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Bucky stares at the side of Sam’s face, his gaze tracing the outline of Sam’s nose and lips. Sam’s elbows are braced against the railing of the dock as he leans forward. A glass bottle containing orange soda dangles from his fingers, hovering over the gentle waters below.
They’re standing on the pier of Ocean City. The location was Sam’s suggestion. Bucky thought that Sam would’ve been sick of the constant back-and-forth commute between DC, Walter Reed, and Baltimore by now, but their carpool here seems to have conveyed otherwise.
It’s a day trip—just the two of them. They’ll each have to return to their ever-expanding list of responsibilities by nightfall, but spending sunrise to sundown with Sam Wilson on the coast of Maryland isn’t at all a bad way for Bucky to enjoy his weekend.
Bucky watches and watches. He knows that Sam can see him looking over, despite Sam not bothering to take his eyes off the horizon.
“It’s not something you want,” Bucky says finally, apropos of nothing.
Sam still doesn’t look over. “What isn’t?”
The question is simple and innocuous, but they both know what Bucky’s referring to. It was in between being overwhelmed and frustrated with everything expected of him that Sam had entertained the idea. Bucky knows that Sam wasn’t serious about it. He knows. But he wants Sam to acknowledge it too—to confirm it.
Repeat after me, Sam, he thinks with the weight of someone who’s going on eighty years of having bioengineered poison coursing through his veins, I do not want the super-soldier serum.
Bucky continues scrutinizing Sam, this time looking at his neck and the collar of his polo. He examines the hard line of Sam’s shoulder; the firm muscle of his bicep.
He waits.
Sam turns his head to make eye contact with him.
“You don’t need it,” Bucky states, driving the point home.
Sam observes him carefully. “I don’t,” he agrees.
“But you don’t want it, do you?” Bucky presses, because that’s the only part that matters. Nobody has ever taken the super-soldier serum—or administered it—out of necessity. It’s always out of desire. Always for a greater purpose or underlying motive.
Sam sighs deeply, setting his soda down on the wooden railing. He straightens into a standing position. “No. I’m sorry if I made it seem that way.”
Bucky nods then, because he knows that Sam’s telling the truth. The tension in the air dissipates, and he feels like he can finally breathe again. “Good.”
Sam hums, taking a swig of orange soda. He looks out at the ocean. “I don’t reckon that it would inherently make things any better,” he clarifies, “just that it’d be easier to do certain things—perform certain tasks. As Captain America.”
“Sure,” Bucky acknowledges, turning to the sunset that Sam seems so intent on watching. “It’d help to not be held down by your own mortality every time you’re out on the field. But is that all Captain America is?”
“No,” Sam answers swiftly. “The role is symbolic. It’s more of a public image than anything; a government image.”
“Mmm. And they want you to rebuild the Avengers,” Bucky adds, absently tracing the patterns of the hardwood plank with his finger, avoiding the splintered pieces, “so that the country can have some peace of mind.”
Sam scoffs. “Yeah. Whole load of crap Ross is selling me. He’s trying hard to change—I’ll give him that much—but it’s a tall order, even for someone who was the president a week ago.”
Bucky grimaces in sympathy. Thaddeus Ross is a real piece of work, alright.
“Well, forget about him,” Bucky says. “Just focus on the question. Do you think it’s the right thing to do?”
“I don’t know, Buck,” Sam admits, faltering. “Joaquin . . . he’s taking over as Falcon, and I know he’ll excel at it. And it’s not that I don’t trust him, because I really do, but I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s the right decision. In a way, forming the Avengers again feels like taking a step backwards.”
“Yeah?” Bucky prompts, sparing Sam a quick glance. “Why is that?”
“It’s gone for a reason,” is all Sam says to him.
And isn’t that the truth.
Bucky rests his chin on his hand, considering. “I think you’re clinging on to the idea of what it was, and that part’s over. What you need to ask yourself is: what do you want it to be?”
Sam doesn’t seem to have an answer to that. He just shrugs and takes another sip of soda in lieu of a response.
Bucky’s well acquainted with the concept of forging something new—he’s had his fair share of wrestling with his own identity and figuring out where he fits into society. It’s only after a lifetime of violence that he’s just now starting to open up to the idea of making his mark on the world through his words and his projects.
Running for congress has its many, many pitfalls, but for the twenty-something year old who got drafted into a war and didn’t really finish fighting it until recently, perhaps this is a future far beyond what Bucky never could have ever imagined for himself.
“I think,” Bucky tells Sam, “that in some ways, you have more to bring to the table than Steve ever did. But the only thing that matters now is that the title is yours—all Captain America is, and all that he could be, is in your hands. So take some time to figure out what you want to do with that.”
Bucky doesn’t clarify what it is Sam has that Steve didn’t. Steve was Bucky’s friend first. Bucky has a perspective on him that nobody else does.
But the calendar year, where they stand today, is a lot closer to 2045 than it is 1945. There isn’t time to look back.
There is merely the future, and Sam is only ever facing forward.
Sam doesn’t give Bucky a verbal response, but he entertains a small smile, and it’s enough for Bucky to know that his words ring clear.