Work Text:
He didn’t plan to stay long.
It wasn’t supposed to be some big thing. He was going to drink a beer. He was going to pour one out for his friend. He was going to leave the rest of the six pack right here in the grass. And then he was going to go home.
He’s on his third beer now. The fourth is soaking the grass above Lamar’s casket. Lamar’s headstone is a leaning post now, propping him up not because he’s drunk – it would take a lot more than three beers for that – but because if his back is against it, then he can’t look at it, and if he can’t look at it, if he can’t read Lamar Hoskins’s name etched into that stone, then maybe he can convince himself that it’s not real.
Today makes four years.
Four years without his best friend.
Four years without his partner, the man he trusted more than anyone else in this world.
Four years since Lamar trusted him, and four years since it got him killed.
Olivia used to tell him, back when she still loved him, back when he was still worthy of it, that none of it was his fault. He was doing what he thought was right. He was trying to defend his country – trying to defend the world – against a terrorist organization. There was no shame, she’d said, in refusing to negotiate with murderers.
Maybe that’s why she left him. Maybe she didn’t want to negotiate with a murderer, either.
He heaves a sigh and takes another sip of beer. Honestly, he doesn’t even like this beer. It was Lamar’s favorite, but he never understood why. He used to make fun of him for it, used to call it cheap, used to call it fake beer, but right now, there isn’t much he wouldn’t do to share one with his friend one more time.
“Hey.”
John tenses at the voice, but he doesn’t move. He keeps his head low, keeps his gaze on the ground, keeps his beer held tight in his hand–
He holds it a little too tight. The bottle shatters, and he finds himself covered in shards of glass.
“Ah, shit,” he mutters under his breath, and, like the dumbass he is, he tries to brush them off with his hand. Between the glass that digs into his palm and the alcohol that seeps into every cut they leave behind, he realizes pretty quickly that it’s not a good idea.
“Woah,” that same voice says, “Walker, you good?” The sincerity in his voice would almost be touching in any other situation, or if it came from anyone else’s lips.
John sighs and lifts his head, and standing before him, donning his civilian clothes but all of his superhero confidence, stands Captain America himself.
It’s probably a good thing he shattered his bottle. He can’t be sure he wouldn’t have thrown it at the guy if he still had it in one piece. But, as it stands now, he’s left with only words, and he makes no secret of his irritation when he uses them.
“What do you want, Sam?” he asks.
Sam shrugs, and though he plays it cool, there’s an underlying sense of discomfort that he can’t quite hide. “Just… paying my respects.” He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a little American flag, and he offers John a small, awkward smile before he takes a few steps closer and bends to one knee, just long enough to stand the flag up in the grass. When he stands again, he takes a few steps back once more.
John looks back at the flag. It’s pretty small. It looks kind of cheap. Lamar would definitely get a laugh out of it. It’s probably one of those “made in China” ones. They used to joke about the absurdity of American flags mass-produced in other countries. To get one from Captain America himself would just be icing on the cake.
“He was a good man,” Sam says.
John huffs, a sarcastic laugh of a sort. “Yeah, right.” He was a good man. He was the best man that John had ever met. But Sam wouldn’t know that. He fought against him every step of the way, right up until his death.
Sam sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says.
John shakes his head. “Don’t.”
“Walker–”
“Don’t,” he snaps, more firmly this time, maybe a little more hostile. “Look, you won, okay? You fucking–” He gestures to him. “You’re Captain fucking America now. You’ve got your own Avengers team. The country loves you.” He scoffs, shaking his head to himself. “Hell, the whole damn world loves you! So congratu-fucking-lations, Sam. You won. Yippee-fucking-doo.” He rolls his eyes and lets his head fall back, gazing up helplessly at the cloudy sky above.
“Is that really what it looks like to you?” Sam asks.
John huffs. “What, are you gonna say I’m wrong?” He watches the news. Hell, he lives with Bucky Barnes. He knows the situation. There’s a clear winner here, and it’s not the divorcee whose legacy is overshadowed by the blood he’s spilled.
“This was never a competition, Walker,” Sam says. His voice is… soft. Uncharacteristically gentle. “I’m sorry it turned out this way. I know you’ve lost a lot.”
John runs his clean, glass-free hand down his face. He doesn’t know which overwhelms him more: his exhaustion or his exasperation. Yes, he’s lost a lot. He lost his best friend. He lost his wife. He lost his son – a big kid now, presumably walking and talking and going to school, not that he’d know. And these losses haunt him, every second of every day of his life. He doesn’t need Mr. Perfect over here to remind him of it.
“I kind of wondered if we’d seen the last of you after we dealt with the Flag Smashers,” Sam tells him. “I’m glad we didn’t. I’m glad you’re still fighting the good fight.”
“Oh, bullshit,” John snaps.
Sam seems genuinely taken aback by the reaction. “What?”
John pushes himself to his feet, and now they’re head to head. Sam doesn’t get that height advantage over him. Two steps forward, and he doesn’t get the luxury of that distance between them, either. John is right in his face, and he doesn’t give a shit about it. “Don’t come cozying up to me like you give a damn,” he growls. “I’ve seen the shit you talk about us on the news. Bucky tells us all about how you won’t give him the time of day now that he’s on our team. You’re not glad I’m still fighting.” He shoves him by the shoulders as he throws his words back at him. “You’re a fucking liar–”
“Walker, buddy,” Sam says cautiously, “let’s not–”
“Don’t fucking ‘buddy’ me, asshole,” John snaps. “I’m not stupid, Wilson. I know you’re trying to butter me up because you want something from me – because you want me to get the guys to drop the Avengers name or whatever; I don’t fucking know. And I don’t care how things ended with us. Any other day, I would have listened. All you had to do was text me, and I would’ve been there. But you didn’t. Instead, you corner me at my best friend’s grave–”
“Woah, no, hold on,” Sam says quickly. “It’s not like that.”
“Really?” John asks sarcastically. “Because that’s you.” He gestures to him. “This is me.” He gestures to himself. “And that’s my best friend’s grave.” He gestures toward the grave, but he can’t bring himself to look at it as he does. “So you can see why it would look like you’re cornering me at my best friend’s grave.” Because you fucking are, of course, is the unspoken answer.
Sam’s quiet for a few moments, and slowly, solemnly, he begins to nod. “You’re right,” he admits. “You’re right. This was out of line. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…” He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Look, I do want to talk to you. But you're right: there's a time and a place, and this isn't it. I don't know if you have my number–”
“Sam, stop it.” John sighs, and as he lets that breath go, his anger goes with it. He can feel himself deflate, all that hot air leaving his head, and then he's just… flat. There's no other way to put it. “Look, you're already here. I don't want to drag this out, and I'm sure you don't, either. Just tell me what you want – and if it's the Avengers name, you're gonna have to pry it from Valentina's cold, dead hands yourself.” And he would love to see it happen. He would take back the Thunderbolts soccer team name in a heartbeat if it meant they didn't have to deal with Val anymore. But that’s obviously not going to happen, so if that’s what he’s here for, he’s wasting his time.
Sam sighs, too, and he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “Look, I would like to take the Avengers name back. You guys had no right to take it–”
John rolls his eyes at that.
“-- but short of slapping you with a lawsuit that I don’t know if I’d win, I know I can’t force you not to use it,” Sam continues. “So no, I’m not here about the name.”
“Then what are you here for?” John asks. Does he have to keep dragging this shit out? All he wanted was to mope around his best friend’s grave in peace. He’d like to get back to that sooner rather than later.
“I’m assuming you know that I’m building my own Avengers team,” Sam begins.
“Mm-hmm,” John hums flatly. He’s seen all about it on the news. It seems to get much more favorable coverage than his own Avengers team, not that he’s bitter. (He’s very bitter.)
“Well, I’ve seen some of the things your team’s done,” Sam says, “and I was thinking…” He pauses, pursing his lips as he tries to figure out how to phrase this. “Look,” he says, “I’m not asking to combine teams, but I’m not ruling it out just yet, either.”
“Oh, that’s rich,” John says sarcastically. “Weren’t you just calling us a group of ‘pathetic, knock-off superheroes’ the other day?”
Sam pauses. “I don’t think I used those words…?”
John is fairly sure he did. He said something pretty damn close, at least.
“Look, the truth is, I don’t know enough about you guys to write you off,” Sam says. “But I want to.”
John cocks a brow. “You want to get to know us, or you want to write us off?”
Sam gives him a weird look, like that’s a ridiculous question. Honestly, John feels like it was fair.
“What do you want me to do, Sam?” John asks. “You, what, want me to set up a meet-cute between our teams? You're asking the wrong guy.”
“What? Why?” Sam asks. “You can't work that out?”
“Because I'm not in charge of shit,” John says. “You’re looking for the leader? That's all Yelena. You’re looking for someone who actually likes you? You should talk to Bucky.”
Sam kind of grimaces at that. “Bucky and I aren’t really…” He shakes his head awkwardly. “We’re not on good terms right now.”
“Well, neither are we.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, it is.” He’s firm in his answer, more confident than he seemed before. “Because I asked him to join my team and he said no; he said he didn’t want to be an Avenger; he said he didn’t want to just pick up pieces of a broken system, he wanted to get into politics to change the system itself. Then I turn around and he’s dropped politics and joined his own damn team, and he didn’t tell me shit about it ‘til after it all went public.”
“Well, yeah no shit,” John says sarcastically. “That’s because there was nothing to tell until it went public.”
“What?”
“Sam, none of us wanted this,” Walker says. “Bucky was trying to nail Valentina, and the rest of us were just trying not to die. We were all supposed to go our separate ways, ‘til Val told the world that we were some sort of a team, and now we're stuck like this.” He spreads his arms helplessly. “He didn’t pick our team over yours. He got dragged into it the same way the rest of us did.”
“Oh.” Sam’s quiet at that. He takes the time to really think that over, to really process it. John can’t blame him. It’s not easy to admit that you were wrong. He’ll be pleasantly surprised to learn when he inevitably reaches out to Bucky about this that Bucky isn’t going to hold this against him, and that he’s been rather pathetically waiting for things to blow over so they can be friends again.
John gives him a while to say something. It has to be at least a minute – a real, honest-to-god, 60-second-long minute – of silence that passes before he gives up on that and throws in his own two cents, not because he thinks they’re needed (or even that they’re welcome) but because he’s been living with Bucky’s depressed, mopey ass for far too long to let this slide.
“Look,” John says, “I lost my partner, and it was one of the worst things that ever happened to me. I would do anything to have him back, but he’s in the ground and I will never have that chance. Your partner isn’t. Your partner’s still out there, just waiting for you to pick up the damn phone. Do it while you still can, because if you don’t and something happens, you’re never going to forgive yourself.”
Sam nods slowly, a thoughtful sort of nod, a resigned sort of nod, but even then, it takes a little while longer for him to formulate a response. “I’ll call him,” he says finally.
John gestures emphatically as if to say thank you! He hopes this goes well. It’s been hard watching Bucky mope around the way that he is. He will be ecstatic if they manage to sort their shit out.
“You said that Yelena’s the leader?” Sam asks.
“Well, not officially,” John says, “but she might as well be. Why?”
“So, if I do want to reach out and set something up between our teams,” Sam asks, “do I have to go through her?”
“I’m sure if you talk to Bucky, he can talk to her for you,” John says. “She’s not going to want to hear from you, anyway, unless Bucky tells her that you don’t suck.”
Sam furrows his brows. “Has Bucky been telling everyone that I suck?”
“No, people came to that conclusion on their own,” John says. “And the fact that you’ve done nothing but shit-talk us to the media is not helping your case.” They may not have wanted to become a team, but now that they have, they want to be taken seriously. They can’t do that when Captain America and his own team are running a smear campaign about them.
Sam nods solemnly. At least he’s not trying to pretend it never happened. He’ll give him credit for that. “And you’re okay with this?”
John shrugs halfheartedly. “I don’t care.”
Sam eyes him skeptically. “You know, if I do this and if this works out, we’re going to be seeing a lot more of each other.”
“Yeah, no, I kinda figured that out, thank you,” John says sarcastically. He’s not an idiot. He understands how this works. He understands what’s being asked of him.
“And you’re okay with that,” Sam says again, a skeptical sort of statement that almost borders on a question.
John rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m okay with that,” he says. He shouldn’t have to spell it out for him. “Politics aside, at the end of the day, our teams are both trying to do the same thing. We’re going to run into each other anyway. We’re going to have to learn to at least work around each other, so we might as well learn to work with each other.”
“That’s kind of what I was thinking, too,” Sam says. “So you’re good with that? We’re good?”
“We’re good enough,” John says. “I think you’re a good guy, Sam. I don’t always agree with you, but I can trust that you’re going to do what you think is right. And what you think is right and what I think is right and what Yelena thinks is right and what Ava thinks are right might not be the same thing, but if we're gonna fight over it anyway, you might as well get in on it, too. So I'm okay with this if everyone else is.”
Sam just looks at him for a few moments, thinking, considering, until finally, he says, “Thanks.”
John gives him a nod. It's not a friendly nod, exactly but it's not unfriendly, either. It's civil. That's what they are now, what they have to be with each other. They have to be civil. Even after everything, after Sam's rise to greatness at the expense of everything John held near, they have to be civil. Whether they want to or not, they have to be civil.
But Sam's not done. “For what it's worth,” he says, “I'm glad you're doing okay.”
John offers him a half-assed smile. For the sake of peace, for the sake of making amends, he reaches down for the last two beers in the pack. He keeps one for himself and passes the other to Sam.
Sam cracks a smile and takes it from him. “So we're cool?”
“We’re cool,” John says. They're not friends. He won't go that far. But they're cool. They're okay, at least. For right now, they're okay.
Sam pops the cap off his beer bottle and holds it out to him, and John clinks theirs together before he pops the top off of his own.
“This was Lamar’s favorite beer, by the way,” John tells him, “so you better not talk shit about it.”
Sam huffs a laugh. “Let me see.” He takes a sip of it, and he makes a show of thinking it over, of analyzing it, of deciding just how he feels about it, before he finally says, “It's not bad.”
“Oh, no, it sucks,” John says, and he takes a couple gulps of his own before he finishes, “but it was Lemar's favorite, so…” He shrugs, as if to say what can you do?
Sam smiles, amused, but there's a sympathetic look to it. More seriously, he says, “Hey, I'm sorry to do this now. I didn't know how to get in touch with you, and I just figured…” He shrugs awkwardly.
“What, do you not have my number?” John asks.
“Why would I have your number?” Sam asks.
“I have your number,” John says.
“Then shoot me a text, will you?” Sam asks. “I'm sure I'll need to bug you about something sooner or later.”
“Oh, I'm sure,” John says, and he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “You’re going to reach out to Bucky?”
“It sounds like I have to,” Sam says with a halfhearted shrug.
“Let me know how that goes,” John says. “And if you need someone on the inside to get this little team-up together, I'll work on it.”
“Thanks, John,” Sam says. “It's good to see you again.”
“I wouldn't go that far,” John says, “but this could have been worse.”