trouble for Sam with your friend."

Bucky wrinkled his brow, "Wasn’t calling on you for permission, exactly."

Shuri laughed, "Ah, the fortunes smile upon you. Look! You received what you did not know you needed. Now can you sleep?"

Outside his window, the sky had changed little from its light-polluted black-gray haze. Inside his own body, Bucky was surprised to find a stillness that had not been present earlier. He felt a yawn come on, released it, and stretched, "Mmm!"

"Excellent," Shuri said. "Be sure to bake extra cookies --ginger snaps specifically. You know where to bring them."

Chapter Text

Later that day, Bucky stepped into the 92nd St. Y, sans Sam, carrying a tinfoil covered plate. A new teen assisted him while nearby Y patrons briskly tapped plastic fobs against a reader. Bucky signed his name, handed over his driver's license, and then followed directions he didn't need through crowded hallways until he reached an enormous room housing an Olympic-length pool, a smaller round pool, hot tub, and a dozen shouting, splashing kids.

A quick scan revealed, at poolside, Titus shirtless in red, rocketship swim trunks and blue swim cap, twirling a whistle. His expression was one of calm confidence as he observed the pod of younger children. Bucky paused, assessing whether he was about to interrupt a class, but Titus called to yet another teen (where were any adults working in this place?) and sloppily saluted her before heading towards one of several lifeguard's chairs placed at intervals along the length.

Bucky considered his street shoes and scanned the walls for rules around permitted attire. While he searched, he was spotted.

"Hey, it's Sergeant Barnes!" Titus visibly brightened and bounded over in a few lanky strides.

With Titus’s smile cranked to such an impressive wattage, Bucky found his face doing a little something in return. Must not have been too terrifying because Titus lifted his fist for a bump (Bucky met it delicately, using his non-vibranium hand). Titus peered with interest at the tinfoil covered plate.

"What's this? Hope it's food. Also I hope it's not food because can't have that near the pool."

"Um," said Bucky, faltering. Did he have a plan for what to do or say next? Not really. Shuri suggested: pay the kid in cookies. And here he stood, lamely.

"My powers of deduction say you're not here to swim," Titus took in Bucky's outfit. "Now ‘til six is kid's lessons. There's adult lap swim at seven, though, if you wanna. I bet you're a boss swimmer since you've had one hundred years to practice. 'Cept now I'm thinking maybe your metal arm is too heavy?"

Bucky shook his head, "Vibranium. Very light. No, actually I'm here to offer these, uh, cookies."

Titus's head tilted and Bucky hastened to add, "They're safe. I mean, I baked them myself."

"You made cookies? For me? What did I do to deserve cookies? I literally hit you with my bike and spilled your coffee."

"You already made up for that," Bucky said. "And helped me out. I mean, I learned about a lot of . . . cool things through you. Consider these a thank you."

Accepting the plate, Titus lifted the cover, “They smell great! But, bruh, we’re already even."

"Then how about we consider them prepayment?"

They met eyes and Bucky discovered a scrutiny that felt adult, almost out-of-character, for this otherwise buoyant teen. Titus raised a finger and swiveled, dutifully scanning the pool, and then pushed the plate back towards Bucky, "I dunno, this is kinda weird? You're like an intergalactic super soldier and you baked cookies for a rando you met on the street? These aren't mind altering, are they? If you're gonna start with the Hail Hydra, I really can't right now. Come back at eight --my shift's over and we can do the good vs. evil thing then."

Bucky raised his palms to show he intended only peace, "Want me to get Captain America to vouch that I’m no longer a public menace? Keep the cookies, or give them away. I can’t have them in my apartment."

Titus pulled his lips to one side, considering the crinkled metal in his hands. "C’I think about it?"
"Sure," Bucky nodded, and took back the plate. "How about I leave these in the break room?"

Attention drawn to a commotion in the pool, Titus nodded and pointed to the far end of the room.

Ten minutes later, Bucky had installed the plate in an office with a large window that overlooked the pools. He hoped Titus got a cookie before they were scented and consumed by one of the seemingly endless numbers of young employees.

Next on the to-do list was meeting up with Sam at a storefront masjid in Harlem where a Circle Up outpost was taking shape. He arrived a bit late due to expected-unexpected subway slow-downs. Sam, a pretty woman in sparkly blue hijab, and a kind-faced, bearded man met him at the door. When he produced more of his fresh baked cookies, they exclaimed in delight.

Toeing off his shoes, he evenly met Sam's gaze as their hosts lost themselves to the distractions of sugar. He hoped the implicit ‘see, this is how it’s DONE’ transferred nonverbally.

"Mmm!" said the man, "Sgt. Barnes. You spoil us."

"What an unexpected treat," the woman added. "Come, I will brew some tea and we can take a break from the planning and thinking. There's a garden out back that you haven't yet seen."

Sam clapped his shoulder and nudged him forward, murmuring, "Cookies, huh? Probably sealed the deal."

That was probably overstating it since the masjid's youth program leaders, a separate team from today's hosts, had already made plain their interest. Still, food freely given paved a path to the heart like little else. After the earlier ambiguous interaction with Titus, (again, what manner of kid freely gave up money and wasn't swayed by sweets?), Bucky appreciated the win.

Chapter Text

"Hey," said Sam, opening his door in sweats. "We made a plan I forgot?"

"I made a plan," Bucky brushed past.

Sam decorated for maximum cozy. His apartment, the family home, had passed between cousins when his mother and sister relocated south to be near Sam after he enlisted. It was compressed in the typical NYC way, each room serving triple-duty. A bank of thick-framed windows in the living room / dining space / office shone warmly on a deep brown leather couch. An accompanying wingback chair, draped with blankets, formed a trio with a sturdy, industrial wood coffee table and faded Turkish rug. Usually, upon entry, Bucky kicked off his boots and sank into the couch. This morning, he briskly continued into the kitchen, lifting several cloth bags onto the well-worn butcher block counter.

"We don't have anything on the schedule," Sam said, sounding more baffled than put out as Bucky unloaded groceries. Eggs, turkey bacon, potatoes, orange juice . . .

"You got onions or peppers?" he asked.

"Both," said Sam, making for the refrigerator. Bucky stopped him with a raised hand, then motioned to the bar stools that were technically in the living room, converting the kitchen counter into a bar.

Sam perched. "Ok. What did you do?" he asked, crossing his arms. "I mean, that you're apologizing for by comin' in here and taking over my kitchen."

Bucky shook his head mutely. Turning his back on Sam, he collected what he needed from the crisper, and gathered his thoughts. After temporarily relocating to NYC, Sam cooked several times for him and Shuri, (once for that spider kid, who remained so awkward around Wakanda's Princess that Sam and Bucky privately agreed not to invite him back until he was able to better conduct himself). Bucky had't yet returned the favor and, really, hadn't fed anyone since staying overnight at the Avengers facility upstate. Now, that seemed strange because cooking was something he'd always enjoyed.

Hefting a chef's knife, he tested the edge against his thumb. Sharp. The handle's weight rested comfortably in his palm as he pointed it at Sam, "I'm cooking.

Giving the wine rack on the wall a brief glance, he added, "You're making drinks. Mimosas? Bloody Marys? Keep with that face and it'll stick."

"What do you mean? This is how I always look when an unexpected visitor shows up to commandeer breakfast."

Bucky held his silence. Wasn't sure he totally understood, himself, the connections between his actions, his early morning chat with Shuri, baking for one of the city's many trouble-magnet teens, and this moment. Better to let the food do the talking. In twenty minutes, the meal was in fragrant motion; plated by thirty and garnished with rosemary sprigs. Sam, returning from a military-speed shower, took the mimosa Bucky handed over and resumed his perch.

"Yeesh," he complained mildly. "Could have left me the drinks, at least. Now I've contributed nothing."

"Well, this is my contribution," Bucky tried out the excuse. "Figured it was about time."

Sam gave him another funny look but clearly wasn't suspicious enough to turn down an egg and fried potato scramble dotted with red bell pepper, perfectly crisped turkey bacon (no small feat! Bucky had burned a lot of bacon before adjusting to the reduced fat), and buttered multigrain toast.

"Damn right," Sam agreed, but at the end his smile turned a little sad.

--

Although Sam made happy noises throughout breakfast and hadn't turned on jazz or r&b, as usually played in any location he spent more than twenty minutes in, Bucky couldn't get that sad smile off his mind. When Sam reached to take his scraped-clean plate (a compliment that Bucky registered with silent satisfaction) to the kitchen, Bucky intercepted. Sam dropped his hands and huffed lightly.

"What's next on today's list?" Bucky asked in an effort to distract.

"After that meal?" Sam said as he leaned back and stretched. "The gym. Whew! It'll be slow going."

Bucky nodded, filling a metal prep bowl with hot, soapy water.

"Mmmhmm. I got your number. I know this version of James Buchanan Barnes."

"Yeah?"

"‘J'Abari Wakandan Mountain Tribe Day Spa' Barnes, right? With the 'cooks breakfast' expansion pack."

Internally, Bucky smiled as he dipped plates and utensils into the steaming water. Outwardly, he cut Sam a look. "You got opinions?"

"When do I not? But, hey," Sam raised both hands in surrender, "Look at me stepping back here, letting you do your thing."

"My thing. Sure. Come with me on an errand I need to run."

"Was that an invite, or a command?”

“Invite”

“Anything to do with Circle Up, corralling baby Avengers, or chasing down baddies?"

"Nope."

"I'm in."

--

On this rare day off, Bucky had zero desire to set foot in the subway. Equally rare was cajoling a passenger to perch behind him on the Triumph. From the insulted wrinkle Sam's eyebrows made, might not happen now either.

"What?" Bucky's voice echoed in the garage where he rented a berth for the motorcycle.

Sam pointed accusingly at the bike, "Riding this thing points to your so-called 'errand' ending in a firefight with AIM or some other wacko. I'm not getting on without my wings. Better yet, gimme five minutes to grab my suit and I'll follow."

"This is my city bike and the only variety of trouble that happens at a boutique in Lower Manhattan is spending more than you planned. Let's just go, get my stuff, and maybe grab lunch."

"First breakfast, now lunch. We making a day of it?"

Bucky shrugged, "Sure."

"Wanna say a little more?"

"Nah."

"Okay, Mr. Mysterious."

Bucky laughed, "Trust me. Nothing weird's happenin'."

"I'll be the judge of that," Sam crossed his arms.

Bucky took a breath and felt his chin rise in challenge, "Fine. What's your verdict?"

Truth was, he couldn't put this impulse into words if he tried. What was he going to tell Sam, that he was following a thin thread of intuition, connected to some random kids horsing around on bikes, winding through a desire to show up in someone's life as something other than trouble, something connected to fun and ease and joy, not just work all the time, not only striving, and not redemption for the harm he continued to bring into everyone else's lives simply by being? One sentence in and Sam'd be all over him, droning about linking him up with a therapist. And today wasn't about Bucky, even if maybe it appeared that way. Today was about Sam.

"I dunno," said Sam. "Gimme something to respond to."

Flipping open the bike seat compartment and pulling out two helmets, Bucky hedged, "We're going on an errand in support of my mental health. Don't you want to support my mental health?"

"Too late," Sam snorted as he accepted the second helmet.

He didn't attempt to leave, though, and waited for Bucky to settle on the motorcycle. Tucking in behind Bucky, he added over the soft rumbling, "You've been batty for a century."

Chapter Text

Bucky brushed a skein of oatmeal colored yarn against his cheek. The shopkeeper had suggested this method for choosing between textures, but he suspected she and the other women simply wanted to watch a broad shouldered man with a bun engage in an activity that was soft and silly. Deeper within the shop, where he was less likely to be recognized by passersby, Sam tapped sedately at his phone. His response upon walking into the narrow space lined floor to ceiling with shelves displaying a rainbow assortment of yarns, was to raise an eyebrow and then quickly lower it when the elegantly tattooed and septum-ring adorned staff welcomed them. Between the men’s opposite positions, a handful of female customers whispered excitedly together, (Bucky took care not to overhear them), but no one approached.

With no pressure to rush or be anywhere else, Bucky breathed in the scent of clean wool and cotton fabric, patted his face with a silky merino / cashmere blend, and felt his heart rate drop. When the social worker he'd been assigned upon returning to the States suggested he try taking up a hobby he'd enjoyed previously, knitting came to mind. When he was a young man during the Second World War, learning had been pragmatic, and doubled as a way to numb out without completely closing off. Although so many memories were lost to Hydra and the chair, his body seemed to have retained the wrist flicks that produced well scrambled eggs, knitting, and knife tricks.

His pocket vibrated and Bucky fished out his phone. He half expected the message to be from Sam --the man had yet to look up from his device since finding a corner in which to wedge his bulk-- but the icon hailing him was a gray 'TT'.

Titus: Bruh the cookies 🍪

Bucky: 😌

Titus: The other lifeguards went ninja on me when I tried to get a cookies I had to battle & only got half of one

Bucky: 🙁

Titus: Are there more 🍪🍪🍪

Bucky: Sure.

Titus: Two dozen more 🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪🍪

Bucky:😅 We could arrange a trade.

Ears picking up an unexpected sound, Bucky glanced over to Sam clambering up a wooden ladder. Stretching to reach a ceiling height shelf, he passed several yarn balls down to a customer. She smiled brilliantly and indicated something else nearby. Then the woman, and several others, gathered to admire Sam's bared stomach. Nearby, a shopkeep surreptitiously nudged shut a low lying drawer bursting with colors similar to what the smiling woman held. She shared a shark's grin with her colleague and went to join the crowd below Sam.

Titus: Do you think ur good at cooking cause u had so much practice slicing & stabbing 🔪 🗡️

Bucky: I'm good because I started learning when I was your age.

Titus: I guess Do u think u could get me the cookies by Friday so I can take them Sunday 🚴🏾🚴🏾🚴🏾🚴🏾

Bucky: Probably. Hold on. Need to rescue Sam.

Titus: From aliens 👾 ?????

Bucky: From 👩🏾👧🏾👱🏻👩🏾

When Sam stepped down from the ladder, every person in the shop, other than Bucky, had found an excuse to be in close proximity. Several explained things that didn't need explaining and one boldly brushed different fibers against his clean shaven chin. Settled into the attention, Sam's smile flashed frequently and he widened his eyes in honest appreciation when an especially soft yarn touched his face. Bucky halted; no harm was being done, who was he to put an end to the positivity and admiration? Also, he was so out-of-practice himself, he didn't want to accidentally attract any of those hungry eyes his way. On impulse, he snapped a photo with his phone and, on an even stranger impulse, sent it to Titus.

Titus: 😮 You weren't joking

Bucky: Used to knit during the war. It's relaxing. Brought Sam along for the heck of it, but I didn't know this would happen.

Titus: Seems like it's helping Mr. Wilson already

Bucky snorted quietly. Noting that the tableaux had shifted, framed it with his phone: Sam leant against the counter, colorful shelves behind him, holding his hands spread, chest height, palms facing while someone wrapped them loosely with sunny yellow yarn. He chatted amiably to one of the shopkeepers while the customer stepped a few paces back, trailing yarn between them. Sam said something that made everyone laugh and the woman started to roll. A ball of plush yellow grew speedily from marble-sized, to lemon-sized, to a softball. As she went, Bucky took a few stills and even tried a video. With two pokes of his finger, all three zinged merrily away.

In barely any time, Titus returned a short video where Sam tossed back his head, mouth wide in a boisterous laugh as three ladies leaned towards him enthusiastically, one clutching what looked like a fuzzy, cartoon sun. There was something wholesome, or 'Disney Princess' as Sam'd say, about the scene. A single word flashed yellow near the bottom: #joy. Bucky felt his so-called (by Shuri, usually, though sometimes Sam, too) ice heart melt a bit.

Bucky: That was fast!

Titus: 😁😁😁

"May I take your items to the register?" a shopkeeper appeared at Bucky's shoulder, eyebrows raised and hands out to take the skeins he was squeezing the life out of under his prosthetic arm. "I can hold them so you have your hands free."

"Oh, uh sure," he said, mind immediately blanking on anything else polite and social.

She smiled, revealing two dimples, "Do you already have a pattern picked out? Needles? Other notions?"

Bucky quickly dashed off: NO TWITTER 🙅🏻♂️🐦 OK?

He let the clerk lead him away. Ten minutes later, he and Sam departed with a paper bag containing everything required to knit a hip bandana cowl. Bucky felt . . . odd, considering he'd ferreted photos of his friend away to his . . . new friend? Maybe he shouldn't worry about having a bit of harmless fun. Sam, after all, looked positively rosy.

"Get a few numbers?" Bucky asked, curious.

Sam shot him an incredulous look, his delight fading. He halted, letting other pedestrians winnow around him.

"Is that what this was about--?"

"'Course not."

". . . because those women are young enough to be my children."

Bucky shrugged, "My grandchildren, then."

Sam stared for a moment, then started laughing, "You are too much."

"Lunch?" Bucky asked, relieved to have dodged the mood change.

Sam clapped his shoulder, "Lead the way, but no funny business."

"Nope," Bucky agreed. None.

Chapter Text

"Night swimming, deserves a quiet night," Sam sang as they exited the locker room. "The photograph on the dashboard, taken years ago, turned around backward so the window shows, every street liiiight."

His voice bounced around the tiled room. Bucky had hardly met anyone so adept at coming up with a tune for every situation. Sam's pipes weren't half bad, though a wise person knew better than to admit this aloud. Never hear the end of it. This song sounded more melancholy than Sam's usual upbeat picks, where he'd lean into Bucky's personal bubble, staring him in the eyes while snapping along, barber-shop style, or pretended to belt into an imaginary microphone.

Sam continued unselfconsciously while setting down his towel. "Night swimming, deserves a quiet night. I'm not sure all these people understaaaaand. It's not like years ago, the fear of getting caaaaaught."

Tonight marked Bucky's first swim at the Y since he was a knock-kneed rugrat in the 30s, kicking alongside his buddies to their favorite spot in Bed-Stuy. Messaging back and forth with Titus while grabbing a bite in Noho with Sam had inspired him to suggest it. After lunch, they retired briefly to their respective apartments to take care of a few things. Then they met at the concierge to grab two free passes that Titus, man with too many jobs, insisted on reserving ("If cops drink free coffee at the bodega, you at least deserve a swim on the house.").

Speaking of, here he arrived, squeaking along in some kind of rainbow colored boat shoe so hideous Bucky couldn't avert his eyes.

"The man of the hour!" Sam waved cheerfully and he tossed his towel over a nearby safety railing.

"You made it!" Titus beamed. "Y'all got the passes?"

Bucky went to express his gratitude but instead out came, "What the hell is that on your feet?"

Titus lifted one foot to wiggle, "Like 'em? I traded my friend for this Cap Jibbitz. It's Steve Rogers but I bet they make a new Falcon Cap soon."

"I didn't understand a word you said," Bucky squinted hard.

"Don't mind him," Sam said, nudging Bucky's ribs. "Sometimes he needs a hard reset." He indicated the pool, "What do we need to know?"

They took in six rippling blue lanes, each occupied by at least one swimmer. Near the furthest wall, a collection of older adults bobbed along with styrofoam noodles and floats, immersed in mesmerizingly slow exercises.

"Y'all cool to share a lane?" Titus asked, already squeaking away. He knelt and splashed his hand in the water until the lane's occupant poked her head out of the water. A brief conversation that Bucky didn't intend to overhear but did result with the swimmer ducking beneath the lane rope to join the next lane over. Titus waved them in, "Have fun!"

Draping his towel over the safety railing, near Sam's, Bucky drew in a deep breath, released it and tried to relax from his instinctive positioning, body held in such a way as to make his prosthetic less visible. Rarely did he go gloveless or sleeveless, and he couldn't recall the last time his bare chest was on full, public display, hideous shoulder scars and all. Walking barefoot to the deep end, he ran his fingers around the back edge of the swim cap, feeling for untucked hair. Sam followed, positioning a pair of hastily purchased goggles over his eyes.

"Never knew you to make a friend so fast," Sam remarked lightly, but in a voice tinged with curiosity. "This stint of humanitarian work is doing you good. Sharpening those rusty social skills."

"Who are you calling rusty?" Bucky cocked his brow at Sam. "I'm effervescent; a bubbly delight."

Before his friend responded, Bucky dove, launching into a powerful butterfly kick that took him nearly thirty meters. The water felt on the warm side but otherwise refreshing after a day driving around the city, even a day as comparatively unstructured and frivolous as theirs. The far wall sped into view and Bucky flip-turned against it. A few kicks and he passed another body in the water, presumably Sam. Carving back and forth through the water, the world above disappeared for a spell. Swimming settled into his muscles --regular, familiar, addictive. Finally, his breath started to catch, and Bucky rose to grasp the wall. He was surprised to find Sam treading there, goggles flipped up with water streaming down his face.

"Totally forgot I was here, huh," gasped Sam. "You a fish now?"

A good friend would not aggravate Sam's soft spots, not get him riled up or egg him on to do something as unwise as taking up a super soldier's challenge. Bucky was not a good friend.

"Race to the end?"

"You'll say this NOW? After you just spent the past twenty minutes sharking back and forth, practically swimming on TOP of me?"

Bucky clicked his tongue, "I kept to my side."

"Yeah, and doing like, what? Backflips under the water. Now you expect me to do backflips."

"I didn't say you had to--"

"I'm winded here . . . Of COURSE you'd bat your eyes and gee-whiz-Sam me!"

Bucky felt a smirk bloom, "What I'm hearing is you're tired. How about just there? Not back."

Sam glared, "You think you're funny."

"You could just decline."

Sam splashed in his direction, "Damn well can't!"

Laughing and wiping water from his face, Bucky said, "Ok, then. What do you want? I'll take my arm off?"

"You want me to debase myself," Sam growled. "You want me to get destroyed on Twitter racing a known veteran without his prosthetic!"

Bucky held up a finger before Sam's rant could catch more air. "Titus!"

Barely a moment passed before the teen popped out of his booth, "Yeah?"

"Titus, give this whiner a thirty second lead?"

"For real? Falcon Cap and the Winter Soldier are gonna race in my pool?!!!"

"Oh. My. God," Sam threw his arms up, subsequently sank below the water, and rose sputtering.

Titus knelt, "Ok, Cap?"

"It's Sam," Sam grumped.

"Mr. Wilson," the kid nodded. Then he said, "Sure, Sergeant Barnes. Let me grab my phone from the office."

"It's Bucky!" Bucky called at Titus's thin back as the kid hurried away.

Sam threw Bucky eyes, "I hate you." Which meant Bucky had to spend the next ten seconds fighting to hold his composure. Luckily, Titus was back and sitting criss-cross at the water's edge, phone in hand, ready.

"Sure you do," Bucky countered. "Ready?"

"He gonna Insta this and humiliate me?" Sam asked.

"Naaaw!" Titus's aggressively innocent smile would have sent Bucky packing, but Sam heaved a sigh and got into position.

Titus's hand dropped; Sam pushed off the wall. When Titus's arm rose and fell a second time, Bucky burst forward. His body had once been a trained weapon, following orders. This was his choice and, with the choosing, arrived something sweet which filled his chest with gratitude. Cutting through the water, eyes stinging, Bucky followed the shifting light. He honed in on Sam's shadow, approached it, passed by, and let go.

Chapter Text

"Wine?" said Sam. "You're a whisky guy."

Notably, he didn't refuse the offered glass of red syrah flecked with barely perceptible, darker red sparkles. Bucky set out his mismatched stoneware, ripped off a few paper towels, and served up the pizza they'd grabbed heading home from the Y (Sam complained about contorting himself to hold onto Bucky as well as two awkward, square boxes, back of the Triumph).

“Correct,” thought Bucky, but he had a plan developing here. Also a bottle of East African wine stored for Shuri's semi-frequent visits. She refused to drink his "rocket fuel" or "what's-this-is it-even-beer?"

"I drink wine," He stated, knowing it barely true.

"Is this a peace offering after that excuse for legitimate competition?" Sam set down the glass to heft a slice, glistening with cheese grease.

"You gave it your best, that's all anyone can ask."

When Sam stopped chewing to glare, a giddiness rose in Bucky's chest. He swallowed the dangerous urge to laugh.

"Your form is decent. Anyway, I figured a long, hot soak could go a long way to soothing any . . . aches."

"Oh, now you're sayin’ I have a bruised ego? I've been calling you a friend and here you are, embarrassing me in front of senior citizens!"

To hide a smile, Bucky chomped off the tip of his slice, "They weren't paying you a lick of attention, Sam."

"Of course. All anybody had eyes for was the plumes of water following in your wake, Motorboat McFee."

Motorboat McFee! He allowed a small smile and sipped his wine, "Exaggeration."

Bucky’s goal, devised on the spot, had been brilliantly achieved: after that poor excuse for a race, which of course didn't conclude with one length because Sam was nothing if not thin-skinned about his non-super status (he'd never admit it). Four full laps later, Bucky's muscles felt pleasantly warmed . . . and Sam was a noodle. The hot tub was an added bonus, until their teenaged lifeguard politely kicked them out, declaring the pool closed.

And here they were, eating companionably --now that Bucky ceased his teasing. Sam asked Bucky a few questions about this curious knitting habit. He also inquired about Titus. Bucky responded carefully and with limited details, still unclear about limitations around adult-kid friendships. Feeling protective of this budding thing, he wondered how to legitimize it. Maybe convince Titus to join Circle Up?

"So what's the process for becoming a mentor?" The words were out before Bucky had considered them fully.

Sam's eyes brightened and he lowered his wine, "Yeah? You in? I won't even make you fill out the Google form."

"I don't know what that is." Bucky shook his head. "Anyway --forget it. One look at my ugly mug and half your partners will pull out."

"Why do you say that?" Sam's careful, neutral tone setting off a particular alarm in Bucky's brain.

He wiped his mouth, balled up a napkin. Told himself, “Tread carefully, jerk.” The wrong words would produce in Sam that look: sad, pensive, disappointed. Not at Bucky –worse. With him, for him.

"Y'know," Sam offered. "A good number of the front line staff are folks who've done time. People with a past not so different from yours--"

Bucky shot him a look, "No one else has a kill count in the 100s, Sam. I helped Hydra destroy nations."

"Easy," Sam said in a soft voice. "The Winter Soldier was responsible. Anyway, let's not, okay? We already agreed to disagree on that one."

Bucky dropped his head and sucked in a breath. When he glanced up, Sam somber eyes pinned him, then he lifted a hand to clasp Bucky's shoulder. At his firm touch, the pounding in Bucky's chest abated.

"I'm honored you're considering the program," Sam said simply.

Then he rose to dispose of their trash, letting Bucky pull himself back together. All straightened and put away, they retired to the adjoining living room. Before flopping down on the couch, Sam stretched his back in loud pops and creaks that Bucky wisely did not remark upon.

"Full day of eating, shopping, swimming, and more eating is, I guess, too much?" Sam said while muffling a wide yawn, "Five minutes to get my energy up and then I'll head home. Why are you pouring more wine?"

“Oh, it’s okay for you to yawn, huh?” Bucky thought. He set the empty bottle on the coffee table, beside Sam's glass and said, "Gotta finish this off. Shuri will know, otherwise.”

“She's def got this place tapped," Sam commented.

"And shoes off the couch."

"What? I know you ain't accusing Darlene's son of . . . "

Bucky caught Sam's heel where he'd paused mid leg-cross and tugged off his fashionable slip-on, "Hand me the other. C'mon, you know they go beside the door. No different than at your place"

Sam was all suspicion, "What. Is going on here??"

"Just drink your wine." Shoes disposed of, Bucky nabbed a nearby blanket (also acquired in-case-of-Shuri) and dropped it over Sam's head, making his whining marginally harder to hear before the man snatched it down.

Bucky settled in his own seat, lifted the remote, and clicked on the TV. Nearby, Sam finished his drink with an undignified gulp that further signified his being slightly out-of-it. He wondered blearily, "You bought a giant TV?"

"Yup. And I’ve got your baking shows all queued," Bucky swapped the remote for his Purl Soho bag. "Go ahead, put your feet up."

Sam stared. Bucky smiled blandly. He set a skein of yarn on his lap and unsheathed a set of bamboo needles. He wondered how slippery they would be to use. Back in his day, knitting needles were steel or Galalith plastic.

"Five minutes," Sam warned. "Then I'm gone. Got an early day tomorrow."

"Sure."

--

The GIFs started appearing around 9:30. Sam slept deeply on the couch, snoring intermittently, while Bucky wobbled his way through casting-on, half following creaky muscle memory (and a few YouTube videos). His fingers, natural and metal, moved at a reasonable clip, the yarn sliding smoothly. A cooking show that he wasn't really watching chattered and clattered on the (yes, Sam, giant) TV.

Titus's first creation showed Sam sliding into the water as large, colorful, crudely-drawn water drops leapt up --over which flashed #CapSplash in wiggly yellow letters. The next image was a still of Bucky and Sam treading water at the pool's far end. This time, Titus added a giant fish emerging from the water in the immediate foreground. Even from the camera's distance, one could spot Bucky's scowl and Sam's amused side-eye. They were practically caricatures of themselves: Cap and the Grumpy Assassin. Third and final GIF showed looped clip of Sam's and Bucky's elbows, forearms, and heels rising and disappearing, trailed by #WinterCapSplashSplashSplash in bold, black font.

Knitting resting on his crossed knee, Bucky scratched at his chin stubble. He semi-wished they could share these silly (joyful?) creations more broadly. Either way, why stop with those? Tapping to the photo album, he considered possible, additional shots that might benefit from teenage app-slinging magic.

A tiny snort from Sam prompted Bucky to glance up; he was very much still asleep. Bucky considered. He shouldn't . . . he couldn't.

He lifted his camera.

Chapter Text

Bucky was easing the second cookie tray into the oven when Sam gasped awake and tumbled off the couch. He staggered up, fighting off the blanket and swiveling his head, blinking hugely like a bleary owl.

"Mornin'," Bucky approached, scrubbing dough from his fingers with a damp kitchen towel.

"The hell? Sunny? It's --what day is this?"

"Thursday?"

"I--?" All went silent for a moment as Sam took in the rumpled state of his own clothing. “Happened to Wednesday?"

"Ended. You want something to eat? Or shower's available --I could loan you some clothes 'til you get home."

Fumbling his phone off the coffee table, Sam groaned, "Supposed to be at a meeting in twenty minutes!"

Bucky felt his forehead wrinkle as he took in this information, "It's 8:00 am. You don't usually start 'till 10:00, 9:00 at the earliest."

"Yeah, well if you ever checked our joint calendar, you'd’ve seen that I've got a follow up in Astoria."

"Oh. I thought that group was a 'no'."

"No is not 'never.' That school has a big reach and a relationship could open doors. Can't be rollin' in half an hour late --in slept-in clothes!"

"Okay. Gimme five and I'll drive you to your place."

Sam went to the door and started stuffing his feet into his shoes. He paused to sniff the air, "Somethin’ burning?"

"Crap!" Bucky hustled to the kitchen. It was past time to remove the second batch. Yanking open the oven, he used his left hand to grab the cookie tray. Tugging it out, he set a dozen (thankfully) perfectly browned cookies on the stovetop.

Sam froze, one shoe off, one shoe on. "What. Is. Happening? Cookies at the crack of dawn? Have you been possessed?"

Bucky grimaced, "Last time I lost myself, wouldn't say my waking horrors included baking."

Pausing again, one arm jammed in his jacket, Sam's frazzled frustration flowed to chagrin, to calm resolve. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

Bucky waved his apology away, shut off the oven with two decisive beeps, and turned his back on twenty four cookies, some destined to over-bake if not promptly removed from the still-hot metal. "I can come back to this. Let me give you a ride to your place."

But, before that --he tapped his kimoyo bead to hail a friend, "Shuri. Hey."

Moments later, everyone's favorite Wakandan Royal was on the case. As one who retired late, rose early, and commanded her own wings with which to soar across the city, Shuri agreed to sub in. Sam protested weakly as Bucky herded him out the door, but there was no help for it. Bucky shoved down his rising guilt to address later, probably in the form of anxiety-laced sleeplessness.

Thirty minutes later, he delivered a refreshed Sam, sharp in slacks and sport jacket, to a red-and-blond brick mini-fortress that read, on the side in two-foot letters: P.S. 143. Sam disembarked and adjusted his shoulder bag. Smoothing the fade that, far as Bucky could tell, was un-muss-able, he handed over the spare helmet and asked, "Presentable?"

Bucky flipped up his visor and took the spare helmet to clip on the seat, "Professional. Capable. Irresistible."

Sam shot him a glare.

"I'm confident Shuri's got this in the bag. Who could deny her?" Not Bucky or Sam, certainly.

"These are tough customers. Better get in there, scope the damage."

"Sorry!" the word burst from his throat like he'd been repressing it. Maybe he had. Why? What was one more for the heaving pile of wrongs?

When Sam's hand landed on his shoulder, Bucky barely registered it through his protective riding jacket. Sam’s face cycled through several expressions, seemingly landing on acceptance. "Later, man. You can clue me in. Appreciate the ride."

--

Sam wasn't a Silent Treatment kind of guy, but when Bucky didn't hear from him for the remainder of the morning and none of his texts to Sam or Shuri were returned with more than single word responses, he wondered. After dropping Sam off, he finished baking the cookies (those which had cooled on the cookie sheet turned out a bit crispy, but he highly doubted Titus would care as he and his buddies crammed them), cleaned up kitchen and body, and then sat down to pick up where he'd left off on the scarf. It felt strange, having idle time after the morning’s rush. A few silly errors prompted him to set his knitting aside, and he found himself revisiting Titus's creations. The GIFs and memes inspired smiles and a soft warmth in his chest. Then Bucky’s mind, ever vigilant, started poking at tender spots.

Clicking away from the photo gallery, he sent a missive out into the ether.

Bucky: Think I'm in trouble, possibly.

Titus: Me too if you keep texting me in class I'll hit you up over lunch

Point. And what was he doing . . . confiding in a child? Unfolding himself from the chair, Bucky went to the kitchen to grab the cookie container and stopped by the hall closet for his gym bag. Recess over. Back to work.

--

Post work-out, Bucky texted Shuri: Am I in the dog house? With Sam, I mean.

Shuri: I don't know that idiom. However, I can tell you this morning's meeting was boring beyond all reason. Amazingly, we survived.

Bucky: It went like Sam predicted?

Shuri: If Sam's prediction was that our success would be stymied by US public service sector politics, why did I disturb my morning to rush over?

Bucky: Beats me. Something about future connections.

Shuri: 🤨 That's to be seen. I can tell you I was brilliant, and Sam Wilson said many artful words. No more can be asked of us.

Bucky: No more should.

Shuri: Correct. Oh. It appears Sam Wilson would like a word.

Shuri: This is Sam. Where are you right now?

Bucky: Gym.

Shuri / Sam: The Y?

Bucky: No, my actual gym.

Shuri: Meet me at 92nd Street? I need to check on something before the day is out.

Bucky: Circle Up?

Shuri: See you in 30.

Shuri: This is Shuri. His expression is complicated. 😶 Were I you, I'd arrive prepared.

Bucky: Thought you said I'm not in trouble!

Shuri: I am wise, and you require my council, yet I cannot know everything!

Bucky: 😦

Shuri: Bast protect you.

Chapter Text

Bucky arrived ten minutes early. Heading in, he held the door for teen girls in dance outfits --bulky sweaters drooping from their shoulders, pink and black tights, and slouchy leg warmers. He could probably knit leg warmers like those . . . a new direction for Avengers merch, or a wildly ridiculous idea? Releasing the door, he stepped in, careful not to crowd.

Like Shuri intimated, a late afternoon meeting was unlikely; most Circle Up business concluded before noon. Sam might have some harmless prank planned, which was fine and, maybe, just desserts. Not that Bucky’d admit it aloud.

When it was his turn to show an id, he said, "No Titus?"

Whether the young woman recognized from his initial visit, he couldn't say. Either way, she griped, "That boy is NEVER on time."

"Huh. Thought he'd improved."

She made a somehow professional-yet-rude noise and waved him through.

Bucky's phone chirped. "Speak of the devil."

Titus: Can u come to 92 to help with something

Bucky: Here now.

Titus: What really

Bucky: Lobby. What do you need?

Titus: Oh wow 1 min

Bucky moved to one side of the foyer, avoiding the flow of people rushing to classes and activities. He considered whether he should alert Sam, who was probably still twenty minutes out, that he was stopping briefly see to Titus, or depart when Sam arrived . . . to get clobbered or whatever.

Titus: First floor there's this weird exhibit looks like a playground

Right. The one that their contact invited Sam to see earlier in the week. A nearby free-standing sign announced the exhibit. Pushing off the wall he’d been leaning against, Bucky walked toward it and the bright blue wayfinding arrow pointing down a hallway.

Bucky: On my way.

Titus: Hang a right at the slide just past the clouds

The exhibit appeared to be a cross between an art installation and a modern playground; everything bright and candy colored, backed by a soundscape of children's voices shouting and sing-songing. As Titus indicated, a tall slide dominated the large room, although no one currently used it. Bucky ducked past, hoping for a quieter space that tugged less at his hyper-vigilance. No such luck. The next room was dotted with enormous, color-changing clouds that throbbed with ethereal music. Everything felt, like Shuri’d say, turned up to ten.

In the next space, what looked like a super-sized inflatable pool greeted him. This was clearly intended to be the penultimate play space of the exhibit. Here, the lights were lower and the music quieter. Bucky easily located Titus on the far side of the pool, where the kid stared down at something in his hand, undoubtedly his phone.

Bucky gave a brisk wave and called, "Hey, Titus. Your friend at concierge is still complaining about--"

Titus's head jerked up. At his widened eyes, Bucky froze. A buzzing anticipation ignited in his chest and limbs and he braced against whoever --whatever-- advanced towards him.

He took the hit from the side, feet leaving the floor when the impact knocked him airborne. He and his assailant crashed against the side of the pool, which squawked horrendously as their bodies squeaked across inflated plastic. Then they tumbled into a sea of plastic balls, Bucky twisting to avoid hitting the bottom face-first. He need not have bothered; the whole thing was bouncy, and balls halted their progress down and also buoyed them. Strong arms, clamped around him, squeezed tighter. After a beat of resistance, Bucky made his body fall limp.

The arms were familiar, as was the size and weight of the body at his back. He'd been hauled, hoisted, snatched up, and swung about in this same embrace. And, if not his grip, then Sam's sandalwood and whisky cologne gave him away. If not that comfortingly familiar scent, then the self-satisfied growl as Sam flipped like a bear-hugging gator, positioning them so that it was Sam on the bottom as they floated together amongst the shifting balls.

Shutting his eyes, Bucky allowed Sam to have his way for a moment. A curious lightness bloomed in his chest, haltingly familiar. Bucky kept his eyes squeezed shut as he tested the edge of this feeling. Was this what Titus experienced as he careened down streets with his raucous friends? At around the same age, Bucky’s less well nourished height dwarfed a scrawnier boy, whom he’d crouched beside as they raised two sets of rough-knuckled fists, facing down neighborhood toughs. Afterwards, running and laughing, their teenaged voices bounced off the brick walls of a Brooklyn alleyway.

Memory served that he wasn't a stranger to this type of experience. Nor was he concerned by Sam releasing his arms, catching him by the collar on his jacket and propelling them both to the surface. Plastic balls exploded outwards when they hit air. Next, Sam's face hovered inches from his, looking far more grim than any grown man standing waist deep in a pool filled with colored balls should.

Giving Bucky a shake, he said, "Now's when you come clean."

Bucky snorted, "In this petri dish?"

Apparently not what Sam wanted to hear. In the depths, he hooked a foot around Bucky's ankle and down they went again. Although he'd never before entered one, Bucky learned that the ball pit didn't differ significantly from an actual pool. He took a ball-kicking stroke away from Sam, and broke the surface. Standing, he quickly located Titus.

"Put that down!" He pointed.

Titus, well out of reach with phone camera very much in hand, practically glowed with delight. There was more to demand, but first Bucky needed to distance himself from Sam: Sam, who was pointing a finger of his own.

"You made me late for my meeting!"

"I thought Shuri fixed things?"

"What about breakfast? The pizza? Too much wine?"

"Plus that whole knitting shop thing," added Titus, eyes on his phone and thumbs flying. "Super weird."

Sam considered the kid for a breath. Back to Bucky, cranked up with further suspicion. "What's going on, man?"

"Nothing."

"Not nothing. You got me in up here . . ." with a grunt of effort, Sam started towards Bucky, who'd put several meters between them. The bottom of the pool was bouncy underfoot: running or similar jerky forward motions would end in either embarrassment, disgrace, or peals of laughter from their audience of one. What would be gained? Bucky changed course and met Sam, taking him firmly by the biceps. Sam tensed, but Bucky didn't push, pull, or dip.

Looking directly into those familiar brown eyes, he said, "Ok. You're right."

"I'm right?"

"Something is going on."

"What?"

Here's where Bucky pushed, pulled, and dipped. After a brief struggle, they popped back up. Sam's expression was one of befuddled outrage. (Bucky's opinion, it looked good on him.)

"What's gotten INTO you? Did someone hit you with a de-aging ray? Are you fifteen?!"

"I resent that!" Titus protested. "Also If y'all stay in there any longer, I'm gonna need you to take your shoes off."

Over Sam's head, Bucky glanced at Titus, who was now leaning against the inflatable pool. He pointed to a sign nearby: Please: No Footwear in Ball Pit.

"Fair enough," Bucky said, wading to the edge. "Nice work. I hadn't expected you two to be in cahoots."

As Bucky passed, Sam reached beneath the undulating blue, yellow, green, and red surface. "I bought that kid over there for two liters of soda and a box of Red Hots. Turned on your sorry butt with a quickness! Now we’ve got a whole cache of embarrassing photos primed for one of those websites that start with the letter ‘T’ I just say the word."

"Hmm," Bucky tossed his shoes over the side of the ‘pool’. "You could. There's this GIF-set of you though --very charming-- a group of pretty ladies smiling like you're Prince Charming and there you are, chat-chatting. Anyone looking’d wonder: which dame is he sweet on? Vice versa. Then again . . . I almost like the swimming pool ones better, especially with your lips poked out like the sore loser anyone who isn't duped by the Cap schtick knows you are."

Sam's jaw dropped. Eyes narrowed, he whirled on Titus, "You two-timed Captain America??"

Titus retreated from the edge and shoved his phone deep into a back pocket.

"Back off." Bucky said sharply. "Not his fault you're a workaholic who never takes a day. Only way I could get you to chill was to not tell you. Of course now I'm saying that aloud, I can see how it might be problematic. Whatever --you got a home cooked meal and hot tub time.”

While Sam was pouting about that, Bucky added “I know you heard Titus say take off your shoes."

"Take off my--? You know what?" Sam complied with jerky movements. "First of all: you're too ancient to say 'chill.' Secondly: who taught you about Gifs?"

"Gif. Like peanut butter."

Sam stared, a shoe in each hand. Bucky grinned. He hadn't been truly afraid of angering Sam, since the man was generally a tough nut to crack. However, all the fuss had been a tiny bit concerning.

Sam addressed Titus, who had drifted close again. "Over here waxin’ pop culture he's got no business knowing! Is this the real Bucky? Could be a swap or clone . . . or Kree."

As Sam's inane chatter washed over them, Bucky failed to note what was happening until it was too late. At the side of the pool, Sam made a play to pass across his sneakers and instead reached out, got Titus by the shoulders, and hauled the kid straight off his feet. Cackling loudly, Sam tossed him, lanky limbs flailing, into the pit. Balls went flying as Titus disappeared beneath the surface. He popped back up, eyes round with shock.

"That child is under my protection," Bucky warned, beaning Sam in the side of the head with a plastic ball. Sam pivoted to throw himself at Bucky, with Titus shouting and flailing --half trying to escape and half trying to pelt them with enthusiastically thrown, poorly aimed balls. The battle was on.

Chapter Text

Sat between Sam and Titus on a covered landing, Bucky appreciated the vantage. It felt comfortable, familiar. In a different time, a different life, the power and solitude of a position like this one, especially while waiting for a mark to show, was the only solace he had from pain, horror, drudgery, and death. Although he teased Sam about it, Bucky understood why his friend took wing, soaring across the sky on vibranium wings. Sam didn't need to explain how those moments before the dive were the best --the calm, the possibility. Bucky knew.

Few people entered the exhibit at this hour. A curious adult or two, waiting for kids to finish up with dance class or afternoon swim or martial arts. With his hearing, Bucky caught what his companions likely missed: uttered "hmm's" and people speaking to the air, some taking calls. Fifteen feet up and with the looped soundscape, their own voices wouldn't carry. Not that anyone yet had been inclined to speak. Titus suggested the perch, on which three full-sized men barely fit, so they could debrief after the ball pit battle. Also so the un-enhanced among them could catch their breath.

Last time Bucky visited a playground for a reason not involving a hit, slides were constructed of steel and shot straight down. In winter, they were frostbite hazards; in summer, sun heated the metal to a sizzle. This curving and looping 'super slide' emitted a nearly overwhelming plastic scent, each molded groove thick and nubby. The thick, bright canopy over their heads turned Titus's voice into a whispery rasp when he broke the silence, "My boys’ll flip when I tell them who almost popped the ball pool."

Bucky frowned, "I took my shoes off . . . unlike Big Foot over there."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Sure. Throw me under the bus. 'You know new Cap? Heard he busted up a kids' exhibit at the Y'!"

Titus sighed happily and gazed at the exhibit below, "Never thought I'd be super sliding with superheroes! Guess that's New York."

Sam appraised him, not unkindly. "I take it you're Bucky’s text-bro?"

“Bruh,” Titus corrected and then, for the next five minutes, using that odd, text-speak vernacular specific to teens who, to Bucky's observation, were rarely surprised or intimidated by anything, detailed how he met Sergeant Barnes at 91st and Lexington. Bucky picked up the story, coming clean about breakfast at Sam's and other mini adventures, culminating with the situation featuring Shuri's favorite syrah and the nap that evolved into a frantic morning. Sam listened with his chin on his fist.

"Okay," Sam said. “That's the how and the who. I'm missing the why."

"For real?" Titus said. "Look."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Bucky intercepted Titus pulling his phone from his pocket. He had no idea how Sam would respond to this breach of his privacy.

"It's okay, Sergeant Barnes," Titus said. "A picture is worth a thousand words, right?”

Reluctantly, Bucky released Titus. He watched as their heads --one bearing a sharp fade and the other full of bouncy, black twists-- bent close. Sam's expression, as Titus led him on a frenetic, annotated tour, slid between shock, embarrassment, and something that caused his eyebrows to shoot to his hairline while he released a squawking guffaw. A happy sound, or a killing-Bucky-later sound? Hard to tell.

"How many of these are on the Internet?" Sam took the phone, swiping through the images more slowly.

"None," said Titus in a tone either regretful or affronted.

"None," Bucky affirmed.

"That the truth?" Sam asked Bucky specifically. "Will I later discover my niece recording some Sleeping Cap dance on TikTok?"

"I don’t think that’s how TikTok works," Bucky hedged.

"Sleeping Cap," Titus tapped his lip thoughtfully. "Is that like a pun?"

Sam glanced between Bucky and Titus. "You a new super team? I've been supplanted."

“If you’re jealous, you and me could do a different set,” Titus offered. “Y'know, featuring Sergeant Barnes?"

Bucky gaped, "What? No!"

Laughter burst out of Sam. The violent attack caused him to knock his head against his drawn-up knees.

"You-- your FACE!" He howled while, beside him, Titus yelped and scrambled for his phone, precariously close to slipping from Sam's hand, over the edge.

"We need to talk," Bucky grumbled. "About how readily you switch sides."

"We don't," Titus returned, grinning. "I'm a free agent. But for the right number of cookies I'd be willing to consider a limited exclusive."

"How do you even know that language?" Bucky felt his face do . . . something. Which set Sam off again.

"Chuck it up," he muttered.

Finally Sam recovered. "Kid's right. The pictures tell the story best and, honestly, they're great. Next time, though --clue me in?"

Bucky waggled his head.

"How about this?” Sam said. “I need to focus on establishing Circle Up while there's still energy for efforts like these, and follow-through, but it's true I shouldn't go so hard that I'm . . . "

"Not having any fun?" supplied Titus, focusing in on his phone.

"Sacrificing rest," Sam said.

"Joy," Bucky argued. "I lived 70 years without it and I can tell you --once it goes . . ." Now, similar to Sam, he paused to gather his thoughts. "Except, I guess, it's not on me to decide what that means to you. And . . . maybe I owe you an apology."

Sam leaned back, calmly eyeing him while Titus withdrew further into his device, the adults having entered dangerously earnest territory.

"Won't happen again," Bucky said. "I'll check in."

Silence settled for a beat, and something that he hadn't quite identified as having weighed on him, lifted.

"Thank you," Sam said. Reaching around Titus, he shoved Bucky's shoulder. "And I owe you appreciation. But just like a speck. A smidge."

A tiny, soft warmth blossomed in Bucky's chest. He did not ignore it. He half-smiled. Then the spell was broken by a gaggle of children bursting into the exhibit. They shouted about the slide, and several went clambering for the stairs. An adult appeared, and then a noisy argument broke out, bracketed by cries of "that's not FAIR!"

"They've breached the fort," Titus peered over the edge.

Bucky checked his watch, "It's time you got to work. Now you're definitely late."

"Which way off this thing?" Sam asked.

Titus saw him considering the stairs and let out a loud gasp. "Bruh, no! There's only ONE way down."

--

"What is the lesson I should be taking?" Bucky asked.

He gave Sam a dry stare as they leaned against the rear wall of the elevator, watching numbers count upward. In the past hour, they had escorted a reluctant Titus to his afternoon gig ("Lemme go with y'all! I'll get Taylor at concierge to cover lap swim. What, she hates me? Whatevs. At least show my memes to the Princess."), stopped by D'Agostino's at 91st and Columbus, and then made the trafficky trek uptown to the Wakandan Harlem outpost. Bucky parked the Triumph in the underground garage, and paused at the ground floor coffee bar for that overly sweet coffee drink Shuri couldn't get enough of.

"Lesson?" Sam said as he adjusted the paper carrier. "I know not what you speak. We're simply bringing a treat to a hardworking friend who helped save our bacon today, no thanks to you."

Bucky said, "Already apologized."

"I don’t recall actually hearing 'sorry'."

"Won't now."

"Punk."

Bucky snorted and ended their staring contest by adjusting the ostentatious bouquet tucked beneath his arm. Punk. A small word that brought on an old ache and the felt-absence of the presence of that blond jerk with the big voice and brusque comebacks, whose deep voice burbled into Bucky's memory and receded, like a wave. Punk! Jerk! I know you are, but what am I?

The elevator stopped and let out a soft tone. They stepped out into the dark, hyper-modern hallway. Bucky asked, "What are you going to say to Shuri to convince her to leave her office?"

"The truth."

"The truth."

"Yep. 'Thanks for saving our bacon today. Let's go for a quick walkl, you, Bucky, and me.'"

"And that's going to work?" They rounded a corner and spotted Shuri's private guard at her usual post.

"Oh, no, definitely not."

Bucky squinted.

"I said I would tell her the truth," Sam grinned, and nodded at Bethlehem, who inclined her tattooed head. "You, on the other hand, will use your newfound skill."

Bethlehem hefted her spear and opened the door to Shuri's office. The beautifully appointed space within shone black and red and yellow.

"For me?" Shuri asked, eyes widening as she spun on her stool to greet them.

"Flowers to show our appreciation," Sam bowed slightly. "And a double mocha grande with two shots of espresso."

"Even better," Bucky set the flowers on the nearest surface and brought up a certain collection on his phone. "Nothing says thank you like memes of Sam, created by a fifteen-year-old."

"What?" Sam fumbled the coffee which the passing guard deftly plucked away, setting it on a nearby grass mat, before taking up a position near the far window.

"Ooooo! Bast smiles upon me this day. I hope there's some of Grumpy Sam. He's my favorite." Shuri clapped her hands as she crowded into Bucky's space. Before Sam could do a thing about it, she was swiping and giggling, and swiping. "Your friend does excellent work. These are a delight!"

Sam rolled his eyes as he attempted, and failed, to produce a scowl.

"That's not a delight," he griped. "It's a double cross."

Bucky winked, "Exactly."