Work Text:
Waves crash on the shore, I dash to the door,
You don't knock anymore and my whole life is ruined.
“Our intel says The Powerbroker will be on board with a partner, likely a member of security. Unfortunately, those same sources confirmed several metahuman assassins on his trail.”
“I bet a guy like that’s got quite the bounty on his head.”
“You’ve got no idea.” Sharron looks up from her notes briefly to meet Sam's eye, looking all too weary, like she’s taken the whole thing personally. “You’ll have to go undercover on board. We don’t have enough intel on the target to provide you with a photo ID. If I were you, I’d follow the trail of superpowers and hope you get there before someone else does.”
“Undercover?” Sam's scornful comment is undercut by Bucky's mumbled, “Why don’t we just let them kill the guy? Seems a whole lot easier.”
“Because the CIA needs him alive. And, yes - Undercover.”
“ We can’t go undercover, Carter.”
“He’s Captain fucking America. He’ll get recognised.”
“Not to mention discount John Wick over here. Don’t think everybody up and forgot about that in the last five years.”
“You can go in as yourselves,” She says, smiling far too smugly for this mission to be anything but humiliating, “I meant undercover in a different way….”
⍟ ✪ ⍟
“Name for boarding?”
“James Buchanan Barnes,” He grits through his teeth.
“This says…” The clerk at the desk squints at his passport, beaded bracelets clinking as she bends, then smooths it out again. “This says ‘Date of Birth: March 10th, 1917’?”
“That’s right.”
“That’s not…” She holds it to the light, folding and flipping it to ensure it’s not a fantastically accurate fake, “Sir, that can’t be ri-”
“He’s with me.” Sam interrupts. “Superhero shit, you know how it goes.” He slings an arm around Bucky's shoulder, hand landing a little too firmly on the metal arm, a dull ringing sounding through the boarding deck, “But Gramps here is harmless. And all his papers are in check, so… Can we go?”
“I-” The staff member stutters, does everything to keep from collapsing, “I- Yes, of course. You’re- Come on through. Welcome aboard!”
Sam beams. Bucky actually has the nerve to look pissed off. “ What ? You don’t want to see his passport, too?”
She blinks, “ That’s Captain America .”
“I know ! I know that! I’m his God damn-”
“Please, call me Sam.” He forces his most flirtatious smile and can actually see the moment her knees start to buckle. “And this,” he tightens his grip, pulls Bucky too close, and tries to double the cheesy grin, “This is my boyfriend.”
It’s going to be a long week.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
“There’s only one bed.”
“This is a couples cruise, of course, there’s only one bed.”
“Okay.” Sam listens really close, thinks he can hear each gear turning and clicking in his partner's head. “But we’re not a couple.”
“Nothing gets past you, Detective Tin-Foil.”
Bucky narrows his eyes. “I meant, where are we going to sleep?”
“ You ,” Sam throws his duffle on the centre of the heart-shaped (Seriously - heart shaped ?) bed, “Are gonna sleep on the couch.”
Somehow, his glare gets sharper, his voice thicker, “There is no couch .”
Sam smiles sweetly, bats his lashes in that way he knows makes Barnes squirm, “Then I guess you’ll have to be little spoon.”
Bucky sleeps on the floor.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
You were so magnetic, it was almost obnoxious.
Flush with the currency of cool.
“So, how do we find this guy?”
Sam waves the bartender over with a raised hand. “Like Sharron said, look out for the superpowers. Anything weird.”
Bucky leans forward on his elbows at the counter, perched on a barstool to better glare at everyone who dares walk past him on their way to the pool.
“Hey, gorgeous, what can I get for ‘ya?”
“A beer, light. Whatever’s on tap.”
“Sure thing. And for your friend here?”
Bucky has gone so still, he could still be in the ice.
“Buck?”
He doesn’t respond, but Sam recognises his ‘so irritated I’m grinding my teeth into sand’ face. As if to prove it, a muscle in his jaw pops with the strain.
“He’ll have a whiskey, neat.”
“Sure thing, handsome. I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere.”
“I’ll be here.”
“I hope so.” The bartender winks in what Sam thinks is a poor attempt at flirting, before disappearing behind a shelf full of bottles.
Barnes hasn’t so much as breathed.
“Dude, are you good?”
Once he’s finally finished brooding, he turns to face his partner.
“It’s him. He’s the target.”
Sam blinks, “What, him? Carter said it’d be a guest.” Barnes seems to see no issue with this, so Sam goes on, “The king of Madripoor's criminal underworld isn’t going undercover on a couples cruise as a bartender, Bucky.”
“Why didn’t you tell him we’re a couple?” It’s not a question - it’s an accusation.
“ What? ”
“He called me ‘your friend’ and you didn’t correct him.”
“You are my friend!”
“We’re undercover! We’re playing a part, Sam. If you’re not going to take this mission seriously, you’re going to jeopardise the entire thing, then we’ve got no hope of finding-”
The bartender is back.
“One whisky, neat, and a light beer on tap. Take it easy, fellas.”
“Thanks, man,” Sam tries to hand over his credit card, but it’s politely pushed back into his palm. His skin burns where their hands touch, but he thinks that’s probably the heat of Bucky’s laser beam glare.
“This one’s on the house.” He smiles.
Sam takes a look at the top-shelf single malt scotch abandoned on the counter. He whistles, “Big house.”
The other man leans over the bar, “If you ever wanna find out how big-”
“We’re leaving.”
It’s beyond Sam’s power to argue with a super soldier. Especially one with a deathgrip on his bicep, pulling him from the scene with a force threatening to push metal fingers through flesh.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
“No.”
“ Buck .”
“I said no , Sam.”
“This isn’t really a ‘No’ situation. We’ve got a job to do, and this is part of it. Think of it as deep cover. Deep, deep, deep, deep -”
“Stop saying deep.”
Admittedly, Sam isn’t too excited about this either. He can facilitate a group therapy session like a pro, but it’s been a long time since he’s been on the receiving end of one.
“I already have a therapist.” Bucky grumbles, “She hates me.”
“Raynor’s nice. And she doesn’t hate you - even though you make it way too easy for her sometimes.”
“What, are you two in a text chat or something?”
“I sent her a Christmas card.” He shrugs, “And stop calling it ‘a text chat’. It’s just text , baby. Just ‘a text’ .”
Bucky stiffens, “Don’t call me that.”
“Weren’t you the one just saying we’re playing a part?”
He huffs, “Forget it.”
Sam bites his tongue to hold back a Hydra memory wipe joke, thinks maybe this isn’t the time. Bucky seems suddenly more irritated than usual, something he didn’t think was even possible. Sam chalks it up to the forced couples counselling thing and tries to roll from there.
“Look, we’re gonna go, sit in the circle, introduce ourselves, probably lie about a bunch of shit, and be grateful for the chance to do some recon. What better way to find somebody than listening to every aspect of their life in horrific detail?”
Fifteen minutes into the session, it turns out Sam and Bucky aren’t spared from the whole ‘horrific detail’ thing either.
“So, how did you both meet?”
For someone who used to be a notorious spy/assassin, Barnes looks like a deer in headlights every time somebody asks him a question. Luckily, Sam took an improv class in college, and Sarah won't let him forget it.
“Car accident.” Sam shrugs, and Bucky chokes on air. “He took my steering wheel.”
“Dude!” He hisses, before remembering where they are and belatedly changing his approach, “ Darling , don’t tell that story here - you’ll embarrass me.”
Sam thinks the whole 1950s, ‘Well, shucks, little old me?’ approach feels a little forced, and the nickname makes his heart clench uncomfortably in his chest, but it seems to work a treat on the guests.
“I hear you! Mine is a backseat driver as well. Can’t take this one anywhere!” A woman remarks with terrible high high-pitched laughter.
Her husband is just as bad - “Guilty! We had to take two cars over on our trip to Orlando this summer. The mouse didn’t know what to do with that much Subaru!”
“The mouse .” Bucky drops the act entirely to spit the words with venom, but the couple don’t seem to notice, possibly too focused on being awful - Sam thinks that much awful must take a whole lot of effort.
“Mickey.” He sighs, “The mouse is-”
“I got it.” Bucky bites, “I just hated it.”
⍟ ✪ ⍟
“It’s them.” Bucky slams their cabin door shut with much more force than necessary. The super soldier of it all leaves the walls and door frame shaking with aftershock.
“Just because you don’t like them doesn’t mean they’re the target. We can’t go around killing people just because they’re annoying.”
“Says who?” Barnes argues, forgetting Sam has the ultimate trump card.
“Says Captain America.”
He sighs, perched on the edge of the bed. Sam follows suit. “I’m getting real sick of being bossed around by that shield.”
“Then quit following it around.” He knocks their shoulders together. Bucky smiles. There’s something addictive about that smile that makes Sam think, ‘God, please never stop following me around’ .
“Hey,” He hesitates, then seems to decide better of it and asks anyway, “Can I take the bed tonight?”
“Man, I am not sleeping on the floor. Got enough of that for a lifetime in Afghanistan. We’re not all made of vibranium and misery - I need a mattress.”
“Sorry,” Bucky tries again, “I meant, can we take the bed tonight?”
“... We? ”
“I’m not asking to be the-”
“So, you’re gonna be the little spoon?”
They lie as far from one another as the stupidly heart-shaped bed will allow, and fall asleep under cold blankets, staring fiercely at empty cabin walls.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
I was always turnin' out my empty pockets when it came to you.
The first time it happens, it’s stupid O’clock in the morning, and they’re in the ship’s engine room, shining flashlights between generators, pumps, compressors, and boilers, looking for anything suspicious.
It’s becoming too noisy, too hot, too boring - all for their search to turn up nothing. Sam has spent the last five minutes wishing they’d never split up when Bucky reappears behind an auxiliary turbine.
“You good?” He shakes his head slowly, looking around warily like he isn’t sure what’s real. “You look like you’ve been visited by the ghosts of Hydra past.”
The other man shudders. “Yeah, something like that...”
Sam listens as Bucky explains what happened, where and how, and some theories as to why. After his search amounted to nothing, he took a left towards what he thought was the emergency exit, only to cross the other side of the passage and find himself in Oslo, 1963 - stealing an early prototype of a super coolant compound being developed at a SHIELD-aligned research center. Four guards, four bullets. He didn’t know so much as their names.
They check Redwing’s surveillance data from the time of the incident. No dice. The world didn’t shift, reality didn’t bend - at least from where Sam was standing, everything was a-okay in the universe.
“I think you should start taking Redwing with you. I can live without him; you need him more.”
“If you let that flying Roomba anywhere near me, I swear to God I’m filing a restraining order.”
“He’s cute! You’d like him if you just got to know him.”
“I liked it when it was broken.”
“Smartass.” He huffs, “Fine, but we’re not splitting up anymore. You’re gonna get a wingman one way or another. Just remember that I warned you when you start begging for the drone back.”
“Think I’d rather take my chances with you, thanks.”
⍟ ✪ ⍟
The second time it happens, they’ve split up again. Go figure. It’s not for reconnaissance reasons this time, just more stupid group therapy. It takes two whole days of their ‘vacation’ for Sam to realise this ‘couples cruise’ is actually a ‘couples counselling cruise’ for partners walking the wobbly plank of divorce.
Turns out the girl they thought was their cruise director is the psychologist in charge of their assigned psychotherapy group. And the sprinkled pairs of couples who seem to follow them to every activity are only doing that because they’re a part of his group counselling sessions. Suddenly, a few of their leads get a whole lot less suspicious…
This afternoon, some genius had the bright idea for an organised jealousy roleplay, thinly veiled as ‘cognitive behavioral therapy’. Sam isn’t sure how watching Bucky flirt with a bikini-clad blonde MILF is supposed to help him hate the man any less , but it’s proving to have the opposite effect.
He tries to focus on the young man he’s been paired with - some investment accountant from St. Louis. But it’s almost impossible when he can track Barnes’ every move over the guy's shoulder.
Hey, how you doing, man? Bucky wraps an arm low around her waist, his palm resting flat against the small of her back. Uh, yeah. Delacroix. You? He leans in close to whisper something in her ear, pulls away smiling. She throws her head forward in laughter, blonde curls shading her eyes and falling in front of his face. Huh? Oh, two tours. Yeah, sure. Uh huh... She lays a gentle hand against his chest, dragging a pointed nail in circles over his heart. She looks up at him through thick lashes, licks her lips, smirks. I’m sorry, what was the question?
“I said, glaring at them like that isn’t necessary, bud. I don’t think she’s his type, exactly.”
He blinks, coming back to himself. “Huh?”
“The chick making faces at your man, she’s wasting her time if you ask me. I had a buddy in Missouri - he could walk into an Indigo Girls concert and flirt with every chick at the bar. Some people just don’t have a radar for that sort of thing, you know?”
“Right…” He tries, still only half listening. Bucky just brushed a strand of hair behind her ear using two metal fingers, and Sam hates himself because he knows exactly what that firm pressure feels like on his own skin. He hates her even more. Hates Bucky the most.
“I wouldn’t worry about it - he’s clearly head over heels for you. Honestly, when we got paired together, I was scared the guy’d come rip my head off or something. I mean, seriously, it’s like, do you lot not know who that is?!”
She slips a thin manicured hand into his vibranium one, and Sam is irrationally pissed thinking about how now his hands’ gonna be all sweaty and shit. “He’s not…”, but he can’t focus long enough to finish the sentence. He wonders if he could take the thing to the laundry room, or if that’d draw too much attention to their ‘covert’ operation. Obviously, they’ve done something wrong already if this guy in their counselling clique thinks he’s about to be taken out, Winter Soldier style, just for existing in Sam's vicinity.
“‘Course he is, dude. Don’t worry, I won’t call the press or anything, though I’ve heard the rumours already. The Bulge got this blind item about the two of you building a boat, it was a whole thing - stay off Twitter, man, seriously.”
Sam’s trying real hard to pay attention to whatever what’s-his-name’s got going on right now, he really is. But stiletto french-tipped claws just came to rest where Bucky's jaw meets his cheek, and The Powerbroker is still on the loose somewhere, along with God knows how many powered-up super assassins, and Sam has to get the fuck out of here, yesterday .
He turns back to the man to say as much, just to find he isn’t there. Nobody’s there, actually. He’s alone on an empty lido deck, just Sam and the sky.
He isn’t sure when he put the wings on, but he flies up toward a crescent moon to take a better look below, and tries to figure out when it rose because he could have sworn it was mid-afternoon. When he looks down, there’s nothing but rugged, mountainous terrain, a plateau with valleys, lines of tanks crawling over a gravel path. Then, the unmistakable sound of an RPG - two blasts immediately dissipating into echo, a deep rumbling boom, explosion, fire, debris hitting the ground, and the unmistakable sound of bones crunching, skin breaking, a body thumping heavy against grass.
He squeezes his eyes shut so forcefully it hurts, tilts his head up towards the stars. He doesn’t dare look down, won’t so much as breathe. He doesn’t think he can handle seeing Riley there. Not again.
He focuses on his breathing - in, out, in, out . Tries to think of two things he can smell, three things he can hear, four things he can feel. Relief floods his body when one of those feelings is solid ground beneath his feet again. The hardwood floor of the fucking lido deck. Heavy breathing of the man beside him mixed with the obnoxious high-pitched giggles of the woman beside Barnes. He thinks he'd better cut the girl some slack, because right now that hideous laugh is coming real close to the best thing he’s ever heard. That is, until Bucky slides in next to him.
“Whoa, hey, you okay? You just went all woozy, looked like you were about to faint.” Sam doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t ask where Buck came from, how he knew he wasn’t alright, why he raced to his side. Was he watching him, too? Was he feeling just as sick in his own stomach to see Sam with somebody else? Does he know why?
He doesn’t voice any of these things. Just grits his teeth and forces his eyes shut tighter. “We need to get the hell off this boat.”
⍟ ✪ ⍟
That night, when it happens for a third time, they’re together. Sam might argue that they’re a little too together. That they could stand to be significantly less together. But, you know, couples cruise and all that.
Apparently, keeping their cover now means attending a couples Ballroom Dance Night in a lounge room that Royal Caribbean expects him to believe normally functions as a nightclub. So far, the only supporting evidence is the long, stretching bar they’ve been leaning against all night, watching and waiting to spot the target they know nothing about.
Sam’s staring down the empty neck of a Modelo Especial, thinking about how much he hates Sharron Carter right now. “I’m getting another beer. You want something?”
“Jack Daniel's. I’ll order.”
The same bartender from the pool this morning also does nights at this makeshift club, a fact Barnes has decided is far too suspicious, and therefore won’t let Sam talk to him anymore. Granted, Sam’s a bit concerned that labour laws on international waters make it legal for this guy to work morning till night like that, but that’s not suspicious enough to accuse the man of ruling a criminal underworld.
Regardless, he lets Bucky take the lead, both of them knowing deep down it’s not really about that.
“Oh, so you can engage with the suspect but not me?”
“So you admit he’s a suspect now?”
So far, Bucky's suspect list in order of insanity is as follows:
- Damien and Barbara, one of the couples in their counselling group. Sam agrees, only because there’s something inherently off-putting about being a Disney adult.
- Dan, the guy Sam was paired with for the jealousy exercise, and Christine, who was paired with Buck. Okay, fine, so Sam added her to the list. Whatever. Nobody should have those claws on their finger nails who isn’t an evil supervillain.
- Alex, the bartender, who he’d argue is just a normal, nice guy.
- And Diane, their cruise director turned relationship counsellor, whom Barnes only dislikes because he has deep-seated issues with his therapist.
“I’ll admit that you’re paranoid, and maybe a little trigger-happy, yeah.” Bucky clenches his jaw, bulges a vein in his neck that Sam absolutely does not look at. “You need to relax, baby. Something about this case is making you all intense and threatening - I don’t like it.”
“Maybe it’s the fact that you keep calling me baby .” Bucky grits out.
“We’re-”
“Undercover. Yeah, I got it.”
Alex is back. “Sorry, no Jack, got you Johnnie.” He slides the whisky across the table, “And a Pilsner for your-” He hesitates.
“Partner.” Sam answers at the same time Bucky says, “Boyfriend.”
Barnes says the word with frightening finality. It’s enough to leave Sam entirely speechless, just accepting the glass and turning his back to the whole encounter - probably Bucky's intention in the first place.
His tongue is tied between another snarky comment like ‘Nice cover, asshole’ or ‘Why does it matter to you that he thinks we’re together? Why do you insist everyone knows that I’m yours? Did you forget none of this is real, or does it not matter - is it true regardless? ’
Instead, something catches his eye - movement on the dance floor. A tall, thin figure pushes roughly through to the centre of the crowd, looking for someone Sam can’t quite make out. They’re clad top to bottom in black neoprene and matte lycra, no mask - the type of weird costume-y shit only C-list supervillains wear. When they find their target (A woman, maybe, or a slight, older man? From this distance, he can’t quite tell), they lean in, whisper something in their ear, and hold them tight against their chest - a protective pose disguised as a waltz.
“You see that? Guy in a black suit, ten O’clock.”
“Yeah.” Sam agrees absently, mind already flooded with plans of attacks and counterattacks, “You think that’s our guy?”
“No.” Bucky voices what Sam’s already thinking. Not the Powerbroker . But maybe a member of security, maybe a powered-up bodyguard who’s been causing the flashbacks. All this leads to the bigger question - why would their guy call in protection? And the biggest answer - something big is about to go down.
“We need to get in there.”
Sam hates what’s coming next. At the very least, he wishes the music hadn’t changed to romantic classical piano right before they have to enter the fray. Figures . He abandons his drink on the sticky bar table.
“Follow my lead,” Bucky grumbles, holding Sam by the crook of his elbow and pulling them to the outskirts of the dance floor. Still not close enough, their target is deep in the middle by now, they’ll have to move.
Turns out when Barnes says ‘follow my lead’ he means it literally.
“Man, why do I have to be the girl?” Sam complains, trying to ignore the way his chest tightens as they get into position. His right hand in Bucky’s metallic left. Bucky’s warm and soft right hand placed in the middle of Sam’s back. Sam's own arm wrapped around Bucky's shoulders. It’s not weird , he lies to himself.
“Because you don’t know how to waltz.”
Unfortunately, he’s right. Bucky steps forward on his left foot, to the side, then closes his feet together. Then back on his right, to the side, and closed again. It’s just a box step , he says, it’s easy .
It’s not. Sam steps backward on his right foot, so Bucky steps on top of him. Then, he steps forward on his left foot, and he steps on top of Bucky. Then, he steps too far to the side, tightening his arm around Barnes’ shoulder in an attempt not to bring them both tumbling to the ground. He accidentally pulls their chests even closer. Tries to close his feet together, looks up from the ground to find their faces far too close, eyes wide, mouth agape, exchanging breaths of the same air.
He steps back, flustered. Stretches his arms so far that they could fit a whole other person between. Finally understands what his chaperones at Prom meant when they said ‘leave room for Jesus’ .
Sam clears his throat. “Whatever happened to white boys can’t dance ?”
Bucky shrugs. Sam can feel the movement where his arm is still resting on the other's shoulder. “Wasn’t much else to do in the 40s. ‘Was good at it too. Suddenly, nobody wants to foxtrot in the 21st century, though. Real shame.”
Sam thinks about that a little longer than he should. Bucky dancing. Bucky being good at dancing, having a whole lot of practice. 1940s James Buchanan Barnes, before the soldier, and the war, and all the other crap. Well-spoken, funny, charming, a good dancer. Leveraging himself to get dates for Steve. Girls telling their friends how he was ‘prompt’ and ‘courteous’.
He’s seen the photos in The Smithsonian; he was a good-looking guy - still is. He’s witnessed the rare occasions where Bucky turns on the charm, grins and winks, and flirts with some unsuspecting girl just to get a lead.
Maybe his cover has gone too deep, because for a moment, he thinks the idea might make him jealous. Buck and a girl going to movies, for ice cream, driving around, going to dances. Instead, it just makes him sad. Instead, it makes him irrationally angry at every force in the last sixty years that had a hand in taking that from him. Honestly, he isn’t sure which reaction is worse.
He ignores all of this, settles on safer territory, “Steve didn’t dance.”
“Steve,” He tightens his hold around Sam's back. Somehow they’ve moved impossibly closer again, like two magnets. “Didn’t have the right partner.”
Sam bites his tongue. Something incredibly stupid is threatening to spill out, like Am I the right partner? Instead, he says, “The target’s in the centre of the floor. We need to move.”
“You got it, sweetheart.”
He bites until he can taste blood. Tries to focus on his feet, willing his body to somehow keep up with the more complicated moves that leave him bumping shoulder to shoulder with strangers on the ballroom floor.
He complains about the music, to which Bucky replies, It’s Clair de Lune, birdbrain . Stops himself from speaking altogether, God forbid he finds out something else about the other man he doesn’t want to know, like he can play piano or he speaks six languages . Sam doesn’t know how much more Bucky Barnes he can handle.
“That’s them. Can you get us closer?”
“What are you gonna do, strike up a conversation?” Despite his snark, Bucky glides them closer. “Can’t you just send the drone?”
“Oh, so you like Redwing now?”
“You know it’s not a real bird, right? You don’t need to name it.”
Sam narrows his eyes. “He doesn’t like you either. Says your brooding isn’t as cute as you think it is. Calls you Mr. Freeze .”
“The robot doesn’t talk.” Sam is nearly shoulder to shoulder with the target now, but they’re sideways facing, and he still can’t make out much of their features. “And I am cute.”
He can’t argue with that. Instead, he tilts his head meaningfully to the side, signalling in the direction of the dancers. There’s no use speaking now anyway, nothing that they don’t want others to overhear, definitely nothing that’ll blow their cover. Bucky takes the hint and steps them close enough to the other pair that their shoulders brush.
Suddenly, the sound of a window smashing. Where is she?! A body pushes through the crowd, a man, fleeing for his life. Following him is another, clad tight in red, white, and blue, forcing his way through the space between Sam and Bucky's bodies until they’re separated.
John Walker chases the Flag Smasher through the ship's ballroom, comes out the other side in a courtyard in Northern Europe.
Sam’s seen this before. He knows without looking that Lemar Hoskins is dead one building over, body crumpled and head lolled against a concrete pillar. He knows without looking that Nico is next.
“Sam.” Bucky tries. Nico hurls a cinder block at Walker, who deflects it with the shield. “Sam, look away.”
It wasn’t me. It wasn’t me!
“We have to help him.”
“We can’t. You know that.”
John strikes Nico with the shield. Over and over and over. Nico begs for his life. John steps on his chest to keep him from escaping. Strikes him again.
“We can’t just watch! We have to do something, Buck. You know what happens next. He’s going to-”
“I know.”
“We- We can’t just-”
“It won’t matter, darling. It’s already happened. There’s nothing we can do.”
Sam squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t stop. Captain America violently beats the boy to death with the shield. A crowd of people watch.
Sam and Bucky watch, in the ballroom of the ship, and do nothing. Sam and Bucky watch, in Riga, Latvia, 2024, and do nothing.
The shield is covered in an innocent man's blood. Steve's shield. The one he gave to Sam. The one Sam gave away. The shield that drew a wall between him and Bucky, and the shield that keeps drawing them back together.
“It’s over.” At some point, finally, Bucky breathes out. “Open your eyes, Hon. It’s all over now.”
Sam doesn’t bother arguing about the nickname. Doesn’t argue about the bed, either. He’s thankful for it, that they can sleep a little closer together that night.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
I had the fantasy that
You'd be more than a chapter in my old diaries
With the pages ripped out.
The next morning, they sit in shared misery on the edge of the heart-shaped mattress, keeping just enough distance that their knees don’t bump.
“So… What now?”
Earlier, Bucky had said something off-handed like Are we working this case, or is the case working us to which Sam replied something equally despondent like fuck this boat, man .
“Business as usual? I guess.” Being Captain America means Sam is now the guy who has to make plans, call shots, run into trouble headfirst, and hope blindly that everything will be okay. “Just, play it cool, keep our cover. Hope that next time - we’ll be ready.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, “That mean more therapy?”
Sam laughs, which means Bucky smiles softly, diverts his gaze. He wonders why they can never quite get this right. Why does the air around them always feel so charged with something he can’t explain? Like he’s forever waiting, eager, on the precipice of something huge. But he can’t see it through the trees, and time seems to stop right before he can get close enough to look.
“Hopefully not.” He stands, dissipates whatever it is he thought was in the air, and walks away. “Check the itinerary on the bench. Maybe it’ll be something fun.”
⍟ ✪ ⍟
It’s not fun.
The itinerary for Day Four of The Cruise From Hell is something called ‘mindfulness brunch’, another group therapy session, then game night on the lido deck.
Sam curses himself for making the plan to keep going with this bullshit. Thinks about splitting up and searching the empty cabins while everybody is out, instead. Thinks about what Steve would have done if he were here. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious, trust your gut, keep the civilians on board safe.
Thankfully, ‘Mindful Mediative Brunch’ is just rich white people talk for Sam eating his toast in joyous silence, and Bucky stabbing at scrambled eggs, making murder eyes at everybody else in the restaurant.
Group therapy is less joyful. Diane calls it ‘Messages of Sincerity’, Barnes called it more psychotherapist bullshit. They’re supposed to write notes to one another filled with ‘unspoken truths’. Things you need to get off your chest, overdue apologies, poetic ramblings - the works.
“Man, I am not writing you a love letter.” He lies, pen currently in hand.
“Considering playing along with this whole thing was your idea, you are .” To his credit, Bucky’s filled at least half a page so far, with another blank piece sitting beside it. “Make sure you put some shit in there about my hair, you know, how it blows majestically in the wind. That’s good, write that down.”
That starts a whole new round of bickering. You cut your hair, asshole , followed by, fine, so write about how much you miss it . Like a hole in the head , followed by, great use of simile, Emily Dickinson . Sam curses The Great Depression for being so boring that Bucky had nothing better to do than read poetry and get post-prohibition wasted.
“Why are you writing so much? You know we’re not getting graded on this, right? It’s not a mission report.” Sam leans in, their shoulders brushing, trying to read the other man's run-together handwriting - a horrible mix of 20th-century Palmer script and modern Russian cursive.
“Hey, quit it.” He squares his body, bumps their shoulders again, this time forceful. Slides the second piece of paper over the first so Sam can’t make out a single line. “It’s not done.”
He huffs, “Thought it was my note. Now I don’t even get to read it?”
He swallows thickly, keeps writing, this time more heavy-handed. “Read it some other time. Preferably when I’m not there.”
Diane says they’ll all receive their letters once the cruise is over, folded somewhere between flyers in their ‘disembarkment package’. Sam doesn’t know where they’ll go once the mission is over. He’s gotta get back to Louisiana at some point. Help Sarah with the boys, the boat, and the business. All the things he neglected in his efforts to save the world.
But Bucky… He isn’t sure. Maybe New York, if all that parole-mandated therapy shit is still going on. He seems to remember a late-night conversation about running for Congress, the usual helping people spiel. Sam wouldn’t mind going back to his old place in Washington, wonders if this sudden passion for politics might lead Buck right back to him in DC. He doubts it. That asshole will probably move straight back to Brooklyn. Go back to ignoring his calls.
Through the haze of underplanning and overthinking, Diane's voice rings through - You need to write something down, Mr Wilson . He sighs, Listen, lady, I got nothing to say here . Just write how you feel, she urges . I don’t- Bucky flicks his eyes to them, only briefly, then back to his own letter. Blue ink smears down the pearl paper, his knuckles turning white.
Sam doesn’t know how he feels. He can’t exactly say that to her, though. Instead, he shrugs, writer's block . She tells him to write down all the reasons he loves his partner, to which Bucky snorts, whispers something about my hair, and I told you already .
Sam turns back to his paper. So far it reads:
̶J̶a̶m̶e̶s̶,
̶B̶a̶r̶n̶e̶s̶,
Buck,
I don’t really know what to say to you, man. Obviously, you’ve got a whole lot to say to me, and that’s freaking me out a little. Guess you’re better with words, which is weird, considering that whole strong, silent Winter Soldier thing you got going on. That lady’s watching me now, guess I gotta say something. Here goes.
He thinks about Diane's advice, sneaks a peek at Bucky's paper just to find he’s moved on to the second piece, curling letters running across the page, words spilling all over like it’s nothing. Write down all the reasons you love your partner , she’d said.
Love is a scary word. One he hasn’t really thought about since Steve, since Riley, even. But he likes Barnes' cooking. The amount of time they spent on the run, the distorted domesticity of safehouses, snowy cottages in Canada, and two-story flats in Bristol - it was nice to have somebody around who could cook.
He likes it when Bucky's reading, briefly thinks it’s just nice to catch a moment of silence, but knows it’s more than that. Likes it when he gets so lost in some war-torn 40's pulp that he forgets where he is - sleepily drops his head onto Sam’s shoulder, stretches his legs over Sam’s lap. Sometimes Sam drifts off, wakes up to ask about today's adventures in shitty Science Fantasy.
He likes that stupid metal arm. Whatever they did in Wakanda made it warm, a little lighter, but he liked it before then, too. He liked freezing cold metal fingers on the back of his neck, liked how Barnes would laugh when he’d shiver, call it payback for something stupid Sam doesn’t remember doing. He likes that this thing, once made to induce pain and terror, now cradles chipped coffee mugs, dog-ears paperbacks, wrestles playfully with AJ and Cass, pokes him in the ribs, and flicks behind his ear to get his attention.
Thinks, and hates himself for how romantic it sounds, that that’s what Bucky's all about. The by-product of what happens when somebody tries to make a weapon out of something so authentically good . All that’s sacrificed to draw unwilling violence out of somebody so inherently gentle.
Instead of all this, he writes:
I like your hair. Wish you hadn’t cut it. It was nice.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
After horrifying amounts of mandatory couples counselling activities, they’re still no closer to finding their guy. It’s night four of a six-day cruise, and they’re sitting around a table at Couples Game Night, poring over a whole lot of nothing.
“No flashbacks today, though. Maybe that’s a good thing.”
Sam knows it isn’t. Knows that just because it hasn’t happened to them, that doesn’t mean it’s not happening at all. Just means some innocent passenger is experiencing the kind of hyper-realistic PTSD the guys at the VA would call ‘severe and alarming’ .
Still, he goes along with it, if only to bring some fictitious sense of reassurance to his partner. “Yeah. Maybe.”
No flashbacks means no new leads. Doesn’t help that their old ones were never really leads in the first place. Would you relax? Bucky would pester, We’ll find something. Everyone on board will be there tonight, just keep an eye out. Easy peasy. Sam bites back a mean comment about his use of the term ‘easy peasy’, too tired and hopeless for anything better than a half-hearted, Sure, alright .
So far, nothing. But the night is young. Damien and Barbara just won a scarily fast round of charades, so accurate Sam would suspect some Scarlet Witch mind powers if those two weren’t made of two parts mundane and one part suburban. But Alex has the night off, which Sam points out as a good thing for his ability to order drinks, and Bucky gets irrationally angry that Sam remembered their bartender's name. He can’t win anymore. So, he sits, silent, sends redwing to scan the crowd, and nurses his umpteenth Corona Extra.
Until .
“Barnes and Wilson - you’re up!”
Bucky calls, “No thanks”, overlapping with Sam’s, “I don’t do charades.”
“Oh, great,” Diane smiles like an apex predator, “We’re starting a quiz game now, anyway. Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it.”
Sam gets the hang of it, alright. It’s the fucking Newly Wed Game. Something Barnes has never even heard of because it’s too ‘modern’ - a comment that makes Sam want to lie down and die right there because Eubanks started that show in 1966. Regardless, he gets the gist of it fast. The real problem is trying to keep their cover.
Questions like, What did you do on your first date? , Bucky writes ‘Road Trip’ , Sam writes ‘Helicopter Ride’ . Neither laugh. Bucky mumbles, ‘ It was a heli carrier,’ and instead of shouting, ‘ I know! You pushed me to my death from it! ’, Sam says, ‘Next time I’m moving my seat so far back they’re gonna have to get you vibranium legs too’ .
It goes on.
What did they wear on the first date? Answered with, Too much eyeliner, and a carbon fibre propulsion wingsuit. What is the thing they're most likely to end up in jail for? Sokovia Accords violation, and Got a feeling he killed JFK, just can’t prove it. Somebody asks, If your spouse had a superpower, what would it be? And that just feels targeted.
Who is the best cook? Bucky. Who is most likely to deal with a spider? Sam. Who takes a longer shower? Bucky. Who hogs the covers more? Sam. What is the first movie you saw together? Terminator 2: Judgment Day. What are you most likely to argue about? Steve. Who was your partner's most embarrassing crush? Steve. If they could have dinner with any person, dead or alive, who would it be? Steve.
What is their pet name for you? Sam blushes while scribbling Sweetheart, Darling, Doll, Angel, Honey , Dear, tries not to think about the fact that ‘friends’ don’t speak to each other like that. That he said that sort of thing even before they went undercover. Bucky writes ‘Stabby McKillface’ and Diane gives him his ‘first warning’.
The questions get harder, What are they most afraid of? , then easier, How do they like their eggs in the morning? . Buck’s startled by Sam knowing his star sign, so he makes up some excuse about Sarah mentioning it one time.
Bucky writes ‘Always’ to the question, When did you know that they were the one? . Later on says he was just playing a part. For the sake of the mission, and all that crap. Doesn’t matter. The game doesn’t feel fun after that. Sam can’t focus on the questions.
Who fell first? Who fell harder? Who is more romantic? Who is a better kisser? How did you know you were in love? How did you know they felt the same way? And, damn it, Sam doesn’t know. Realises pretty quickly that he doesn’t know jack shit. Everything he thought he knew has been turned upside down and inside out, and he would do just about anything to get the hell off this boat right now.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
I had the fantasy that maybe our mismatched star signs
Would surprise the whole school.
Day five finally brings a fucking lead. Hallelujah.
One of the staff on board, the nervous girl who checked them in that first day, grabs Bucky by the shoulder at breakfast, breathless and shaking, “Mr Winter Soldier, uh- Sir. A-And Captain America.”
“‘It’s just Bucky, sweetheart.” Sam doesn’t waste time wondering why his chest flares hot at the nickname; figures he already knows the answer. “What can we do for you?”
“I need your help.”
⍟ ✪ ⍟
Turns out this girl, Olivia, hasn’t just experienced one or two flashbacks, but seven.
“Seven?!” The reluctant protector in Bucky has immediately deemed her safety his responsibility. “And it took you this long to find us? Why would you do that? You knew we were on board - you checked us in for Christ's sake.”
“I’m sorry.” She sniffles, “I was scared. I- I’m sorry.”
“Dude.” Sam takes an unopened tissue box from the bathroom and hands it to her, legs tucked under herself on the heart-shaped bed. “Cut her some slack, alright.”
They spend the next hour trying to learn any and all useful information.
When do the attacks happen? Randomly. Day and night. For the last four days.
Where do they happen? Everywhere. The pool bar, the ballroom, the kids club, the front desk, the boiler room, the sports courts, the elevator. Sam and Bucky were present for three of those. Maybe it’s just bad luck? The girl with the world's worst timing.
Were you with anybody? Sometimes. Coworkers or guests. But other times, entirely alone. There’s nobody present for all of the attacks. Nobody but her.
What do you see? When they happen . Next question. Please.
Is there anything different about you, Liv? Anything… Special? What do you mean by that? Like, do you ever see things, or feel things, other people don’t? You got any kind of abilities you don’t think regular people have? No, of course not. Up until four days ago, she was just a normal, run-of-the-mill, twenty-something-year-old girl. Didn’t even get blipped. Spent five years getting a degree in Hospitality that she uses to get more pillows sent to room 205 or ask if you’d like to join our cruise loyalty program.
Did anything change four days ago, when the attacks first started - was there anything different about that day? Sure. First day of the cruise, everybody boarded the ship. Anything else? Anything at all? I need you to think, Olivia. Think. Work with me here. No. No, nothing. Nothing at all.
Sam and Bucky get nowhere. For all they know, the attacks are random, happening all over the boat, potentially to everybody. She says nobody called the front desk about seeing things, but then again, that’s not really a customer service complaint.
There could have been twenty attacks by now, thirty or forty. They’ve found the unlucky girl who was privy to seven of them, only because she knew who to call for help - but what about the next guy who’s witnessed eight? Nine? Ten? Could be anybody. There’s nothing special about her.
Only that Bucky has now vowed to keep her safe no matter the cost, and Sam has to find a realistic way for them to do that, one that doesn’t involve trailing behind her for an eight-hour shift and sleeping on her stateroom floor.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
That’s how they end up at that night's Bon Voyage Buffet candle-lit dinner.
Olivia stands behind a lectern, writing people's surnames and room numbers as they arrive for their meal. Like this is an exclusive private affair - as if she’ll have to look sadly at somebody and say with remorse, unfortunately, you’re not on the list.
“Why would they need a customer service rep here for this?” Bucky stabs at vegetables with his fork like they’re opposing soviet operatives.
“You wanna leave that poor asparagus alone? Didn’t do nothing to you.”
“That’s what you think.” He chews obnoxiously - open-mouthed, teeth clacking together.
Despite it all, Sam is so gone on him it’s dizzying. Doesn’t know what the hell he did to end up here, head over heels for the hundred-year-old frozen tin-man, but takes it on the chin regardless. Settles steadfast in his decision to do absolutely nothing about it.
He changes the subject.
“So. What’s next?”
“Find the powerbroker, bring him in. Along with whoever's been orchestrating this whole week-long mindfuck. Hopefully Carter gives us something in return this time. Being a brainwashed Hydra assassin paid better than this.”
“No, it didn’t.”
He pierces an artichoke right through the heart, “No, it didn’t.”
“I meant, what’s next for-” Us. “You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you.” Sam pushes grains of rice around on his plate for lack of anything better to do. Regrets ordering the risotto. “Flag Smashers are out of commission. SHIELD work all dried up. So… Where you headed next?”
“Oh.” Bucky chews slowly, then swallows. Sam watches his Adam's apple bob with the movement. There’s a spot of pepper sauce on his lower lip, and Sam has to clench his fist white to keep from doing something stupid like wiping it away with the pad of his thumb. Barnes licks the spot clean instead, which is somehow worse. “Uh, I don’t know.”
“You headin’ home?” He hates how stupid the question sounds. Desperate, and curious. Wishes he never asked.
“I don’t know where home is anymore.”
Sam swallows the lump in his throat. “Brooklyn?”
“Maybe.” He shrugs, feigning indifference. “What about you? DC? Louisiana?”
Sam just nods, noncommittal. “The world's my oyster.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like such a bad thing.
“Right, well-” Good luck , he wants to say. Wherever you’re going, give me a call when you get there. Maybe I can come visit. Or we can just, you know, talk. He wants to say all of these things, ideally make them sound a whole lot less desperate, but Bucky gets there first.
“It’s just-” He hesitates, “Sorry, you go.”
“No, man, it’s alright. I’m listening.”
He drops his fork to the table, the meal now entirely abandoned. “It’s just, I got nothing keeping me here, you know? Got nothing keeping me anywhere.”
Sam's chest his suddenly tight, throat closed. He blinks quickly. Speaks in what he hopes is a neutral tone, “Oh?”
“Yeah, I-” Bucky tries to meet Sam's gaze, all heavy and meaningful, but Sam quickly looks away. Doesn’t even mean to do it. He’s just a coward.
Bucky takes it for the rejection it is.
“Guess I’m done looking for a reason to stay.”
And it’s stupid. It’s all stupid. A stupid line you’d hear in some stupid Hallmark movie and say, Seriously? Is anybody actually buying that? In the middle of a scene that has you screaming at the television, it’s you, you idiot! You’re his reason to stay! Sam knows that. He’s telling it to himself even now, say something! Anything!
Ask him to stay. Beg, if you have to. New York, Delacrioix, Washington, I don’t care! I’d go to God damn Asgard if you only asked. We could go to the ends of the Earth and back again - just look at me that way you do, soft and needy, call me ‘Sweetheart’, ask me to come with you. I’ll be your reason, long as you keep being mine.
“Good luck. Give me a call when you get where you're going.”
The words that sounded so clever a mere few minutes ago weigh the heaviest on Sam's tongue. Crash hefty to the ground the moment they pass his lips. The weight of irreparable damage.
“Sure.” His hands drop from the table to rest in his lap, limp. Turns and looks away mid-conversation, suddenly with nothing to say. Just, “Yeah. Sure. I’ll do that”, even though they both know immediately that it’s not true.
They don’t get too long to think about it, though.
A moment later, the wooden floor beneath their feet starts pooling with water. It’s slow at first. Sam shifts his weight, feels his sneakers slip, losing friction. Next, they’re wet, right through to his socks.
“What the hell?”
It keeps going, crawling further upwards. The water is pooling around his ankle, then his calf, then halfway to his knee. It’s high enough now that it splashes when he rises from his seat in a panic, makes it hard for him to move, to run.
“Is it sinking?” Bucky sounds frantic, entirely out of sorts. It strikes Sam somewhere deep to think he’s never heard him so afraid before.
The water’s above his knees now. “No. No, we’re not-” He swallows thickly, “I don’t know what we are.”
He knows they’re on the top floor of the ship, gotta be nearly a hundred feet above sea level. And the movement of the boat is still steady; they haven’t capsized, or tipped, or rocked. So, not sinking then. It’s crawling further up his thigh, soon it’ll be at his hips, and he’ll hardly be able to move. He’s never wished for the wings more in his life. Focus .
Not sinking, then. Flooding, maybe. But this level of the ship is entirely open, and the hollow thin railings wouldn’t allow water to climb its edges like that, certainly not this high. Okay, so not flooding.
“Sam!” Bucky calls from somewhere so much further away than Sam remembers him being. He recognises the word as a warning, but doesn’t see the wave until it’s crashing over his head.
There’s a short while after that where he’s entirely helpless. Seconds, maybe minutes, where all he can do is go with the motions of the water. Be pushed, and pulled, and sucked down, or maybe up - he doesn’t know which is where anymore.
Things move differently underwater. It takes everything to keep holding his breath, ward off involuntary gasps, lest his aching lungs start flooding and he finally loses consciousness.
He’s sure there are massive amounts of debris and wreckage being thrashed around with him, and quickly accepts there’ll be nothing he can do once one lucky piece decides to take him out. When he feels the sharp grip of metal on his arm, he welcomes it, thinks finally about going home.
Bucky lifts his body from the water with a grunt. Tosses him haphazardly onto a solid metal table he assumes was once the pool bar. He coughs wetly, spits, and throws up a mix of seawater and stomach acid. The vibranium grip on his bicep is back, both of them tethering the other to the slab of stainless steel.
His eyes flit from left to right, finding something he can use , someone he can save . Instead, he finds high rises as tall as the Empire State, tens of them, walling them in on both sides. Distantly, the sound of screaming and fire trucks wailing. Above them, helicopters and a blazing sun where there was just a crescent moon.
“It’s a memory.” He gasps, and it tastes like salt and bile. “Whose memory is this?”
Not his, that much he knows for sure. Likely not Bucky's. He doesn’t think that man would have lived through something like this without mentioning it. Equally, doesn’t think HYDRA was sending their most prized possession on suicide missions into the heart of a fucking Tsunami.
“On your left, Sam. Look!”
Olivia stands in the centre of the flood, bone dry. Floats as if she’s walking, weight on top of water. The waves don’t even crash where she’s standing, just divert and pool gently around her feet. She doesn’t appear to notice. Continues staring blankly ahead, frozen as if in a trance.
Following her eyeline, there’s a girl. A small, small girl - might only be seven or eight. She screams, Livia! Liv! Olivia!!, but gets cut off every time her head bobs below the water. She appears randomly, above, then below, giving every impression of someone who doesn’t know how to swim. If she did, she’d preserve her breath. Tread with her arms and her legs. Find something to float on, wrap her arms around it, and protect her face and vital organs from debris. Instead, she screams, Olivia, help me! Mum! Please, Mum! Livy, please!! Livia, help me!!
Eventually, the pleading stops. Replaced by the sound of choking, bubbling, and spitting. Ragged, wet breaths, then nothing at all. Just crashing waves and silence. Olivia doesn’t so much as flinch. Stands entirely too still until the water at her ankles is nothing but a puddle, then collapses onto the floor.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
I pace down your block,
I broke my own heart 'cause you were too polite to do it.
SHIELD sends a special ops team. Sharron says the beads making up Olivia's bracelet aren’t beads at all, but fragments of a Skrull memory orb. Olivia says it was a parting gift from her girlfriend, who gave it to her right before boarding.
They search the ship for injuries, witnesses, and victims. Anybody who might’ve been swept with the sea or washed up in a wave. There’s nobody. Only the two of them, and Olivia. Who relived the worst day of her life five times before she stopped trying to fight it, eight before asking for help, nine before giving in and letting the girl die.
That night, wrapped in a blanket and cradling a cup of tea, she’d whisper, My sister . That’s all Bucky and Sam would get before she drifted into a distant silence again.
They never find The Powerbroker. Carter says he was only onboard looking for the Orb. Now that it’s in SHIELD’s custody, he’s likely long gone. She says it doesn’t matter. This is more important to her anyway. Sam thinks maybe that’s why she sent them in the first place, but doesn’t have the energy to raise something like that right now. He’s tired of impossible fights and losing battles. Just wants to go home, wherever that is these days.
For Bucky, it’s Brooklyn.
“Guess I’ll see you around”. It comes out hollow.
“Yeah, maybe,” Barnes speaks like they’re already strangers. The same guy who claimed that shield is the only family he’s got left, suddenly quick to abandon it, just like it once abandoned him.
Sam can’t watch him go, just like he couldn’t watch Steve go. Instead, he rolls the tension from his shoulders, cranes his neck in an attempt to keep the taxicab out of his peripheral.
It crosses his mind to call across the car park as Bucky ducks into the car. Something like Love you, man , or Hey, remember to call . Instead, he swallows the heavy words, blinks back the burning behind his eyes. He watches the sun rise behind the ship that’s just taken everything from him, and clutches tight to his chest the ridiculous disembarkation package Diane still had the nerve to give him.
Before he drives himself home that morning, he’ll force the thing deep to the bottom of his backpack, with firm self-imposed restrictions to not so much as think about it for the next week.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
Hey, so, where’d you end up?
Cass and AJ said to text you and say hi. They miss you. Can’t figure out why though…
I’m back in DC tomorrow. You in NYC? I’ll be there in the next few days for work.
Hey man, just letting you know I’m home. Shoot me a text when you’re down to catch up.
Think we should talk. Can you answer my calls?
Barnes, it’s the 21st century. I’ll track your IP if I have to. Don’t make me send Redwing over there.
In Queens for a Cap thing. Will you atleast text me back?
Can you just tell me you’re okay?
By day seven with no contact, Sam is aggressively backspacing a message that reads I miss you, come home. That’s how he knows he’s fucked.
By that point, strapping on the wings and sliding into the stars and stripes doesn’t feel half as insane as he reasonably knows it is. Tells himself lies like, I’m a first responder, anything could have happened to him by now, I gotta do my job. Ignores the voice in his head that sounds exactly like Sarah, You’re really going all First Avenger just to fly to your situationship’s house, are you dumb? You know this is gonna be all over the news, right?
He knots his laces tight, pulls down his goggles, and runs out the door. Sarah, in his mind, laughs, Oh, my bad, so you are dumb.
And, yeah, maybe he is. Maybe this is the dumbest thing he’s ever done. Guess he’ll have to wait and find out.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
Bucky opens the door only a sliver. A silhouette of light and shadow through the locked chain.
“Sam?” He’s groggy, like a man who hasn’t slept in a week. You still having those nightmares , he remembers, All the time . And yet, the four nights they spent awkwardly sharing a bed, Barnes didn’t stir once. “How’d you get here?” He blinks, rubs sleep from his eye with a closed fist.
“I flew. Asked Sharron to find your new address.” Sam looks over his shoulder, paranoid. New York is the sort of place where everybody’s got a camera phone and they’ll make sure you know about it. “Can I come in?”
Still half asleep, he nods, slow. “Alright. Hold on”. Closes the door, unlatches the lock, and opens it again, this time all the way.
Sam pushes his way through, boots heavy on wooden floorboards. Wingsuit even heavier when he shucks it off his shoulders and lets it clatter to a pile on the ground. Followed by gloves, goggles, and that stupid fucking shield.
It’s enough to wake Bucky up. “What the fuck! You flew here?!”
“I just told you that.”
“I thought you meant commercial!” He forces a hand through his hair, pulls at the strands so tight they stand at odd angles when he pulls away. “What’s the matter with you? You go all Captain America on me because I ignored a few calls - you think that’s normal?” He doesn’t, knows it isn't. “You could have been shot out of the fucking sky, Sam. Now my neighbours are gonna think the damn Chitauri are back. Hope you’re happy.”
“ Why”, He steps closer, “Didn’t you answer my calls?”
Bucky steps back, “Don’t do that. I’m not doing the whole coy act with you, alright. You know why.”
He wants to scream. Doesn’t. Settles on “Obviously I don’t”, even though inside he’s seething. You can’t just up and disappear on me like that, can’t you see I need you! Or something worse, more insane, like, You could have been dead, you moron! And of course I didn’t think you were, but if anything did happen to you, I wouldn’t be able to go on like that. Christ, I couldn’t last seven fucking days without you.
“You-” He inhales, exhales heavy, the type of breathing Sam knows you only learn in anger management therapy. “Yes, you do. Alright. And you didn’t- You don’t get it, and that’s fine. I told you, we don’t gotta talk about it.”
“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about! You just up and disappeared on me, ran off to who knows where, refused to answer me back-”
“You can’t text me shit like ‘ I think we should talk ’ and expect me to know how to respond to that! I don’t wanna talk, Sam. If that’s why you're here, then you better gather up your crap and fly home.”
Sam feels like he’s underwater again. The conversation is moving faster than he can track, in directions he can’t anticipate. Like the tsunami is barrelling toward him, and he’s too slow to dodge the next piece of debris. “So, what, you’re just never gonna speak to me again?”
Bucky shrugs, like that’s an option. “Maybe I’ll see you at the next alien invasion.”
“I-” What the fuck . He’s missing an Olympus-sized piece of the puzzle here, with no idea where to find it. All he knows is that Bucky is trying his hardest to kick Sam out of not only his house, but his life, and Sam doesn’t even get to know why . “That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair, pal.”
“I don’t want to hear your traumatic backstory bullshit right now, that’s got nothin’ to do with you and me.”
Seems this is enough to break him. “There is no you and me!”
Sam bites his tongue. Because you left! ‘Cos you never wanted me! ‘Cos I’m always the one who’s gotta reach out to you, and wait around like a fucking idiot just for you to ignore me, over and over again. ‘Cos I can’t let you go, even though I know I should.
“If you don’t want me around, that’s fine.” It’s not. “But you don’t get to act like this.”
“ Act like w-”
“Like I mean nothing to you! Not when-” Not when you mean everything to me . Sam is so fucking tired of words going unsaid. Sick of italics and internal monologue. Sick of lies, and missing pieces, and losing people. Sick of Bucky, and so nauseatingly sick when he’s without Bucky.
Sam Wilson is not a coward. Sam Wilson is Captain fucking America.
“Not when you mean everything to me.”
He lets it hang in the air between them. Decides he doesn’t care about the weight of it, or the rift it draws. If he’s losing his best friend anyway, he might as well go out with a bang.
“What do you want from me, Wilson?”
He swallows. “What are you offering?”
Bucky needs a moment to process this. Sam's mind is moving a mile a minute, ranking possible responses by how badly he needs to hear them. The whole spectrum from everything to nothing , and the tiny amounts in between. He doesn’t mind. He’ll take it all. Whatever he can get.
Buck tilts his head - an action so utterly endearing that Sam reevaluates completely, decides he won’t be leaving with anything short of everything. “You seriously don’t know?”
“Don’t know what?”
“...You,” Confusion slowly morphs into realisation, which for some reason slips into frustration. Bucky punches him in the arm, hard. “You didn’t read the fucking letter!”
“ Dude ! Ow!” Sam wraps a hand around his bicep, pulls it close to his chest. “Seriously? You couldn’t hit with your other arm?”
“Force of habit.” Is the closest thing Sam's going to get to an apology, “Why wouldn’t you read the damn letter? You know that’s what they’re for, right? They’re made to be read.”
“I don’t know! I forgot about it. Who cares? Did you even read mine?”
“ Roses are red, violets are blue, redwing’s got better social skills than you.” He quotes, “‘Course I read it - it was awful.”
“Thought you liked poetry.” Sam tests the waters with a smile, which Barnes returns with a glare. Right. So, he backtracks. “I’m sorry, alright. I think it’s in my pack somewhere. I can read it later if it’s so important to you.”
“No.” He bites, much too quickly. “No. Don’t. It’s fine. Don’t read it, just.. Give it back.”
“What? No. You can’t have it back, it’s my letter.”
“You didn’t even remember it ‘til now!”
“Okay, so I got a lot to catch up on.” Bucky doesn’t smile, even at Sam’s best attempt at charm. “Look, if you want it back, you gotta at least tell me what it says.”
“Kind of defeats the purpose.”
“Then I’ll read it-”
“-No!”
“Then I’ll-”
“No, Sam. You’re not-”
“What?”
“You just-!” Bucky groans, frustrated, “You’re so infuriating! You drive me crazy, and it’s like you don’t even realise it. And I’m here, right, I put it all on the line for you . And you can’t even read the fucking letter. Unbelievable!”
“Why can’t you just tell me what it s-”
“I love you! You moron!”
Bucky rubs the back of his neck, metal fingers digging into warm skin, where a blush creeps slowly toward his jaw, his cheeks. “That’s what it says, alright?”
Despite the unsteady beat of his heart, the rush of blood in his ears, the warm feeling blooming in his chest - Sam still has to be sure. Can’t just dive blind and head first into something like this. Not until he’s certain.
“You.. You love me how?”
“Like, I don’t know…” His jaw’s tense, like he wants to pull the words back in before they’re even out. “I’m sweet on you. You’re… darling. That’s how I feel.”
It takes way too much focus for Sam to not fuck this up again. His brain is great at supplying quips like, Bet that line went over real smooth in the 40’s, but nothing so meaningful as I love you, too. He wonders if it’ll be like that between them forever. Stunted. Awkward.
“Oh. Well, I feel the same. About you.”
“Yeah?” He clears his throat, “I mean.. You do?”
“Yeah,” Sam nods, “I do.”
“That’s… Yeah. That’s good, sweetheart. Real good.”
“Man, I thought you were supposed to be smooth.” This time, when Sam steps closer, Bucky doesn’t step away. He relaxes tense shoulders, meets Sam's gaze - brown on crystal blue. “Where’s the Casanova Steve used to talk about?”
He snorts. “Think I left him in the ice.”
“I get it. You kept all the charm in your other arm, huh.”
“I don’t know, this one’s got a little kick to it. Need another demonstration?”
“No thanks. You can keep that tetanus playground to yourself.”
Now this , Sam thinks, they can do . This is them all over. And maybe, the other stuff will have to come with time. It doesn’t happen overnight. Going from a couple of guys with a mutual friend , to a couple of guys , to a couple . But that’s alright. They’ve got plenty of time.
Although when Bucky says something ridiculous like, So, does this mean we’re going steady? , It’s suddenly all too easy for Sam to bring their lips together. Warm, and gentle, and slow. Like he said, plenty of time .
⍟ ✪ ⍟
Sweetheart,
I don’t really know what I’m supposed to be writing here. Don’t know how honest I gotta be. Don’t know if I’ve got the words. But, for you, I suppose I’ll find them.
We used to write letters like this during the war. Same guys who carried a photo of their girl in their helmet or broken locket would spew out these crazy evocative billet-doux and send them home. Guess everyone’s a poet when your life's on the line. Any words could be your last, you know.
Steve used to live like that. Never made fun of anybody's letters - hell, I think he used to help write them. Think maybe he kept a picture in his compass, too. I don’t know. Memory’s still a little foggy.
Anyway. He used to live every day like it was his last. Maybe he knew something we didn’t. He wasn’t the kind of guy who had to make confessions or write love letters - if you were lucky enough to be loved by Steve Rogers, you’d know about it.
I don’t know what I’m getting at here, exactly. Maybe I just don’t want secrets between us anymore. Guess, this is me doing my part.
I love you, buddy.
Figured you ought to know.
I don’t know what’ll happen between us after this. I don’t know where I’ll be. But I swear, wherever it is, I’ll miss you. Wish I was with you, always.
You're the closest thing to family I’ve got left. You’re home. I don’t know where I’d be if I’ve gone and ruined all that now. So, if I’ve freaked you out or something, do me a favour and tear this letter up. Burn it. Ignore my calls if you have to, just don’t let them end badly. Whatever it takes, make it work. Can’t have you out there somewhere hating me. Rather never speak again than hear you say it’s over.
I need you, darling.
However you’ll have me. Just let me know.
With love,
Your partner,
James Bucky Barnes.
⍟ ✪ ⍟
“Oh, please. The Tower of Terror isn’t even scary.”
Sam presses a kiss to Bucky's temple as he passes the sofa. Leaves a new steaming mug on the table, bites his tongue to keep from scorning his partner, I won’t be making you any more coffee if you keep letting them go cold like that .
“200 feet? You realise I’ve jumped out of planes.” Bucky shifts the phone to his other ear, lifts a shoulder to keep it pinned in place, smiles softly at Sam, and reaches for the cup. “Yeah, big whoop. Tell Damien my boyfriend is The fucking Falcon.”
“I’m Captain America, man, come on”. Sam settles on the couch, as far on the other side as he can get, knowing their routine far too well by now.
Grinning, Bucky takes this as an invitation to extend his legs long across the cushions, stretched across the sofa like a lazy cat, socked feet warm on Sam's lap.
“Listen, Barb, I gotta go. Sam’s hassling me, you know how it is”. Barbara says something else, tinny and quiet through the phone line, and Bucky laughs, quips ‘ Men’ sarcastically with an eye roll, before finally hanging up.
“Why do you still talk to them?”. Sam pulls a throw blanket over his lap, tucks it in under Bucky's calves, knowing without having to ask how the other man is always running cold.
He shrugs. “Christina’s always telling me to make more friends.” These days, Bucky is on a first-name basis with his therapist.
“The retired couple you met on a case three months ago don’t count as friends, Buck.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for starters, you thought they were undercover criminal masterminds for a minute there.”
Bucky narrows his eyes, “You talk to Olivia every week.”
“I’m her counsellor!” With Sharon's help, Sam is one of seven counsellors currently running groups with people affected by otherworldly threats - witnesses to alien invasions, victims of magical objects - essentially anybody caught in the superhero crossfire.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Of course you don’t.”
Bucky throws his phone somewhere across the room, likely aiming for the armchair but, judging by the sound of glass cracking, misses spectacularly. He winces at the sound, before shrugging it off and reaching for a book.
“No!” Sam is quicker. He leans forward and picks the book out of Bucky's hands, ignoring the ensuing, Hey! Give that back!
“No, coffee first. That’s the fourth one I’ve made you today, and I think you’ve had a total of one sip from each.”
This is how they spend most of their time these days. Caught between places - Louisiana, New York, DC - Sam’s moved into Bucky's apartment in Brooklyn. Thanks to Sam's supply of actual furniture and a mattress with a bedframe, the place feels much homier.
Now, they lose track of days in a bliss of domesticity. Bucky reads, plays piano, and cooks. Sam runs, bakes, and invites Sarah and the boys over every other weekend. Recently they’ve been poring over the pros and cons of adopting a cat, still a little worried they won’t be home enough to look after it.
Sometimes the CIA has work for them, other times they find it for themselves. More often than not, Torres is texting them with some convoluted lead that either leads to absolutely nothing, or a criminal organisation so far underground that even the FBI can’t understand how he found them. Usually, he just shrugs and says, The internet , like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Bucky sips his fresh cup of coffee, already making a face into it. “They don’t stay warm long enough, sweetheart. I’m-”
“ Cold . Yeah, I got it after the first cryofreeze.” He lifts the blanket and opens his arms in invitation, “C’mere. Quick, before I change my mind.”
Bucky snorts, snuggling into the crook of Sam's shoulder, “Yeah, right”. Sam glares at the full cup of coffee he’s left behind on the other side of the couch. “Like you’ve ever changed your mind on me before.”
“Don’t tempt me.” He warns, despite pulling the blanket higher, tucking it now from his side to Barnes’ middle.
Bucky leans closer for a soft kiss, just the slightest brush of lips together, “But I’m so good at it”, he whispers against Sam’s mouth, and shit, yeah, he is good at it.
Sam closes the distance again, this time harder, fiercer, with newly awoken passion. Not that it’d gone anywhere, only sleepy and placid in between lazy days and heated nights. This is not only how they’ve spent the last few months together, but how Sam plans to spend the rest of his life.
Bucky pulls away, smiles cheekily, and uses the distraction to snatch his book back from the armrest where Sam ‘hid’ it.
“You’re such an asshole.” He complains, with no malice, still craning his neck and straining his back to allow Bucky to settle back into his usual comfortable reading position, using Sam as chair, pillow, and blanket all rolled into one.
Sam turns on the TV, flicks between basketball, daytime soaps, local news, before settling on some C-grade movie - knowing he’ll probably fall asleep halfway through it anyway, and Bucky will tease him like it’s the first time he’s done this, not the eightieth.
“You love me,” Bucky mumbles, already so deep in Anna Karenina he shouldn’t be capable of engaging in conversation right now.
With that in mind, Sam settles, pulls him closer to his side, and sighs.
“I do.”