Chapter Text
It’s movie night, and Steve loves movie night. Specifically, Steve loves movie night with Sam Wilson. He’s tried movie night with the Avengers, and for a band of superheroes, they can all be surprisingly immature when it comes to talking, popcorn, and horror films.
Sam, however, takes movie night seriously. Tonight, he’s ranting under his breath about how Steve deserved better than SHIELD’s bullshit method of cultural and societal education after Steve told him he hadn’t seen any of the new Batman films even though he's been awake a few years now. This time he’s telling the truth, but sometimes Steve lies about not having seen movies just to get Sam’s goat because Sam is a die-hard movie buff.
Sam is also a veteran and a full-time counselor at the local Veterans Affairs office, which is how the two of them met. At some point, Steve realized that a veteran was a veteran, even if one of them served in a war that occurred over 70 years ago, so he went one day and hasn’t regretted it since. Sam happened to be there facilitating group, and Sam is normal and opinionated and not as starry-eyed about Captain America as most people, and Steve likes having a mostly normal friend.
Sam eventually finds the movie he’s looking for and puts the DVD in before plopping down unceremoniously next to Steve on the couch. They’re in the middle of a very explosive—literally— action scene involving giant robots and monsters when Steve’s phone starts ringing. The only people who ever call him are involved with SHIELD, so he pulls it out of his pocket while Sam presses pause. It’s Tony, so there’s a pretty high probability that it’s not important, but Steve answers it anyway.
“Rogers.”
“Put Sam on the phone,” Tony says without preamble.
Steve sighs. “Tony, how do you even know I’m with—“
“There’s GPS on your phone, Steve. Get with the twenty-first century. Now, Wilson. Put him on the phone.”
“Why don’t you call his phone, then?” Steve snaps.
“Because it wouldn’t be nearly as fun.”
Steve closes his eyes and counts backwards from five before calmly saying, “I’m hanging up, Tony.”
“Don’t hang up! It’s actually important!”
“Really? Because your non-important phone calls and your important ones start in the same manner.” He grits his teeth. “You have ten seconds.”
“Remember that favor I did for you? Yeah, well, I have a patient of Sam’s here, and things were going well, but then he woke up after we hooked up a new arm, and he’s maybe possibly losing his shit and I need Sam to help.”
Steve’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Your ten seconds is up. I need you to put him on the goddamned phone, Steve. Now.”
Steve hands the phone to Sam without explanation, but Sam must have overheard at least some of it— his couch isn’t that big, and Tony is definitely that loud— because he’s definitely in work-mode when he says, “This is Wilson.”
Sam listens for a few seconds, his forehead creased with concern, before he stands and starts pacing the living room. “Don’t you have a psychologist on staff?” Sam closes his eyes as he listens to Tony, and as the seconds tick by, it looks more and more looks like he might punch the TV. “Banner isn’t that kind of doctor, man.”
Steve has to cover his mouth to stop himself from laughing, not because he finds the situation funny— quite the opposite— but because he’s heard Bruce say the exact same thing to Tony dozens of times.
Sam sighs. “Yeah, I understand. He had a rough time at the hospital after the accident, so I’m not really surprised this set him off. I can drive and be there in three hours if I break the speed limit. Can Avengers get rid of traffic violations?” Sam pauses, and then his eyes widen. “Wait, what? Of course I’m not afraid of flying. I was a paratrooper, for God’s sake. Jesus. Okay, okay. I’ll be ready.”
“Well?” Steve asks once Sam hangs up and offers him back his phone.
“Iron Man is sending a jet,” he says, then pinches himself. “That hurt. This must be real life. How is this real life?”
Steve laughs. “Well, that’s Tony for you.” He sobers up a bit and stands, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Is everything okay?”
Sam smiles and nods. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. At least, I think it will be. James is a tough cookie, but these kinds of things are hard for him. I think it will be good, though. He’s not one of those vets who’s coped well with losing a limb, and this is the best shot he’s got, so it has to.”
“Do you need me to head out while you get some stuff packed?”
Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh, no. You’re coming with me.”
Steve blinks. “What?”
“Two reasons,” Sam says and holds up one finger. “First, I educate you culturally and feed you home cooked food on the regular, so the least you can do is act as a buffer when I get thrown into your crazy world of famous people. Second—“ He holds up another finger. “—Tony Stark just said to drag you along so you can try on your new uniform since you keep tearing the crotch.”
Steve can feel the blush spread across his cheeks.
“Don’t shoot the messenger, man,” Sam says and then heads towards his bedroom. “You keep a spare set of clothes at Stark Tower, or do we need to stop at your place before our chariot arrives?”
“I’m sure I have clothes there,” Steve sighs and falls back onto the couch. It creaks ominously beneath his weight.
It’s silent for several seconds before Sam calls, “So, the crotch of the costume, huh? Super solider serum for the damned win, am I right?”
Steve closes his eyes and counts backwards from ten like Sam taught him.
***
“This thing is nicer than my house,” Sam states as they settle on the jet. “Like, this couch here, it’s more comfortable than my bed. My bed, Steve. And I paid a lot of money for that memory foam shit after I could sleep on a normal bed again.”
Steve shrugs, the corner of his lips twitching up. “Wait until you see the tower.”
“I might puke,” Sam says seriously. “I’m from Harlem. I can’t handle this.”
“I’m from 1940’s Brooklyn,” Steve deadpans.
Sam purses his lips, then shrugs. “All right, you win that one.”
***
They arrive in New York within the hour and land on Stark Tower's helipad. Tony meets them on the roof, smiling brightly, and Steve is pretty sure it’s probably been at least twenty-four hours since Tony slept last.
“Steve, welcome back. Your apartment is still ready and waiting for you to grace us with your presence. I even bought the star-spangled bedspread you wanted.”
Steve sighs. He did not ask for a star-spangled bedspread, and he’s pretty sure Tony isn’t joking and it’s actually covering his bed.
Sam just stares at Tony, then at Steve. “You have an apartment in Stark Tower?” he finally asks.
“Everyone does,” Tony scoffs like he’s offended, then holds out his hand. “Tony Stark, not that I need an introduction, but nice to meet you in person, Bird Man. We already have one— you know, a Bird Man— so you may have to fight him for power. To the death would be preferable. In the mean time, though, please help Barnes breathe into a paper bag or whatever it is you do so we can get the diagnostics running. I need to make sure the neural signal is working.”
Tony turns on his heel and heads inside without waiting for a response, leaving both Steve and Sam staring after him.
“Does he even breathe between sentences?” Sam asks under his breath.
Steve laughs, and they begin follow. He glances at Sam after a few steps and raises a brow. “Why did he call you Bird Man?”
“We’re not gonna talk about it,” Sam harrumphs.
“His nickname was Falcon,” Tony calls over his shoulder.
Sam narrows his eyes and glares daggers into Tony’s back. “I don’t like him.”
“Join the club, pal.” Tony grins as they approach the elevator, winks at Sam, and then says, “JARVIS, take us to the medical suite.”
“Of course, Sir.” A pause, and then, “Welcome back, Captain Rogers.”
“Thanks, JARVIS.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, Staff Sergeant Wilson.”
Sam’s eyes widen. “What is this place?”
“That’s JARVIS,” Tony says. “He’s the AI that manages the building.”
“And your life, Sir.”
Tony nods. “Yes, and my life. Thanks for the reminder.”
Sam shakes his head the entire ride down.
***
Tony takes them to the medical floor immediately. Steve’s hospital experiences don’t invoke particularly good memories. He was a frequent flyer as a kid and even through his young adult years. Asthma, pneumonia, broken bones from fights picked in alleys by drunk men tugging at the skirts of a scared dame. Steve’s got a lot to be thankful for when it comes to the serum, but his increased healing factor is definitely up there on the list. He’s impressed with Tony’s set up, though, because despite the usual decor of modern hospitals— white walls and bright lights— Tony’s still managed to make it look inviting. There’s a lot of artwork that he’d bet his shield Pepper chose, and many of the walls are made of glass, which help make the space seem less claustrophobic.
“He’s this way,” Tony says, skirting through the fray. Around them, nurses in scrubs and doctors in white coats bustle around.
“Why isn’t this being performed at an actual hospital?” Sam asks as they turn down a hallway.
“Because I can’t trust a lot of my tech to leave the confines of the building,” Tony replies with a shrug. “These people are on my payroll anyway— Stark Industries has branched out into medicine and medical equipment in the recent years. So, it made sense to keep things where the security is. Also where I am.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, right. Moving an entire medical research facility into a tower in the middle of New York is way easier than moving you.”
Tony shoots him an easy grin as they round another corner. Soon, they find themselves in a hallway of rooms. There are Starkpads mounted on the wall outside of every door, and they stop in front of 46A. Tony taps on the glass screen, which prompts for a fingerprint scan. He presses his hand to it and after a few seconds, the door clicks open.
“This is a lot of security for hospital rooms,” Sam says, and Steve can hear the unease in his voice.
“It’s just a precaution,” Tony replies and pushes open the door.
The room itself is nothing like the hospital rooms Steve remembers staying in when he got pneumonia as a kid. Granted, hospitals these days are much nicer in general, but this is more like a hotel room with wood paneling, New York photography on the walls, and a flatscreen TV mounted on the wall. There’s a couch, a small dresser, a few tables and a chair and a vanity. The walls aren’t painted white, but a sunnier off-white.
A man sits on the hospital bed near the window, his blue gown rucked up around his muscled thighs. His right arm is crossed over his chest, and he’s grasping at a— Steve almost balks. He knew what the bionic prosthesis trail entailed— Tony had given him a lot of reading to pass on to Sam before Sam sent over his recommendation— but he wasn’t really expecting this. The man’s left arm is an arm, but it isn’t. It’s made of metal plates, and they shine in the dim light of the room. Steve has seen his share of prosthetics that would be considered advanced, but they have nothing on this one. It’s shaped to match the muscle contour of the other arm, and the fingers are jointed and detailed and probably not just for show. It’s a piece of art, really, and Steve hasn’t felt so inclined to draw anything since he sketched Peggy, grey and wrinkled and still beautiful, in her hospice bed.
Even with their entrance and the unmistakeable click of the door closing, the man keeps his head bowed, dark, long hair covering his face, and there is something heartbreaking about the image that twists Steve’s gut into knots. He stands with his back pressed against the door, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding.
Sam takes a moment to look around the room, his eyebrows high on his forehead, and then his eyes land on the prosthetic. His nostrils flare and he swallows, but then the concern is smoothed away, leaving Sam looking calm and collected, and he walks forward slowly. “James,” he says, a gentle cadence to his tone. “Hey, man. Hanging in there?”
James looks up, startled, and he’s pale. Dark circles stand out like bruises beneath his wide, stormy blue eyes. There’s something haunted in his expression, a bone-tired weariness that Steve remembers well in the soldiers he served with. He sees it reflected back in his own eyes some nights when he wakes from nightmares and goes to the bathroom to splash water on his face.
James stares at Sam for several long seconds, then breathes, “Thank god,” his voice gruff. He almost smiles, but his lips don’t quite curve up enough, and it definitely doesn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t know who you’re making friends with, but his idiot has the worst bedside manner, Wilson.”
Sam laughs quietly, some of the tension leaving his stiff posture. “Oh, yeah?”
Tony just pouts. “I do not.”
James rolls his eyes and shifts a bit on the bed. “He’s been asking me if I needed a hand since I got here. Like I haven’t heard that one before.”
Sam shakes his head and places a hand on James’ shoulder— his right shoulder— and squeezes gently. “He isn’t really my friend,” he says in a tone he’d use delivering horrible news to someone. “It’s like that whole Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon thing. I don’t have a choice.”
James huffs out a laugh, cheeks dimpling.
Tony turns towards Steve and raises a brow. “Hey, Capsicle, do you know who Kevin Bacon is?”
Steve sighs. This joke— this overdone joke— is Tony’s favorite. “Yes, Tony. I know who Kevin Bacon is.” He pauses and then adds, “Sam made me watch Footloose.”
Tony blinks a few times, and then he throws his head back and laughs. “Aw, you two have a girls’ night. How cute. Want to share a floor while you’re here? I can have Pepper send up some nail polish, too, if you want”
Steve doesn’t get a chance to reply because James states, quite eloquently, “Holy shit.”
Steve redirects his attention and finds James staring past Sam and right at him, mouth slightly open and eyes wide. Steve’s gotten used to these looks— he can’t go anywhere without being recognized these days, especially not after his face was plastered all over the news right after he woke up, with the aliens and all— but it still makes him a little bit uncomfortable. He smiles sheepishly anyway.
“That’s Captain America,” James states dumbly.
“And I am Iron Man,” Tony says, gesturing to himself and talking very slowly. “You did know that, right? Or maybe you didn’t. Is that why you didn’t get all goggley-eyed when you met me? You didn’t realize I was Iron Man? I am. I am Iron Man.”
Steve ignores him and offers James a nod. “It’s a pleasure and an honor to meet you. I’m sorry that I barged in. That was rude of me.”
“No, it’s—“ James heaves in a breath and releases it a few seconds later, then combs his right hand through his hair. Steve doesn’t miss the way he winces when his body stretches, the way he tries to keep his left arm completely still. “It’s actually pretty awesome, but I kind of wish I was wearing pants.”
Sam laughs. “Pants are overrated, man.”
“Speaking of pants,” Tony says cheerfully, “Steve’s been having some crotch problems with his Star Spangled Suit that I want to address so he doesn’t expose his patriotic package to the American people, so we’ll leave you guys to it for now.”
“Tony,” Steve hisses. He can feel a blush inching up his neck.
Sam chuckles and James grins, and this time it reaches his eyes, and Steve feels some of the annoyance fizzle out. He has a nice smile, and it softens the hard lines of his face. Steve finds himself smiling back.
Tony adds, surprisingly gently, “Barnes, we’ll try the stim test tomorrow, but remember, we have time. There’s no rush. I just want to make sure there’s no damage after the hook up, and if there is, I want it fixed so you have complete use of the arm. Got it?”
James swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“I’ll catch up with you later, Steve,” Sam says.
“Will do.” He offers a little wave to James. “Nice to meet you, James.”
He and Tony leave the room, and neither of them say anything until they’re back in the elevator, and not surprisingly, it’s Tony who fills the silence.
“He’s a good kid,” he says, which is surprising. “I think he’ll do well when it’s all said and done. Wilson’s got a good eye for this kind of thing.”
Steve nods, his chest constricting. He and Tony don’t see eye to eye most of the time, but he's glad this is one of the things they agree on. “I’m glad you’re doing this.”
Tony ignores Steve and claps his hands together. “Now, to the pants!”
***
Steve doesn’t sleep much— doesn’t need to, not with the serum— so he’s up early, even before the sun, and heads to the gym. He finds that more than exercising for exercise’s sake, he needs a way blow off steam. There are still nightmares that crowd his head when he sleeps, still regrets that burn, still the sharp tug of nostalgia for men who are long gone. No one seems to understand, not really, and he doesn’t expect them to. To them, it’s been seventy years, but it’s only been years for him. Just a few short years and some rift in between them that has torn Steve out of time.
He runs, then he lifts, hits the punching bag a few times, and runs a bit more before he returns to his apartment on the eighty-ninth floor for a shower. The sun is up, and he feels better. He always feels better during the day.
He spends most of the morning in the common area on the floor below his, and he’s sitting in an armchair by the window with a cup of Tony’s fancy coffee and a Starkpad, skimming through the morning’s news, when Sam walks into the room. He looks tired, like he probably didn’t sleep much, but he offers Steve a smile as he leans against the wall and stares down at the bustling traffic.
“I’m not sure I’ve really processed all of this yet.”
Steve laughs. “There’s a reason I chose to live on my own and not here. Believe me, Tony’s offered. A lot.”
Sam hums his agreement, then pushes away from the window with a, “I need coffee.”
He disappears into the adjacent room that houses a kitchenette and returns with a steaming mug, then sits down in the chair across from Steve.
“How’s he doing?” Steve asks, powering off the Starkpad.
Sam leans back and sighs. “He’s all right. I think he was kind of dysphoric when he woke up from the sedatives. He never did well with the drugs, you know? Weaned off of them as quickly as he could, maybe too quickly.” He pauses and then says, “I don’t know if I ever thanked you, Steve. You know, for calling in that favor to Stark. It may be hell now, but I know James will benefit from it, and it’s thanks to you.”
Of course Sam thanked him. A dozen times, maybe more, even, but Steve just smiles and nods because he knows what Sam’s trying to say. “It was my pleasure. Plus, Tony needs to be good for something other than telling everyone that I have a tendency for splitting my pants.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “What is up with that, though?”
“Have you ever tried wearing a skintight outfit?”
“Can’t say I have, Steve,” Sam says solemnly. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Well, get back to me when you do.”
“I’ll make you one. A skintight costume, I mean. I’ll even make you some wings.”
They both turn towards the doorway to find Tony leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest. His hair is combed and he’s in a clean t-shirt and pair of jeans, but Steve doesn’t let that fool him into thinking Tony slept like a normal person. He figures he wouldn’t be Tony Stark if he did, though.
“You know that shit is classified, man.” Sam narrows his eyes. “How did you get this info?”
Tony holds up his hands. “I plead the fifth.”
Steve raises a brow. “Do I even want to know?”
“No, Captain Boy Scout, probably not.”
“You can really make me a set of wings, though?” Sam asks.
Tony smirks. “They’ll be even better than the old pair.”
A weight Steve didn’t realize he was carrying lightens and he exhales slowly through his nose. He liked how separate Sam was from the rest of his superhero life, or Steve thought he did, but seeing Sam banter with Tony like they’ve known each other forever relieves him in a way he doesn’t really understand.
“Anyway,” Tony continues, “that’s not why I’m here. You want to tag along for Barnes’ stim test? He says he feels up for it, but might be good to have you around. It’s not the most pleasant feeling, having someone zap your nerves.”
Sam stands immediately, gulping down the rest of his coffee even though it’s still steaming. “Yeah, definitely.”
Tony glances at Steve and nods towards the hallway. “You’re welcome to tag along, Cap.”
“Thanks, but I think James already has enough going on without me hovering.”
Sam gives him a thankful look and winks before he and Tony disappear.
***
He eats an early dinner with Sam, Tony, and Pepper. Pepper drags Tony away before the sun’s even made it’s way below the horizon because Steve was right: apparently Tony has been so worked up over the bionics project that he hasn’t slept since James arrived four days ago. Tony promises that he will find some kind of alcoholic concoction that has an effect on Steve despite his super solider metabolism before the week is out, and Steve doesn’t doubt him.
He and Sam retire to Sam’s apartment, which is is set up similarly to Steve’s: along with a large bedroom and a bathroom equipped with a jacuzzi tub, there’s a living room with a plush sofa and a large TV as well as a small kitchen that’s fully stocked with snacks and drinks. Sam opens a beer and microwaves some popcorn, and then they settle down to search through Tony’s cloud-accessible collection of films.
“What are you in the mood for?” Sam asked, scrolling through. “Hot damn, he’s got more movies on here than Netflix.”
“Maybe a comedy?”
“Blazing Saddles is comedy gold, but I feel like we need to introduce you to some Westerns before we watch it.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Steve laughs.
“I heard good things about John Wick.”
“I trust you.”
“Damn right you do.”
They’ve barely gotten through a few minutes of the movie when it pauses on it’s own and JARVIS’ voice fills the living room. “I’m sorry to bother you, Staff Sergeant Wilson, Captain Rogers, but Sergeant Barnes is having difficulty sleeping.”
“Shit,” Sam mutters under his breath and begins to stand.
“I wondered if you would like me to extend an invitation to your movie night to the Sergeant,” JARVIS continues. “With your approval, I will open all necessary doors to allow him to your living quarters.”
Sam blinks up at the ceiling. “Are you… are you meddling?”
“I do not meddle, Staff Sergeant Wilson.” Somehow, the AI manages to sound affronted. “I merely make recommendations. It is up to you if you would like to follow them.”
“That sounds like something Tony would say,” Sam grumbles and then looks at Steve. “What do you think?”
“I think the more the merrier,” Steve says with a nod and a gentle smile.
Sam just stares at him for several long seconds, something tender in the softness of his expression, before he look up at the ceiling and says, “All right, send him on up.”
They decide together to forgo John Wick and a dead puppy in the first ten minutes and the probability of bloody gun fights for something else that might be less stressful for a room full of veterans. Ten minutes later, there’s a knock on the door. Sam opens it.
James looks exhausted, even more so than when Steve saw him yesterday. He wears a long-sleeved shirt with the Stark Industries logo on it and a pair of loose sweatpants. He smiles nervously, running his flesh and blood fingers through his loose hair, the metal hand covered almost completely by his sleeve even though the right sleeve is rolled up.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he beginss, but Sam waves it off.
“We haven’t even started the movie yet, man,” Sam says and plops back down on the couch. “Come on, sit down.”
“Whatcha planning to watch?” James asks and settles on the couch between the two of them. His body seems to relax slightly when he settles in, and Steve offers him some popcorn by holding the bowl in front of him and waggling it. The corner of James’ lip quirks up before he reaches in for a handful.
“Well, we can’t decide between the The Princess Bride and the first Harry Potter film.”
James nearly chokes on his popcorn. “What kind of decisions are those?”
Steve groans and leans his head back, muttering, “here we go” as Sam says, “You forget that you’re sitting next to a fossil. They introduced him to the twenty-first century with Disney films, James. Disney films!”
“I mean…” James shrugs. “I guess it depends on the Disney film. I’d watch the shit out of some Lion King.”
Sam’s nostrils flare. “You’re a grown man, James. And he’s even older than you. I’m doomed.”
“Well, I like him,” Steve says seriously. “He gets to pick the film. Captain’s orders.”
James grins wolfishly—Steve is surprised at how his pulse speeds up from the look— and takes the remote from Sam with his left hand, seemingly indifferent to the bionic arm now that he’s invested in something else. He flips through the selection for a few minutes before he lands on John Wick.
“You guys seen this yet? I heard good things.”
Steve and Sam look at each other over James’ head and try not to laugh.
“Let’s do this thing,” Sam says. “Hope you don’t like puppies too much.”
***
Steve starts awake to a blue TV screen and heavy breathing.
He blinks a few times, confused as to where he is, and after a few moments of brief panic he remembers that he’s in Stark Tower, and the last thing he was doing was starting the first Harry Potter film after finishing Joh Wick. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the coolly illuminated but still dark room, and then he looks for the source of the panting. Sam isn’t there, but James is. He sits on the floor, his arched back pressed hard against the arm of the couch, eyes squeezed shut, and entire body twitching. He’s got his knees bent up towards his chest and his fingers grip the fabric of his pants so tightly Steve’s pretty sure the metal hand is definitely going to result in a bruised knee. Sweat glistens on his forehead, and even in the blue-tinged glow of the television, Steve can tell James is pale.
Steve doesn’t make any sudden movements, just slowly settles a hand on James’ shoulder. He waits several long seconds, keeping his breathing steady, to make sure James won’t panic and fight back. He isn’t sure if this is a panic attack, or a nightmare. He doesn’t know all the details about how James’ lost his arm. None of it matters, though. All Steve focuses on is James’ face.
“James,” he murmurs, careful to keep the cadence of his voice as steady and light as possible. “James.”
James’ body stills, but Steve isn’t able to breathe a sigh of relief before James launches himself off of the floor on unsteady legs. He looks around the room like a wild animal, pupils blown. His eyes are so wide all Steve can see is white and black. Steve doesn’t move, just watches James’ ashen face as his chest heaves and he tries to come to terms with where he is.
“James,” Steve tries again after a few moments, slowly sitting forward. He keeps his hands draped over his knees, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible. “Your name is James Barnes. You’re at Stark Tower in New York. My name is Steve Rogers, and I’m a friend of Sam’s.”
James just stares at him, strands of wavy brown hair plastered to his temples with sweat.
“You’re all right,” Steve tries. “You’re in New York, and you’re all right.”
He doesn’t expect that to work. He means it, but he knows how empty the sentiment feels when the entire world seems like it doesn’t make sense. It does something to James, though, as he sinks to his knees and bows his head. Steve is reminded of when he saw James for the first time earlier this evening, defeated and tired— so tired— and his heart breaks for the younger soldier.
“Bucky,” James croaks out, his messy hair a curtain over his face.
“What was that?” Steve asks gently, scooting forward on the couch until he’s just barely got an edge to sit on.
James slowly raises his head. His lips still tremble, and his Adam’s apple bobs sharply before he says, “You can call me Bucky. Sam won’t because he’s an ass, but my friends usually call me Bucky.”
***
James— Bucky— drags himself to Sam’s bathroom after another ten minutes of deep breathing. Steve talks him through it and tries to focus the other man’s jumpy attention span on his own steady breathing. Bucky keeps the arm close and won’t make eye contact, and Steve doesn’t blame him. He remembers waking up and thinking he was drowning in ice-cold water after they first found him, so startled and confused that SHIELD agents forced open his door to make sure he wasn’t being murdered in his sleep.
When the bathroom door shuts and Steve’s alone, he scrubs a hand over his face and then drapes his arms over his knees and does a little breathing of his own before he looks up at the ceiling.
“What time is it, JARVIS?” he asks on the end of a yawn.
“It is nearly four o’clock in the morning, Captain Rogers,” the AI replies.
“What floor is James sleeping on?”
“He has a suite on the medical floor, Sir. Should I prepare for him to retire there?”
Steve shakes his head, and it takes him a moment to realize he’s to talking to a person who can see him, but a computer. “No, that’s fine. I’ll let him take my bed. I don’t know if he’s going to want to go back to medical right now.” Steve sighs and leans back. “How’s he doing in there?”
“Sergeant Barnes’ vitals have stabilized.”
“Good.”
It’s another ten, maybe fifteen minutes before the bathroom door finally opens again and Bucky shuffles back into the living room. His shoulders are hunched and he clenches his fists at his sides, the plates of the metal arm whirring in the silence of the room and the knuckles of his other hand bleaching white. Steve had JARVIS turn on a light, and Bucky’s pale skin and the dark circles beneath his eyes make him look like a walking ghost. When he makes eye contact with Steve, though, his cheeks flush a pink.
“I’m sorry,” he begins, but Steve waves it away.
“You don’t need to apologize to me. Really. I still have nightmares about parts of the war from seventy years ago, and I didn’t go through half of what you did.”
Bucky opens his mouth, closes it again, and then says, chin jutted out, “Well, I’m still sorry.”
Steve smiles. “Dully noted, Sergeant.”
They stand they awkwardly for a few moments, Bucky shifting his weight restlessly. He looks like he might vibrate out of his own skin at any second.
“I should get back to my room,” Bucky finally says shakily. “Thanks for letting me stick around and watch movies, and thanks for—” he motions at himself, “—this.”
“Anytime,” Steve says, and before he loses his nerve, he also says, “Come back to my suite. You can take my bed. It’ll be more comfortable than medical— I had Tony specifically model the mattress so it wasn’t too soft.”
Bucky raises his eyebrows, some of the exhaustion slipping away to confusion. “Uh, what?”
“I don’t sleep much,” Steve says and then gestures to himself in the same way Bucky did moments before. “Super solider serum and all. I doubt I’ll be able to go back to sleep even if I fall into bed.”
Bucky blinks stupidly, then says, “You’ve obviously never slept in a hospital bed. Just uncomfortable enough to make me feel like I’m back in the desert.”
Steve links his hands behind his back and forces a smile. “I didn’t think about it that way. You don’t have to, obviously.”
Before Steve can make another excuse, Bucky states, “Nah, I’ll come,” and manages a smirkish smile. “I mean, what kind of patriotic idiot would I be to decline a chance to sleep in Captain America’s bed?”
“The reasoning is wrong, but it’ll have to do.”
And so they turn off the television and the lights in Sam’s living room, and fifteen minutes later, Steve is sitting alone in his kitchen with a cup of tea and another body wrapped up in his bed. He opens the book he’s been working his way through— War and Peace— and settles in, trying to ignore the odd feeling of knowing someone else is sleeping in his bed.
***
It was bound to happen, of course. It’s not like Steve specifically told JARVIS not to say anything, so when Tony waltzes into his kitchen while Steve’s reading the paper, he’s not surprised.
He is agitated, however, because the expression on Tony’s face means the interaction is going to go exactly the way Steve dreaded it would go, and Steve is running on maybe two hours of sleep.
“Is my patient here?” Tony asks. “JARVIS tells me Barnes is here. Did you bang my patient, Steve?”
Or maybe not. Steve nearly spits out his coffee. “What? Did I what?”
“Did you not bang things in the forties?” Tony asks and places his grease-coated hands palm-down on the kitchen table. “He’s in your bed, Steve,” Tony declares, mock-scandalized. “I mean, I always wondered why you never seemed interested in the women Pepper flooded you with at the galas, since you and Peggy Carter had a thing back in the day, but this—“
“This is not what you think, Tony, so just stop while you’re ahead,” Steve says in what Tony calls his Captain America Voice. “He watched some movies with Sam and I last night when he couldn’t sleep, and he had some nightmares after he dozed off. I wasn’t going to send him back to medical or make him stay on Sam’s couch.”
“You could have asked JARVIS to open a guest room,” Tony states, and before Steve can tell him he doesn’t know the first thing about what Bucky may or may not have needed, he leans forward, head cocked to the side. “Seriously, though, men or women? Or both?”
Steve closes his eyes and grits his teeth. “Please just get out, Tony.”
“But my patient—“
“You can’t have patients if you’re not a doctor, Tony,” Steve reminds him, and when he opens his eyes he levels him a glare. “And you are definitely not a doctor.”
Tony raises an eyebrow. “I have a doctorate or three. That doesn’t count?”
Steve’s about ready to drag Tony out of the suite by his shirt collar when he hears the click of a door opening. He manages to mutter, “God help me” before Bucky trudges into the kitchen, his sleep-curled hair tangled around his face and his clothes rumpled but otherwise still on. Steve doesn’t know why he would expect otherwise, except Murphy’s Law seems to run rampant in Tony Stark’s vicinity.
“Coffee?” Bucky asks blearily.
Tony stares at him, unblinking, and then states, “I’m so telling Sam.”
“Telling me what?” Sam asks from the kitchen doorway.
“Does anyone in this building knock?” Steve snaps and sets his paper down with a little more force than is necessary.
Sam blinks, obviously startled and confused, and it takes a few seconds for him to realize Bucky’s at the counter pouring himself a mug of coffee. “Wait.”
Steve just rests his forehead in his palms.
“James,” Sam says slowly.
“Huh?” James rubs at his eyes. “Hey, Sam. Morning.”
“Why are you in Steve’s kitchen?”
Tony throws his hands up in the air. “That’s what I’ve been asking!”
Bucky must finally realize what they’re both trying to get at, and to Steve’s horror, he actually blushes, fingers tightening around the handle of his mug. Steve has to force himself not to bang his forehead against the table, he’s so mortified.
Thankfully, Bucky gets himself under control a lot more quickly than Steve. He runs a hand through his hair sheepishly and jerks his shoulders up in an uncomfortable shrug. “I had a nightmare on your couch since you left me sleeping there like an ass. Rooms upon rooms and you left me on the couch.”
Tony just blinks stupidly, waiting for more, but Sam’s confused expression morphs into one of understanding. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t think about it.”
“It’s fine,” Bucky says and takes a tip of his coffee. “I mean, I could have had one anywhere. Captain Rogers offered to let me stay here, though, instead of going back to medical.”
Sam nods. “Good.”
Tony looks back and forth from Sam to Bucky a few times, then his gaze lands on Steve. “What is even happening?”
Bucky actually rolls his eyes. “Nightmares, pal. I have nightmares, remember?”
“That doesn’t explain—“
“Some of my nightmares involve the hospital,” Bucky supplies without preamble. There’s a hardness to his gaze now and a stiffness to his posture that wasn’t there before. “Captain Rogers was kind enough to invite me here so I wouldn’t be alone or in a hospital room. He didn’t have to.” He raises an eyebrow. “And he didn’t take advantage of my virtue, if that’s what you’ve been getting at.”
Tony shrugs and purses his lips, looking guilty as charged. “A guy can dream.”
“What?” they all echo in unison, and Steve knows his face is beat red right now.
Tony grins wolfishly, all teeth. “Steve is Mr. Virtuoso. I was kind of hoping for some soap opera drama surrounding him. I can only hold the pants thing over his head for so long.”
“You’re a horrible friend,” Sam states, but he’s trying not to smile.
“I’m really good at other things, though!” He points at Barnes, switching tracks at the speed of light. “Med floor, ten o’clock. Let’s scan that baby and see how things are working, maybe so some more pressure tests since the stim test went well.”
Bucky waves him off. “Sounds good.”
Tony leaves. Sam doesn’t sit down, and Steve doesn’t get up. Sam rubs at the back of his neck.
“This place,” he finally says, “is weird as hell.”
***
Bucky leaves around 9:30 to shower and change before his appointment in the lab. He thanks Steve again and says goodbye to Sam, and after he’s gone, the apartment is uncomfortably quiet. Steve makes another pot of coffee and pours Sam a cup before they both settle back down at the table. Sam doesn’t speak for a while, just watches Steve sip from his mug.
“I never told you what happened to James,” Sam finally says.
“I don’t mind that, Sam,” Steve begins, but Sam cuts him off.
“You know he has a purple heart?”
“I didn’t,” Steve murmurs, and he knows the rest of the story can’t be good.
Sam shakes his head, and there’s anger burning in his eyes. He doesn’t let the frustration and anger take him over often, but Steve’s seen it a handful of times over the few years of friendship. He feels deeply for the men and women he meets, goes out of his way to help them and expects nothing in return. He’s got his own scars, physical and figurative, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He charges along like a tank and can still smile and joke because Sam sees good in the world despite everything, and sometimes Steve thinks that someone like Sam is really the hero while Steve is playing house like he did all those years ago, strutting around stages in a silly outfit.
Steve’s jarred from his thoughts when Sam says, “A carrier in his unit was hit by an RPG, and James, the heroic idiot that he is, all but threw himself on one of the others to shield him. The shrapnel shredded his arm. They couldn’t have saved it if they tried.”
Steve doesn’t say anything, just holds his coffee mug tighter.
“Thanks,” Sam finally mutters, his jaw clenched. He won’t make eye contact. “Thanks for everything, Steve.”
“You’re welcome,” Steve responds just as quietly, and they sit there for a while, finishing their coffee in a tensely companionable silence.
***
The rest of his time at the Tower flies on by. Steve gets a few new suits, and somehow Tony manages to actually make a pair of wings for Sam in all the spare time he doesn’t really have. Steve doesn’t understand what the wings even refer to until he follows Sam down to Tony’s workshop and sees something similar to a jetpack situated on one of Tony’s worktables.
“I made a few changes,” Tony says. “The jets pack more of a punch. Don’t hit any windows. I don’t think the New York City Audubon has volunteers for your kind of bird collision.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Seriously, though, man. Did you hack into my records?”
“I didn’t, per say,” Tony says.
Above them, JARVIS states, “I plead the fifth.”
Sam actually laughs, and Steve puts his hands on his hips. “I feel left out of this joke.”
“I guess the cat’s out of the bag,” Sam says with a shrug. “I was a paratrooper, just not a normal one. I didn’t fly a plane, and I didn’t use a parachute. I was involved in a unit that was classified and then some. But yeah, I had a jet-pack of sorts that allowed for more covert movement in enemy airspace.”
“A jet pack,” Steve deadpans.
“Exhibit A,” Tony chirps, motioning at said jet pack on his worktable like Vanna White. “Give the old man a show.”
Sam grins, and Steve watches as Tony helps him shrug into the pack. It latches securely about four different ways, making sure Sam will stay in it, and fits snugly around his chest and abdomen.
“He’ll need specialized clothing for actual flying,” Tony’s saying, “you know, like a tight suit, but this is just to make sure it works.”
“And if it doesn’t?” Sam asks with a raised brow.
“We’ll settle outside of court.” Tony winks. “Up, up, and away!”
Sam grins and grabs at two levers on either sides of the pack. There’s an audible click, and then they extend—
Steve thinks he actually gasps.
They’re wings, plated, metal wings, and they gleam in the artificial light of Tony’s workshop. Sam shrugs his shoulders, moves his arms up and down. The metal feathers of the wings move of their own accord, similarly to the plates of Bucky’s arm, and Steve is mesmerized by the fluid movement. He forgets, sometimes, what people are capable of making now.
“I can’t believe how light this is,” Sam says, shaking his head in awe.
“Same metal as Barnes’ arm,” Tony says. “The boosters are more powerful, like I mentioned, so you need to be careful. Adjust your movements to account for the lightweight.”
Sam doesn’t speak, just presses a button on the levers. There’s the hum of jets firing up, and then he’s flying and grinning and whooping, the wings curving around him. Sam looks happy and carefree, and the latter is an expression Steve doesn’t see on him often enough even though Sam always tries to tackle life with a glass-half-full mentality.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Steve says to Tony, “but thank you for it.”
Tony shrugs, expression solemn as he watches Sam skirt close enough to the wall that sparks fly. “Sometimes, Cap, it’s nice to just be able to fly above it all. Being grounded isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He turns to Steve and the expression is gone, replaced by his tell-tale smile. “Plus, he’d be good backup. You should see his record—“
“Classified, Tony,” Steve reminds him.
Tony grins, and they spend the next hour watching Sam do loops around Tony’s— thankfully— high-ceilinged workshop.
***
He sees Bucky once more before he’s due back in D.C, and it’s not how he’d expect them to meet. It’s nearly midnight, and he’s packing his bag when he hears a knock on his door. No one ever knocks in Stark Tower, so Steve isn’t sure what to expect when he opens it.
Bucky stands there in a grey hoodie and black pants. He smiles tiredly at Steve.
“Hey,” he says, and the smile falters after a second. “I’m sorry, I didn’t even think that you might be busy—“
“No, no, come on in,” Steve says and steps aside. Bucky hesitates for a moment before walking into the apartment.
“I wanted to say thank you,” Bucky says without hesitating, turning to face Steve as soon as he closes the door.
“You did already,” Steve says with a smile. “Please, don’t worry about it anymore. I understand the nightmares—“
“Not about that,” Bucky states, a slight blush staining his cheeks. “I mean about the program.” He holds up his hand and the sleeve of the hoodie slips down, exposing the metal hand and a few inches of wrist. “I know you’re the reason I’m here. Sam just told me he pulled a few strings, but seeing how close you are to Sam and Stark makes me realize it’s probably your doing.”
“No thanks needed, Buck,” Steve says. “One of the things I have had the hardest time dealing with aside from things like Starkpads and cellphones his how our veterans are treated this day and age. It’s why I’m involved with Sam and the V.A., and why I attended so many galas with Tony, God help me, to get funding for this program. You deserve better for everything you’ve done. You weren’t drafted, not like men in my day. You went of your own accord, left everything behind knowing the risks, and that is more than just bravery or courage. You’ve a hero, and you deserve better. So, you don’t need to say thank you to me. I should be thanking you for your service.” Steve tilts his head to the side and smiles. “So, thank you, Sergeant Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips are parted slightly and he stares at Steve, not speaking, not blinking. After several seconds, Steve runs a hand through his hair nervously, worried that maybe he said something wrong. He feels like maybe he preached a bit too much, and Tony tells him he has a tendency to do that, except before he can apologize, Bucky reaches out with both hands and grips Steve’s upper arms. The pressure of the metal fingertips dig into his biceps even though his flesh and blood hand grips normally, but Steve feels Bucky adjusting it immediately, like he knows he doesn’t know his own strength with the hand yet.
“You’re a good man,” Bucky says solemnly, staring up at Steve with such a serious, unwavering expression that something in Steve’s stomach flutters. “I’m honored to have met you here, Captain.”
“Call me Steve,” Steve manages even though his thoughts are filled with static, and all he can think is that he doesn’t remember being this caught off guard by someone since Peggy Carter. “And it was a pleasure to meet you, as well. I’m honored.”
Bucky nods, and after a few seconds, the corner of his lips twitch, dimpling his cheek. “Steve. Right. I get to call Captain America Steve.” He blushes, and then laughs, his hands falling away from Steve’s arms. “Steve. Travel safe back to D.C. Maybe I’ll see you around.”
“Yeah, I hope so,” Steve says, still somewhat dazed.
Bucky turns and walked to the door, and he’s preparing to let himself out but offers sone more wave before he closes the apartment door behind him.
Steve walks back to his room and stares at his half-packed bag. He chuckles to himself and closes his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face as he murmurs, “I really hope so,” into the quiet of the room.