Work Text:
If there was one thing Sam hated doing the most, it was losing a fight on purpose.
Something petty in him - some competitive part of him that never quite got over being the middle child - just could not fucking stand it.
But, as his communicator stayed silent, confirming that Joaquin still hadn’t finished setting these charges, Sam was forced to keep stalling for time.
“That the best you’ve got?” He shouted defiantly.
The guy - some asshole calling himself The Adjudicator? The Appraiser? The Judger? Whatever. Some asshole with a supervillain complex - charged at Sam.
He swung a fist at Sam’s face, which he dodged, then spun to kick him to the ground, which Sam just kind of allowed. Because that’s the sort of stupid thing you do when you’re losing on purpose to kill time.
As landed on his back, his wingpack taking the brunt of the fall, he mentally cursed Joaquin.
They’d been at this all night. This loser - this absolute asshat - was building some interdimensional death ray nonsense - a contraption inspired by something he read about in a mysterious little handbook - and because Sam was around, because he was Captain America and an all around good person, he - out of the goodness of his own heart - had decided to try to stop him.
So, that’s why he was now flailing about on top of a partially constructed skyscraper, pulling his punches while he listened to some guy monologue about how the multiverse was his to command.
And he was really starting to wish he’d asked someone else.
“Captain Wilson - Oh, wait, I forgot you’re not really a captain, are you?” The man sneered.
Sam rolled his eyes. It was Thanksgiving tomorrow - today, probably, by now. He had better things to be doing. Like sleeping, for a start.
“No, just Sam Wilson,” Professor Dipshit continued. “May I call you Sammy?”
“Buy me dinner first,” Sam quipped back, on autopilot. He stayed down, feigning a more serious injury.
Oh shit. Dinner. He told Gideon he’d bring a dish to dinner on Thursday - today - shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
“You know what you are, Sam?”
The guy - this fucking guy - moved closer, kicking Sam in the stomach, and Sam thought that he deserved a medal for allowing it.
“You’re soft.”
Sam groaned, partly in pain and partly out of exasperation.
“We all know you’re a kind man, a gentle soul. Always trying to see the best in people… even terrorists.”
Sam really did deserve a goddamn medal for putting up with this.
“It’s all very “Miss Congeniality” of you. But it’s not how you win the pageant.” He laughed at his own joke. “You’ll never be Captain America.”
“Sam? The charges are set.” Joaquin’s voice appeared in his earpiece.
“Finally,” Sam muttered.
He leapt to his feet, not giving the guy a chance to say another word. He jumped and spun, kicking across the room.
“You know,” Sam said. “I always thought of myself as more of a Vanessa Williams type.”
The guy just gaped at him, confused.
Sam walked to the edge of the scaffold, looking out on the city skyline.
“Only in the sense,” he continued, turning around to face him. “That I’ve been saving my best for last.”
He tapped something on his wrist, and the charges went off
“No!” The man shouted, but it was too late.
Sam stepped backwards, letting himself fall off the building as the whole machine went up in a ball of flame.
“I don’t get it,” said Joaquin’s voice in his ear again.
“Look, I’m not using up my best, most topical material on losers like this,” Sam replied, defensively. He spread his wings as he fell, slowing his descent.
Oh shit.
His wings weren’t working.
Something must’ve broken when he’d fallen on his back. The wings themselves were extended but the power was out - the engine wasn’t turning on.
“Joaquin! Mayday!”
“Sam!”
Sam twisted and turned, trying to glide without power. He could slow himself down, which would be easier if he hadn’t been falling vertically. But he could slow his fall, take the edge off the landing.
This was going to hurt.
And it did, but not in the way Sam was expecting.
Something - someone - collided with him out of nowhere, pushing him through the air and twisting, so that when they landed - hard and inelegantly on the lowest level of the scaffold - the other guy took the brunt of the impact.
For a fleeting second, Sam assumed that it was Joaquin, but Joaquin wouldn’t do anything that stupid.
“Buck?”
“Hey, Sammy,” Bucky said, his voice croaky and sore.
Sam scrambled to get up, take his weight off of him.
“Are you insane? What was that?”
“I heal faster than you,” Bucky said stubbornly. “Anyway, nothing’s broken.”
He sat up, reaching out to Sam who was still kneeling beside him. He touched his face, pulling them closer and resting their foreheads together.
“I saw you fall.”
“And you jumped at me to catch me? Where even were you?”
Bucky indicated the opposite side of the street with a jerk of his head.
“Looking for you. The apartment was empty.”
“Hmm..”
Their apartment up in Harlem, where they’d been living together for a few months now, but since Bucky’s been away, and Sam’s been so busy, it was like they hardly lived there at all.
“Wait, why aren’t you in DC?” Sam asked. He stood up, ignoring the objections from his back.
Bucky had been sucked into this god awful “thunderbolts” project - some CIA backed nightmare team - that had dragged him away from New York, away from Sam. What was he doing here?
Bucky got to his feet too.
“That’s why I was looking for you,” he began. “To tell you that it’s been delayed, postponed. No thunderbolts until 2025.”
“Oh,” Sam didn’t really know what to say to that. He didn’t like this entire project - the whole thing stank of corruption - but at least it wouldn’t be for a while. So, he tried a joke. “Oh, so we don’t have to finalise the divorce papers for another year then?”
“Don’t joke about that.” Bucky’s face went still.
“What? We’ve talked about this. I’m not mad,” Sam insisted. “Well, maybe I’m mad at Val, a little. I’m mad at th-”
“No, I mean about-” Bucky bit his lip and looked embarrassed. “Don’t say divorced.”
“Buck, you know I love you but we are in no way close to being married.”
“We could b- Wait, what?” Bucky said. “Say it again.”
“I love you.” Sam reached for Bucky’s hand, choosing to ignore what he might’ve been about to say. “I swear we’ve said that before, haven’t we?”
“I have. I thi- Ugh.” Bucky stepped closer again, pulling Sam into a tight hug that he couldn’t escape from if he tried.
It was nice.
“Don’t joke about leaving me,” Bucky said, muffled into Sam’s shoulder.
“Okay…” Sam deeply wanted to make fun of him, but decided not to.
He sank into the hug, momentarily forgetting the pain and exhaustion that the mission had wrought. The machine was destroyed, they could tie up loose ends tomorrow. Right now, he needed sleep. He awkwardly freed his arm from the hug to look at his wrist piece. It was five in the morning. Goddammit.
“Hey,” he said, patting at Bucky’s shoulder, prompting his release from the super strength grip. “Do you want to come to Thanksgiving dinner today?”
“What?”
“Wilson family? It’s Gideon’s turn to host, so we’re in New York this year, only twenty minutes away from the apartment. I know you’ve never met him but Sarah and the boys will be th-”
Bucky reached up to cup Sam’s face, and pulled him into a quick kiss.
“I’d love that,” he said, grinning. He paused. “Are we supposed to bring a dish?”
“I said I’d bring a side.” Sam groaned. “Urgh, I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to make anything. Home? Home then shower then sleep then think about this later? We’ve got a few hours.”
“Sounds good to me.”
He leaned in to kiss him again. Sam ignored him and tapped his ear piece.
“Joaquin? Are you still around?”
“Yep.”
“You any good at cooking?”