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It happened at an old, scarred, solid dining room table that had been passed down for generations in the Wilson family.
Food was sacred there; shared meals were their version of church, and that table was their altar. Sam could remember Sunday lunches with his parents and sister and whoever else they found that looked like they needed a warm meal and a hug. Everyone was always welcome at the Wilsons’ table.
It was the table where the kids had done their homework, where their parents had sat with steaming mugs of chicory coffee, where the family bonds had truly formed. It was where bills piled up, where dinner was always served, where stories were passed down. The notches in the wood held those memories. It seemed to stretch and shrink, always making room for another chair and never feeling so big that those who sat around it felt distanced from one another.
But on that day, it held more than just the Wilson family legacy.
On top of the table sat a file folder, well worn, creased, handwritten notes scratched across it, and labeled “Barnes/Winter Soldier.”
Sam nudged it across the table, raising his eyebrows expectantly. Bucky sat across from him, long hair parted to the side, his new Wakandan arm peeking out from the shirt sleeve that he had pushed up and out of his way as his irritation with Sam built.
“I don’t need to look at this, Sam. I lived it, remember?” Bucky said as he crossed his arms across his chest. Sam’s only response was to nudge the folder towards him again. Bucky sighed loudly and dramatically, as was his way, and snatched the folder off of the table and began to flip through it.
Sam waited patiently, his mind drifting as his fingers skimmed the table, feeling the ridges and divots, tracing the spot on the underside where he and Sarah had started to carve their names before their dad had caught them. They were terrified that they were going to get in trouble. Their father, Paul, had just gently pulled them off the floor and sat them at the table.
“Why?” he had asked his children simply. Sam and Sarah had shared a glance, both waiting for the other to speak first. Finally, Sam cracked. He never could keep his mouth shut.
“We wanted to leave our mark. Show that it’s our table,” he mumbled, avoiding eye contact with his father.
“Of course it’s y’all’s table. Why wouldn’t it be? Why would you have to do that?” Paul continued, no anger in his voice.
“Because you guys let anyone sit here and it’s ours, we’re actually Wilsons!” Sam had cried out, his emotions getting the best of him. His father’s only immediate response was to smile softly and rub Sam’s back. Something his parents were always too good at was acknowledging how big feelings in a little child’s body were impossible to keep in check sometimes. Sam shoved his dad’s arm away, tears starting to form in his eyes.
“We just want to be important, too,” Sarah had added, beginning to cry herself. Paul stood up and walked around the table to hug both of his children who collapsed into him, sobbing those particular kinds of tears that can only be shed when the person feels entirely safe.
“You are both so important. You are the most important things in our lives,” Paul assured his children, pressing kisses into their heads until they caught their breath. He crouched between them and wiped their faces with damp rags, softened from near daily use in their kitchen.
“Sometimes you and Momma love the neighbors more,” Sam explained quietly through sniffles. Sarah just nodded in quiet agreement, eyes on the floor.
“Oh, my babies. No, never. But we have to invite people to the table with us. If we don’t share what we have, don’t love others, don’t work together as a community, we’ll fail. We’ll fail as neighbors, we’ll fail as friends, we’ll fail as people. Love only grows if you share it,” Paul explained.
That formed the crux of Sam’s moral compass moving forward in life. If he had something good, it was better if he shared it. If someone struggled and he could help, he would without a thought. It’s not that he thought that made him better than anyone else; it was the opposite, in fact. His parents had firmly and lovingly taught him that it was people, not government or policies, that made the world turn and that it was every person’s basic responsibility to help his fellow humans.
That’s how Sam had ended up back at the table, still sore from a battle with Thanos, sitting with someone that he had at one point thought couldn’t be saved. If he sat still enough, he swore he could hear his father laughing at him now.
The slap of the file folder hitting the table brought Sam back to the present.
“There. Properly reminded of everything in my past. Happy?” Bucky grumbled towards Sam.
“I don’t know if ‘happy’ is the right word, but yeah, sure,” Sam replied easily. “Now it’s time to get to work.”
Bucky gave another sigh and the corner of Sam’s mouth twitched as he fought back a grin. He booted up his laptop and started typing.
“Petition to the President of the United States for the Executive Pardon of James Buchanan Barnes,” Sam read aloud as he typed. He paused and looked up at Bucky. For the first time in days, he really saw him.
They had been busy. Sam and Bucky had both been snapped away by Thanos and when they came back, it was disorienting and then they were thrown immediately back into battle. No rest, no regrouping, just bloodshed. And then Tony died and Steve left and the two closest friends of Captain America were stuck staring at each other, unsure of what to do next. Sam had rushed home to Louisiana and Bucky had followed because what else was there for him to do?
The government had reached out to the remaining Avengers with questions about what happened. Rhodey and Sam had taken the lead on dealing with that, Pepper sprinkling in advice as she was able. The government had asked for a complete list of those involved in defeating Thanos and saving the universe and Sam had paused. He knew that too many of those involved were on the run from the U.S. Government in some capacity. Clint and Scott weren’t supposed to be there. Wanda was still a sore subject with the United Nations. And Bucky…Bucky was a ghost.
So Sam had called up a lawyer and negotiated a presidential pardon for everyone involved. However, it still had to go through proper channels. They had to ask, it couldn’t just be given. Everyone else had relied on people that Pepper hired or that were already employed by Stark Industries to prepare the paperwork but Bucky had refused, claiming that he would just do it himself.
Pepper had approached Sam and asked him to help Bucky with it. She had tried to talk to Bucky directly, but he was an expert at dodging her. Sam understood why. The Winter Soldier had killed Tony’s parents. Bucky and his code of honor couldn’t then turn and accept help from Tony’s family to have that erased from his record. Sam recognized the way that the man punished himself for that sin and so many more.
So Sam had agreed. He had brought Bucky back to Louisiana with him and forced him to sit at the table to address it all, knowing that the man would rather walk through fire than ask for forgiveness that he didn’t feel that he deserved.
“Come on, Buck. It’s a sure thing, we just have to write something at least somewhat compelling so that they can grant relief.” Bucky sat silently and stared at Sam, his face not hiding any of the displeasure. Sam held the eye contact, challenging Bucky. The Winter Soldier held steady and Sam was the one to break away, directing his attention back to the laptop and started to type, narrating as he did.
“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away - ”
“Sam.”
“What? It’s a classic start.”
“Star Wars? Really?”
“Would you prefer ‘Once upon a time'?” Sam asked, only to have Bucky roll his eyes. “Participate or you don’t get to critique my style.”
Bucky’s mouth opened as if to say something but he closed it and Sam saw the pain etched in the lines on the other man’s face. He softly closed his laptop and got up from the table.
Sam made his way to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients. He grabbed a knife from the block and extended it to Bucky. Bucky took it warily, flipping the knife to test the weight out of habit. Sam sat down celery, a bell pepper, an onion, several cloves of garlic, and green onion stalks on a cutting board and motioned for Bucky to take over.
Bucky diced as Sam started to brown some andouille sausage, eventually removing the sausage to add in oil and flour to make a dark roux. Sam gave the roux all of his attention, letting Bucky relax into his rhythmic chopping. They worked silently with only the sounds of bubbling food or the dull thump of the knife filling the kitchen.
At Sam’s nod, Bucky sprinkled in the vegetables and watched as they softened in the heat of the pot. Sam added in the browned sausage, some crushed tomatoes and a variety of spices that made Bucky’s mouth water unexpectedly. Sam poured in some rice and stirred it until he was satisfied. He placed the lid on the pot and left it to simmer.
Sam took that time to clear off the table. He gently placed the papers back into the file folder and stacked it on top of his laptop. He carried the pile to the living room where it sat on top of the coffee table, momentarily abandoned. He laid out bowls, napkins, and forks. He grabbed two beers from the fridge and popped the tops off. He gave the pot another stir, threw in a good amount of shrimp, and left it to simmer. Sam grabbed the knife and cutting board and began to wash them in the sink.
Bucky stood to the side and watched the ritual. The room felt warmer than it did previously and he felt something loosen in his shoulderblades. He observed as Sam trusted that the food wouldn’t burn or stick or otherwise become inedible. The smell enveloped him and he quickly realized how hungry he was. It had taken a while for him to remember what it was like to acknowledge his own feelings, even biological ones like hunger or thirst, much less emotional ones, like grief or remorse. Sometimes he still slipped back into forgetting those things.
“Dinner’s ready,” Sam announced unceremoniously. He ladled spoonfuls into his bowl and Bucky followed suit. Sam poured a little hot sauce on his serving and when he extended the bottle to Bucky, the other man did the same. Bucky took his first bite and couldn’t help but smile a little as the flavors hit his mouth.
The two of them sat quietly and ate their jambalaya as the tension in the room melted away.
“I just…don’t know how to ask or explain it away,” Bucky finally said, wiping his mouth with his napkin.
“No one is asking you to be perfect. And I know that this part is going to hurt you, but we have to do it or you’ll never be able to move on. We can do it however you want. If you want to just talk, I’ll type and we can clean it up. If you want to write it down, we can look at it later together. Whatever makes you the most comfortable. You’ve got to do it, but you don’t have to do it alone.” Sam let his words sit for a beat before standing up and bringing his bowl to the sink. Bucky automatically followed with his own empty bowl. Sam shooed Bucky to the living room and started cleaning up the kitchen.
Bucky found himself on the couch, staring at a flashing cursor on a blank document on the laptop. He heard the tap running in the kitchen, Sam humming as he scrubbed, and Bucky began to type. Slowly at first, unsure of what should and should not be shared. As he continued to type, he realized that it felt better to let go of the words and memories. He looked up as Sam entered the living room and sat in the recliner.
Sam stayed there with him as he worked. When he started slowing down, Sam let out a soft hum, scrolling absentmindedly on his phone with one hand, tapping the armrest of the recliner with the other.
“I’m sorry, am I boring you?” Bucky asked finally.
“Little bit. When can I look?” Sam responded with a grin on his face. Bucky rolled his eyes and thrust the laptop towards him.
Sam sat quietly, scrolling through the document as he took it all in. When he finished, he looked up to meet Bucky’s expectant and uneasy gaze.
“This is really good, Buck. I’m glad you did it. Can I make suggestions or do you want me to wait?” Bucky merely nodded for Sam to continue. Sam got up from the recliner and beckoned Bucky to follow him back to the kitchen table where they could both sit and see the screen.
“You’ve confessed everything here, which is what they want. But you’re leaving out some important parts. You never talk about how you were brainwashed or who you were before HYDRA. You gotta cut yourself some slack, man. Show them who you were and who you’re capable of being,” Sam explained.
“That’s harder,” Bucky admitted finally. Sam nodded. And the two of them sat at that table until well past midnight, revisiting memories of old Brooklyn, the Barnes family traditions, and the way the mud felt in the trenches of war-torn Italy. Slowly, Bucky began to remember who he used to be before he was an assassin, an asset, the Soldat, and who he could be in the future.
It wasn’t a magical cure for all of the trauma, but there was something about a warm meal shared with someone who cared that helped. The old, scarred, solid table continued to hold memories, both old and new, full of happiness and grief, proud moments and shameful ones. The grooves in the wood ran like lifelines, every nick or scratch proof that life had happened and it had endured. The table held strong as the Wilsons and whoever else they brought into their home laid their troubles, shared their laughter, and broke bread on it. It seemed to stretch and shrink, making room for another lost soldier that required both space to breathe and the comfort of a friend.
Everyone was always welcome at the Wilsons’ table.