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In the beginning, Steve wore the shield like a great American all-star. In the end, he wore it like the hero he was. The shield never wore him. With or without it, he knew who he was.
It’s the first thunderstorm of the season. Summer is approaching quicker than Bucky would have thought. He’s sitting in the little cabin he bought himself in Delacroix after getting closer with the Wilsons last summer. The wind is slowly picking up, howling through the cracks of his windows, and the air almost feels electric. He settles on his little sofa, right in the perfectly shaped dent it got from its first owner, and puts the TV on.
Just skipping through some channels.
Just to see what's on the news.
There’s something Bucky wants to see on the news and something Bucky’s hoping to see on the news. It’s almost the same thing.
Almost.
The two news anchors, a blond woman and a dark-haired guy, flash their professional smiles after the ads run out. It's typical, their chemistry definitely noticeable, even to Bucky through the screen. He wonders if they sleep with each other behind the scenes.
The weatherman comes on. Storm season is approaching quickly. In Delacroix, it means being cooped up inside. Sam hated being inside for too long. Bucky didn't mind as long as Sam was with him.
He remembers almost every time Sam used to bicker when the clouds arrived and the wind picked up. It went on for hours sometimes. Sam kept finding more and more things to argue about, and Bucky just sat there and listened, looking at Sam like he hung the moon himself.
The comfort of it all. Sitting on the sofa, drinking beers, and just existing. Without the pressure to perform. It wasn't Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes during those nights.
They were just Sam and Bucky.
When the beers ran out and the wind rattled the windows, they grew closer, the stories they shared more personal. Even Bucky sometimes talked about Brooklyn and the war, all while Sam listened carefully. He didn’t give advice, didn’t interrupt, and even if Bucky never spelled it out for Sam, he was grateful for those nights.
The windows were rattling from the wind, and the rain poured down in a special kind of symphony on the roof. It made them grow closer. Emotionally, but also...
Hands touching thighs. Heads dropping onto shoulders. Fingers finding hair to rake through...
“Do not attempt to drive through flooded roadways. It only takes a few inches of rushing water to sweep your car away. Turn around, don't drown!”
The weatherman's voice snaps Bucky out of his memories. The screen shows different areas that are about to be affected by heavy rain. He scans the map, but Delacroix seems to be safe for now.
There’s this wind howling through his windows as the night progresses, and while the newscast is on commercial, he checks which one isn’t closed properly. Once he’s found it, he grabs another beer and sits back down. Bucky can’t really get drunk, thanks to the serum in his veins, but Sam always liked getting a little beer drunk on stormy nights. So he always keeps a couple in the fridge.
Just in case.
After the commercial, the newscast comes back on with a segment on food. The blonde host is standing in a studio kitchen with a lady from Baton Rouge. Bucky remembers her from a couple of days ago when she was on before. This time, they’re sharing a healthier recipe for fried chicken.
Bucky huffs. Sam would’ve absolutely hated this. He’d start a long rant about how, when you’re eating fried chicken, you’re eating fried. chicken. Not something healthy that’s close to fried chicken.
“Ain’t no way someone’s eating fried chicken to get their proteins up!” he’d say. “If you want good macros, eat something else.”
Bucky would sometimes argue with Sam just to entertain his rants. Just to hear his voice a little longer. Yeah, Sam would get heated, but when Bucky then caved eventually and told him that he was right all along, Sam would get really close to his face, acting all hot and bothered.
Bucky liked feeling Sam’s body heat radiating after a rant. His cheeks would be a little flushed, and sometimes even the tips of his ears turned almost pinkish.
He takes his phone out and makes a little note of the healthy fried chicken, to tell him eventually.
Once he comes back again.
If he even still likes to argue.
The cooking lady keeps talking slowly with that sweet Louisiana accent. Bucky isn’t sure if it’s from the bayou or if you’d just call it Cajun, but he enjoys listening to her. It’s soothing to his brain, and it often reminds him of nights with the Wilsons. Sarah and the kids running around, people bickering affectionately with each other, and the feeling of belonging somewhere after all.
It took him a couple of weeks before he participated in any conversation with anyone but Sam, but the loud energy on the dock someday melted even the thickest of his barriers. With Sam in his corner, it didn’t feel so scary. It didn’t feel like acting. It felt real.
Bucky remembers the encouraging smiles he used to get from his friend, the way he sometimes made a joke designed to get Bucky out of his head. And it worked in the end.
Sarah still tries to engage Bucky every now and then, but with the kids growing up and Sam not being home... it just doesn’t feel the same anymore.
He makes another note on his phone while the next round of commercials play.
Tuesday evening news cooking lady. He thinks about watching her segments more often.
When the cast comes back, it's the dark-haired host this time. He's talking about some viral trend, kids eating the jelly-looking pods you put in the washer these days. For a moment, Bucky is confused.
Why would you eat those? They're... for the washer.
He frowns.
The ever-moving and never-stopping internet was something the former soldier still hasn't fully mastered. The kids showed him dances and funny cat videos and sure, he pretends to get it, but he doesn't. Not really.
He was good with technology, could master any gun or gadget someone's thrown him over the years. There's even his own phone resting on the coffee table. He used to text Sam every day. Sometimes it was just pictures of something on the dock or the boat, a cat he spotted. When the answers got slower and shorter, he tried taking selfies. Sam even sent a couple back, but that stopped eventually too.
Bucky watches the host show different pictures and videos of kids with these pods, talking on and on about the dangers of it. Sam would've called Bucky an old man by now. Probably would've found a dozen different acronyms for old geezer to call him.
And Bucky would've let him.
He is old, after all. His joints crackle and pop almost every day now. He's sitting down more often, gets tired easier. It's probably not just the age but also the loneliness, but he isn't ready to admit that yet.
The rain splatters in thick drops on the roof of his cabin, the soothing rhythm of storm season approaching.
For a moment, Bucky considers sending Sam a text about the Tide Pods. He probably wouldn’t answer. Busy, busy Sam. Always saving something or someone.
Just not...
He doesn’t finish that thought because the newscast changes to tonight’s last topic.
Captain America.
It’s what he secretly hoped to see.
Bucky turns up the volume just enough so he can hear everything they’re saying clearly.
He remembers it clearly, the days when Sam first picked up the shield. The way every reporter used to rip him to shreds because he wasn’t Steve.
Because he wasn’t the obvious answer to replacing Steve.
Because no one thought Steve should be replaced.
Sam still called every night back then, came home every other week when he could, and Bucky used to talk to him for hours on end. Helping him dissect his missions, talking through what he thought were mistakes, and finding the balance between his perception of himself and the public’s opinion of him.
Bucky always made sure that Sam knew his worth. It was obvious to him, and it almost felt ridiculous that Sam couldn’t see it himself.
For hours, he joked that he was gonna miss calling him his “bird” or “falcon guy” to try and lighten his mood.
Bucky never gave up on believing in Sam. He believed in him enough for a whole village.
On days where the doubt seemed to swallow the younger man, Bucky dragged him out onto the docks, working on the boat or just watching the waves, grounding him in the rhythm of the familiar.
And it worked. He grew so goddamn much into carrying the shield. Sometimes, when Bucky was watching reports about him in the middle of the night, he felt the same pride he felt when he saw Steve save all those men in WWII.
The only thing that got harder for Bucky was keeping himself in check. Tonight, it felt especially hard. He watches that newscast closely, looking for any sign of that old struggle he used to see in Sam’s expression. For any weakness that might be coming back. He listens closely to the wording of the report, for anything that might suggest a change in the public reception of Captain America.
And then he hates himself for it.
He despises that his loneliness is eating away at him so badly that he secretly wishes for something to go wrong just enough for Sam to be driven back.
To come home.
Come home to him.
Bucky won’t admit that out loud. Not ever.
And tonight, when he looks at his Sam Wilson, Captain America...
He sees that the shield doesn’t wear him anymore.
Sam Wilson wears the shield like the hero he made himself to be.