Chapter Text
The first sign that Joaquín Torres was enjoying himself far too much was the fact that he refused to look either of them in the eye.
He stood at the front of the briefing room with his lips pressed tightly together. His shoulders shook with the effort of containing whatever had amused him. Behind him, the projection screen displayed an aerial photograph of a quiet suburban neighborhood: identical houses, meticulously trimmed lawns, winding sidewalks, and enough decorative shrubbery to conceal a small army.
Sam leaned back in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Whatever it is,” he said, his voice flat, “get it out of your system now.”
Joaquín cleared his throat, adjusting his collar. “I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”
“Sure you don’t.”
Beside Sam, Bucky sat with the rigid posture of a man already regretting every decision that had brought him into the room. His vibranium fingers tapped once, a sharp metallic click against the mahogany table.
“Can we get on with it?” Bucky asked, his blue eyes narrowed. “Some of us have places to be.”
“Absolutely.” Joaquín turned toward the screen, grateful for the distraction. “Adrian Vale. Former military contractor, current private security consultant, suspected weapons broker.”
The image changed to a photograph of a broad-shouldered man in his late fifties. Vale wore an expensive gray suit and the tight, unsmiling expression of someone who probably sent food back at restaurants for sport.
“For the last eight months,” Joaquín continued, pacing back and forth, “experimental weapons have been disappearing from government storage facilities along the East Coast. Drones, sonic disruptors, compact energy weapons, the kind of stuff nobody wants circulating on the private market.”
“So go arrest him,” Bucky said. “You know where he lives. Knock on the door.”
“We don’t have enough evidence for a warrant,” Joaquín explained. “Vale doesn’t handle the transactions himself. He hosts private gatherings where buyers meet with his suppliers, but nobody gets inside without a personal invitation.”
Sam studied the photograph, noting the security pins on Vale's lapel. “And we’re supposed to get one.”
“Exactly.” Joaquín pressed a button on his remote. The next slide showed the neighborhood again, this time with two houses circled in bright red. “Vale lives here, at the end of the cul-de-sac. A house three doors down recently became available, and we managed to secure it before anyone else put in an offer.”
Bucky’s tapping stopped. The room fell perfectly still.
Sam looked from the screen to Joaquín. Joaquín once again appeared deeply fascinated by the scuff marks on his own boots, looking at anything that was not their faces.
“Why do I feel like you’re leaving something out, Torres?” Sam asked, his eyes narrowing.
“No reason.”
“Torres.” Sam’s voice dropped an octave. “The other shoe. Drop it.”
Joaquín sighed, a sound of pure, joyful defeat, and changed the slide.
Two photographs appeared side by side on the screen. Sam’s face occupied the left half. Bucky’s occupied the right. Beneath them, printed in a cheerful, bright blue font, were the names: Samuel and James Barnes-Wilson.
Silence settled over the briefing room, thick and heavy. Sam stared at the screen, his brain momentarily misfiring. Bucky stared at Joaquín with a look that usually preceded an international incident.
Joaquín took one cautious step backward, putting the podium between himself and the table.
“No,” Bucky said. His voice was dangerously quiet.
Sam’s mouth twitched. He looked back at the screen, then at Bucky, then back to the screen. “Barnes-Wilson? Hyphenated? Who wears the pants in this scenario, Buck?”
“No,” Bucky repeated, louder this time. He stood up, leaning his palms on the table. “Absolutely not.”
“You don’t even know what the assignment is yet, man,” Joaquín pleaded, holding up his hands.
“We’re not doing it.”
Sam tilted his head, a slow smirk spreading across his face. “I don’t know, Buck. Maybe hear the man out before you reject our beautiful life together. Think of the property values.”
Bucky turned his glare onto him, his jaw tight enough to crack. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Not nearly as much as Torres is.”
“I’m not enjoying anything,” Joaquín said quickly, though the sharp corner of his mouth completely betrayed him.
Bucky pointed a finger at him. “You’re a terrible liar. Your pulse is elevated.”
“Which is exactly why I’m not the one going undercover,” Joaquín shot back.
Sam sat forward, resting his elbows on the table, still fighting a massive grin. “All right, all right. Knock it off. Explain the cover, Joaquín.”
Joaquín clicked to the next slide. A vibrant collage of photographs appeared: neighborhood barbecues, poolside dinner parties, charity galas, and smiling couples gathered around Vale and his wife.
“Vale’s paranoid,” Joaquín explained, his tone turning professional. “He only deals with people he considers stable, respectable, and completely unlikely to be law enforcement. Most of his buyers approach him through trusted social connections. The easiest way into his inner circle is through the neighborhood association.”
“And the neighborhood only accepts married couples?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.
“The homeowners’ association doesn’t technically discriminate against single people,” Joaquín said, “but every major social event Vale attends is strictly couples-oriented. His wife, Evelyn, runs most of them. If you two move in as roommates, people are going to ask way more questions than if you move in as newlyweds. In their world, bachelor roommates in a four-bedroom house raise eyebrows.”
Bucky stared at the screen as if he might be able to destroy the projector with concentrated irritation. “Send somebody else. Send two field agents.”
“We need people who can protect themselves if the exchange goes sideways,” Joaquín countered. “If Vale realizes it's a setup, he won't hesitate to use the tech he's selling.”
“Send two other people who can protect themselves,” Bucky muttered, crossing his arms tight. “Call the secondary roster.”
“We also need people who already know each other well enough to maintain a cover under high pressure,” Joaquín said, looking between them. “You can't fake a history with a stranger under scrutiny.”
“Wilson barely knows me,” Bucky scoffed, looking away.
Sam turned slowly toward him, his smirk vanishing into genuine amusement. “That’s interesting.”
Bucky’s jaw tightened. “What?”
“Because I know you hate olives,” Sam countered, ticking a finger in the air. “I know you pretend you don’t like Marvin Gaye even though I caught you humming along to 'What's Going On' twice in the kitchen. And you drink your coffee black when other people make it, but when you think nobody's looking, you put half a spoonful of sugar in it.”
Bucky stared at him, momentarily speechless. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means you’re a liar with a sweet tooth.”
“It means your kitchen walls are thin, Sam.”
Joaquín looked between the two of them, a triumphant smile breaking through his professional facade. “See? This is actually helping my argument. The banter is built-in.”
Both of them turned a synchronized, lethal glare onto him.
Joaquín immediately lifted his hands in surrender. “I’m just saying. The chemistry is there.”
Sam glanced back at the screen, rubbing his chin. “How long are we supposed to have been married?”
“Six months. But together for four years.”
Bucky made a quiet, sharp sound of disbelief in the back of his throat. “Four years? We were barely speaking four years ago.”
“We wanted the relationship to predate Sam taking up the Captain America shield,” Joaquín explained, tapping the remote. “It gives you a simple, public explanation for why you’re frequently spotted together by the media. You're a couple, not just partners.”
“Because the real explanation is impossible to explain to the PTA?” Sam asked dryly.
“The real explanation involves classified global missions, international incidents, and both of you having a deeply unhealthy, codependent concept of friendship,” Joaquín said smoothly.
“Our concept of friendship is perfectly fine,” Sam said defensively.
Bucky nodded in agreement, his voice deadpan. “He annoys me. I tolerate it. It's a system.”
“See? Healthy.”
Joaquín ignored them entirely and slid two thick, glossy manila folders across the table. “Your backstories. Memorize them. You leave Friday.”
Sam picked up his folder and flipped it open. The very first page contained a high-resolution, professionally altered photograph of him and Bucky standing together in formal suits. A tasteful, sunlit outdoor wedding venue was artfully blurred behind them.
The image was so convincing that Sam’s internal amusement suddenly faltered.
Whoever had assembled the file had chosen one of the rare, genuine photographs where Bucky was actually smiling. It wasn't the tight, uncertain expression he usually offered cameras or strangers, but something softer. Warmer. Truly happy.
In the picture, Sam was looking right at him. There was an expression of quiet warmth on his own face that made the fabricated image feel strange. It looked dangerously less like a forgery and more like a memory.
“Well,” Sam said, his voice dropping a little as the silence in the room began to stretch just a bit too long, “at least I looked good at the wedding.”
Beside him, Bucky had gone very still, his eyes locked onto the photograph in his own hands.
Sam nudged his elbow against Bucky’s arm, a grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “What do you think, honey? Spring ceremony? Too many flowers? I always pegged you as a June bride.”
Bucky didn’t look up. He just stared down at the photograph in his hands, his thumb tracing the edge of the gloss paper. For a fraction of a second, something unreadable crossed his face. A shadow of something old, heavy, and quiet. Then, just as quickly, it vanished behind his usual flat, guarded mask.
“The suit’s ugly,” Bucky muttered.
Sam leaned over, glancing at the perfectly ordinary, tailored black suit Bucky was wearing in the photo. “You literally own that suit, man.”
“I know.”
“You wore it to Sarah’s birthday party last year.”
“Against my will.”
“You asked me which tie looked better before we left the house.”
Bucky finally looked up, his jaw ticking. “I was being polite.”
“You changed ties after I answered.”
“I made a tactical decision.”
“To wear the exact silver tie I picked out for you.”
Bucky sharply shut the folder, the heavy paper snapping shut like a gunshot. He looked over at Joaquín. “I want a divorce.”
Joaquín didn’t even look up from his tablet, though his thumb hovered uselessly over the screen. He checked his watch. “You’ve been married for approximately forty-eight seconds, Barnes.”
“It was a mistake.”
Sam let out a loud laugh, leaning back in his chair. “Come on, sweetheart. Be fair. We haven’t even tried marriage counseling yet.”
Bucky looked at Sam as though he was seriously reconsidering his stance on murder.
Joaquín, who no longer appeared even remotely capable of pretending he wasn't thoroughly entertained, cleared his throat and advanced to the next slide on the projector screen.
“Moving on,” Joaquín said, his voice straining to maintain a professional tone. “The rest of your cover is pretty straightforward. Sam, you’re an independent aviation consultant for commercial logistics companies. Bucky, you restore antique furniture.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed, his nose wrinkling in immediate disapproval. “Why do I have to restore furniture?”
“Because you know enough about basic construction, woodworking, and mechanics from your military background to sound convincing,” Joaquín explained, clicking to a slide showing a fake digital storefront. “Plus, it gives you a perfectly valid excuse to work from home all day and keep an eye on Vale’s movements.”
Bucky crossed his arms. “I could be a consultant. I’ve consulted on things.”
“Consultant for what?” Sam asked, turning his head. “Nineteenth-century bayonet maintenance? Staring contests?”
Bucky opened his mouth to shoot back a retort. Nothing came out. He glared at the table.
Sam sighed, his expression softening just a fraction as he patted Bucky on the shoulder. “Look, it’s a good cover. You’re good with your hands.”
Bucky’s eyes instantly narrowed into tiny, dangerous slits.
Sam realized how that had sounded approximately one second too late. The words hung in the quiet briefing room, heavy and entirely misinterpretable.
Joaquín abruptly coughed into his fist, his shoulders shaking as he looked down at his notes.
“I meant the furniture,” Sam said quickly, his cheeks warming. “The woodwork.”
“Sure,” Bucky replied, his voice deadpan.
“The antique furniture, Bucky. That is explicitly what I meant.”
“I didn’t say anything, Sam.”
“You were thinking it loudly. Stop doing that.”
Joaquín turned his back to them entirely, pretending to adjust the projector focus before Sam could decide whether throwing a government-issued pen at Bucky’s head would be considered unprofessional conduct.
“Your cover identities,” Joaquín continued loudly, trying to steer the ship back to safety, “come complete with verified employment records, joint checking accounts, a legal marriage certificate registered in the state of New York, and enough shared history to survive a routine background check. According to the file, you met through mutual friends four years ago in Brooklyn and recently decided to move out of the city because you wanted somewhere quiet to settle down.”
Joaquín managed to use the phrase settle down without laughing, which Sam considered an incredibly impressive display of federal discipline under the circumstances.
“The house is already furnished,” Joaquín said, turning back around. “A logistics team went in last night. Some personal items have been staged such as framed photos, mixed laundry, books on the nightstands. There are hidden surveillance cameras installed throughout the interior and exterior of the property, as well as a secure, encrypted communications system in the basement. You move in tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” Bucky asked, his posture stiffening. “That’s too fast.”
“Vale’s wife is hosting a neighborhood-wide welcoming barbecue this coming Saturday,” Joaquín countered. “That gives you exactly three days to establish yourselves, look natural pulling the trash cans to the curb, and secure an invitation to that backyard.”
Sam flipped through the back pages of the folder. It was meticulously detailed. There were staged digital vacation photos at a cabin in Vermont, copies of anniversary dinner reservations from two years ago, and a shared medical emergency contact form. On one specific page, their entire supposed relationship history had been broken down into convenient, bulleted milestones for them to memorize.
- First meeting.
- First date.
- Moved in together.
- The proposal.
- The wedding.
Bucky leaned his head over, his shoulder brushing against Sam’s as he read the timeline. His eyebrows drew together. “Our first date was at an upscale Italian restaurant downtown?”
Sam squinted at the text. “That’s what it says.”
“You hate Italian restaurants.”
“I don’t hate Italian restaurants,” Sam argued, defensive.
“You complain about the portion sizes every single time,” Bucky said, turning his whole body toward him. “You literally told me three weeks ago that they give you half a plate of pasta and act like sprinkling a little green parsley on top makes it worth thirty-five dollars.”
“Because it’s a scam, Bucky! It’s highway robbery!”
“You complained to the waiter for twenty minutes.”
“You agreed with me!”
“I was trying to eat my lasagna in peace, Sam.”
Sam rolled his eyes and looked up at the front of the room. “Joaquín, can we change the restaurant in the file? If Vale asks me what I ordered and I have to pretend I enjoyed a four-ounce nest of tagliatelle, the cover is going to blow.”
Joaquín blinked at him, looking profoundly exhausted. “Does the culinary vibe of your fake first date actually matter, Captain?”
“Yes,” Sam and Bucky said in perfect, immediate unison.
A heavy beat passed in the briefing room. Joaquín slowly raised his eyebrows, looking between the two of them with an expression that said you two are losing your minds.
Sam ignored him entirely, turning back to the folder. “Make it that little diner place in Baltimore. The one we stopped at after the shipyard lead.”
“The one with the torn red vinyl booths?” Bucky asked, his tone shifting into something genuinely collaborative.
“Yeah, that one.”
Bucky nodded once, satisfied. “The peach pie was good.”
“Yeah, it was, until you ate half of mine.”
“You said you were full.”
“I was saving it for after my coffee!” Sam yelled. “I explicitly said I was pacing myself.”
“You left the table, Sam.”
“To take a phone call from the Senator!”
“It was unattended baked goods,” Bucky said, his voice entirely reasonable. “In the field, that makes it public domain.”
“That doesn’t make it yours!”
“You weren’t going to finish it.”
“You don’t know that, Barnes! You don't know my life!”
Snap.
The sharp, loud sound of Joaquín closing his laptop echoed through the room like a small explosion. Sam and Bucky both snapped their heads around to look at him.
Joaquín was staring at them, his hands flat on top of his computer. “I am putting down the Baltimore diner. They had pie. It was beautiful. Moving on.”
“Thank you. That’s all I’m asking.” Sam gathered the loose papers, tapping them against the table to straighten the edges before slipping them neatly back into the folder. “Anything else we need to know before we go play house?”
“Just one thing.” Joaquín looked between them, his playful demeanor completely vanishing, replaced by the sharp, serious expression of an intelligence officer. “Adrian Vale is not a fool. He is highly trained, incredibly paranoid, and he will test you. He will look for tiny inconsistencies in your stories, and he is very good at finding them. You need to sell this completely. Not just when you’re standing in his backyard.”
The humor left the table. Bucky’s expression flattened into something cold and professional. “We understand how deep-cover reconnaissance functions, Torres.”
“I know you do,” Joaquín said softly, leaning forward over his laptop. “But that means no slipping out of character when you think no one is looking. No bickering on the front lawn where a neighbor might overhear through a window. No sleeping in separate bedrooms because you’re annoyed with each other. And absolutely no threatening to stab your husband with a paring knife where the cul-de-sac can see you.”
Bucky held Joaquín’s gaze for a long, quiet second. “I wouldn’t stab him where people could see.”
Sam placed a hand over his heart, looking over at Bucky with a look of dramatic affection. “See? Honey, you always know exactly what to say to make a guy feel safe.”
“I’m serious, both of you,” Joaquín said, his eyes hard as he looked at the two Avengers. “Vale won’t let you anywhere near his inner circle unless he believes, without a single shadow of a doubt, that you two are the real deal. When you cross that neighborhood line tomorrow morning, you are married. Act like it.”
Sam glanced at Bucky. Bucky met his eyes, the irritation fading into the calm, lethal focus he usually wore right before stepping out of a Quinjet.
They had done this part hundreds of times. Stepped onto unstable ground together, adjusted on the fly without needing to discuss it, and trusted the other person implicitly to know exactly what came next. Playing a couple could not be any more complicated than infiltrating a hidden Hydra base or stopping a rogue armored convoy. Probably.
Sam smiled, a slow, challenging expression, and held out his hand across the mahogany briefing table. Bucky looked down at it suspiciously, his eyebrows knitting together. “What are you doing?”
“We should shake on it.”
“Why on earth would we shake on it?”
“We’re entering a sacred union, Barnes,” Sam said, his voice dripping with dramatic gravity. “We need to cement the bond.”
“We’re doing a job, Wilson.”
“Through sickness and health,” Sam continued, ignoring him. “Through hostile neighbors, covert weapons exchanges, and homeowners’ association meetings.”
“I already filed for divorce,” Bucky noted flatly.
“Well, the paperwork hasn’t gone through yet, so you're stuck with me.”
Bucky stared at him for another long second, assessing him with a heavy gaze before finally reaching out and taking Sam’s hand. His grip was firm, warm, and utterly familiar.
Sam’s smile softened just a fraction. “Hello, husband.”
Something shifted in Bucky’s expression. It was there for less than a second. A sudden, quiet hitch in his breathing, a flicker of something raw quickly buried beneath a layer of exasperation. But before he pulled his hand away, Sam felt Bucky’s fingers tighten around his with a sudden, unexpected strength.
“This is going to be an absolute disaster,” Bucky said, shifting his weight.
Joaquín reopened his laptop with a flurry of keystrokes. “Actually, statistically, your chances of successfully completing the reconnaissance mission are—”
“I meant the marriage, Torres,” Bucky interrupted, his voice deadpan.
Sam leaned back in his chair, interlocking his fingers behind his head. “Don’t worry, Buck. I’ll make an honest man out of you yet.”
Bucky picked up his designated manila folder, tucked it under his arm, and stood up in one fluid motion. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”
***
The house looked even more offensively, aggressively peaceful in person.
It sat halfway down a pristine, curving street lined with towering maple trees that were just beginning to shed their leaves. Its pale blue siding was freshly painted, catching the bright morning sun, and its wide front porch was decorated with two wicker rocking chairs that no one under the age of seventy had any business owning. White flower boxes overflowing with petunias hung beneath the windows, a small stone path cut cleanly through the manicured lawn toward the driveway, and someone from logistics had gone the extra mile by hanging a massive decorative wreath on the front door.
Sam climbed out of the driver's seat of the rented SUV, slammed the door, and stared at the porch. “Absolutely not. I’m calling logistics.”
Bucky emerged from the passenger side, pulling a heavy cardboard box from the back seat. “What’s wrong now?”
Sam pointed a rigid finger. “That. Look at that.”
The wreath was explicitly shaped like a giant pink heart. Across its center, painted wooden letters spelled out: JUST MARRIED.
Bucky looked at it for a long, agonizingly quiet moment. He took a slow breath, reached back into the SUV, and retrieved a second box, stacking it on top of the first. “I’m leaving.”
“You can’t leave,” Sam said, walking around the hood of the car. “We live here now. We have a joint checking account.”
“You live here. I died in the war.”
“Which war, Bucky? You’ve been in a few.”
“Dealer’s choice,” Bucky muttered, already marching up the stone path. “The snow one. Let the frost take me.”
Sam caught up with him on the walkway, matching his stride. “Come on, man. Look at it this way—it’s welcoming. It sets the tone.”
“It’s humiliating. It looks like a Rom-Com.”
“It has little silver bells, Buck.”
“I saw the bells, Sam.”
“I think they make it look classy. Sophisticated.”
Bucky stopped dead at the bottom of the porch steps and turned sharply on his heel, forcing Sam to halt abruptly before he walked directly into Bucky’s chest. The boxes shifted slightly between them.
“The second this mission is over,” Bucky said, his voice dropping into a low, menacing rumble, “I am personally burning that thing in the backyard.”
“Wow. Not very sentimental of you.”
“I’ll take a picture of it first.”
Sam grinned, stepping up onto the first step beside him. “There you go. Look at you, making memories. Something for the scrapbook.”
Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Sam caught a flash of movement. A sheer white curtain shifted in the large bay window of the house directly across the street.
Both of them noticed it instantly. Bucky’s shoulders changed first. The rigid, defensive military tension melted from his spine as he casually adjusted his hold on the heavy cardboard box, softening his posture into something relaxed, open, and approachable. Sam knew that movement intimately. It was the exact moment Bucky stepped into a tactical role, sliding into it so seamlessly that anyone who didn't know his history would completely miss the sharp, lethal awareness humming just beneath the surface.
Sam smiled brightly, letting out a fake, cheerful laugh for the benefits of any onlookers while keeping his voice low and restricted to the side of his mouth. “Don’t look now, but we’ve got an audience. Nine o’clock.”
“I know,” Bucky murmured, his head tilting naturally toward Sam. “I saw her.”
“Try to look like you actually love me.”
Bucky glanced down at him. That same strange, unreadable expression from the briefing room returned, quieter this time, lingering in the blue of his eyes, and somehow feeling a lot more dangerous than a firefight.
“That,” Bucky said softly, his voice dropping into a smooth, quiet register, “isn’t the part of the cover I’m worried about.”
Before Sam’s brain could process the words, let alone ask what on earth Bucky meant by that, the front door of the neighboring house swung open. A bright, energetic woman in a floral apron hurried down her porch steps, waving a hand enthusiastically in their direction.
Bucky broke the eye contact immediately, turning away to head up the remaining steps toward the front door.
Sam remained frozen on the path for half a second longer, his eyes locked on the back of Bucky’s jacket, a sudden knot forming in his stomach. Then, the neighboring woman called out a loud, sing-song greeting across the lawns, and Sam shook his head, forcing his professional charm into place as he pushed the thought aside.
The mission had officially begun.
The woman crossing the asphalt looked to be somewhere in her mid-sixties, though she moved with the purposeful, athletic speed of someone who had spotted fresh gossip and intended to claim it before anyone else on the cul-de-sac.
She wore thick leather gardening gloves, a wide-brimmed straw sunhat tied securely under her chin, and a bright yellow t-shirt with READ BANNED BOOKS printed across the chest in bold block letters. A heavy pair of pruning shears protruded dangerously from the front pocket of her jeans.
Sam liked her immediately.
“Hello there!” she called out, her voice cutting clearly across the manicured lawns. “You must be the new neighbors at number forty-two!”
“That’s us.” Sam met her at the edge of the driveway, deliberately stepping away from the SUV to offer his hand. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you.”
Her grip, even through the heavy canvas of her gardening glove, was surprisingly firm. “Evelyn Parker. I live right across the street there with my husband, Roy. I would’ve come over sooner, but I saw the moving truck pull up ten minutes ago, and Roy said I should give you boys time to actually breathe before I descended on you.”
“I’m guessing Roy lost that argument,” Sam said, a charming grin breaking across his face.
“Roy loses most arguments in our house,” Evelyn replied cheerfully, adjusting her hat.
From the front porch, Bucky made a quiet, sharp sound in the back of his throat. A noise that could have been a laugh, or a muffled scoff. Evelyn’s sharp brown eyes snapped toward him instantly, tracking the movement.
“And you must be James,” she said, her smile widening.
Bucky shifted the heavy cardboard box against his hip, his vibranium arm doing most of the lifting while he kept his posture relaxed. “Bucky.”
Sam had to force his jaw to remain set, stopping himself from reacting. Their cover documents, employment records, and the giant pink heart wreath on the door used James almost exclusively. Bucky had argued bitterly in the briefing room that he didn't need an invented first name when his real one was already common enough, but Sam knew exactly how rarely he allowed strangers to call him Bucky. It was a privilege Bucky offered deliberately, a marker of trust, even if he spent most of his time pretending otherwise.
Evelyn beamed, clapping her gloved hands together. “Bucky! Oh, that’s much better. James sounds entirely too formal for a neighborhood like this. It sounds like a tax attorney.”
“I keep telling him that,” Sam chimed in, leaning back against the hood of the SUV.
Bucky’s eyes narrowed into twin slits as he looked down from the porch steps. “You call me James when you’re annoyed.”
“I call you a lot of things when I’m annoyed, honey.”
“I’ve noticed.”
Evelyn glanced between the two of them, her eyes darting back and forth, clearly delighted by the immediate friction. “So, tell me. How long have you two been married?”
“Six months,” they answered in perfect, simultaneous unison.
Sam internally sighed with relief. At least that specific slide from Joaquín’s briefing had managed to stick.
Evelyn clasped her hands together tightly. “Newlyweds! Oh, I knew it. The energy gives it away.”
Bucky’s gaze flicked briefly toward the heart-shaped JUST MARRIED wreath hanging on the front door, looking at it as if the wood had personally insulted his ancestors.
“Technically newlyweds,” Sam clarified, throwing a thumb over his shoulder toward the porch. “Though he’s been acting like an eighty-year-old man since the literal day I met him.”
“You knew exactly what you were getting into going in,” Bucky shot back without missing a beat.
“Thought I could change you, Buck. Thought I could fix you.”
“That was your first mistake.”
Sam turned back to Evelyn, leaning in slightly and lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “He says things like that to look tough, but he followed me all the way out here to the suburbs, didn’t he?”
Bucky opened his mouth, his chest rising as he took a breath to speak. Sam raised his eyebrows, silently daring him to disagree or argue in front of the woman who was almost certainly the primary intelligence source for the entire street.
Bucky held his gaze. The challenge hung between them for a sharp, ticking second.
It should have been easy to recognize the game for what it was. Sam had given him a textbook opening, a standard deep-cover softball, and Bucky was supposed to respond with something dry, sarcastic, and convincing. That was how they worked in the field. One of them laid the groundwork, the other finished the job.
Instead, the hard lines of Bucky’s jaw slowly relaxed. His blue eyes softened into something quiet, deep, and entirely real.
“I’d follow you just about anywhere,” Bucky said softly.
Sam’s customer-service smile remained frozen in place, but it took every single year of military training and public relations practice to keep it from slipping entirely off his face. The words shouldn't have caught him off guard. Bucky had followed him into live gunfire, across heavily fortified international borders, and once through a shattering second-story window into a dark alley without once asking where they were going or what the plan was. Of course Bucky would follow him anywhere. That was simply what they did. That was their life.
But hearing him say it out loud, on a pristine suburban lawn in front of a stranger, felt entirely different. It felt heavy.
Evelyn pressed a thick gardening glove directly over her heart, her eyes crinkling. “Oh, now that is just sweet. Roy hasn't said anything like that to me since 1994.”
Bucky seemed to realize, a second too late, exactly how sincere and raw his voice had sounded. He cleared his throat roughly, his wall slamming back down. “He has terrible judgment,” he added, his tone sharpening. “Someone has to keep him from walking into traffic.”
There it was. The safety valve. Sam recovered instantly, letting out a smooth laugh. “And yet I married you anyway.”
“Like I said. Terrible judgment.”
Evelyn laughed, the sound loud and bright, and the strange, thick tension of the moment finally passed. Mostly.
“Well, I won’t keep you from your boxes,” she said, waving a hand toward the SUV. “I remember what moving day is like. Roy and I have been in our house for thirty-two years, and I still haven’t entirely forgiven him for dropping my mother’s antique china when we carried the first load in.”
“The box was wet, Evie!” a distant, gravelly voice shouted from across the street.
Sam looked over. An older man in a faded baseball cap was standing on the porch opposite theirs, holding a green plastic watering can aloft like a weapon.
“It was not wet, Roy!” Evelyn shouted back over her shoulder, not even turning around to look at him. “You were clumsy!”
“It was raining sideways!”
“The bottom of the box was perfectly dry!” Roy shook his head in disgust, muttered something under his breath, and retreated back into the house, the screen door snapping shut behind him.
Evelyn turned her attention back to Sam and Bucky without missing a single beat. “He remembers history differently. It's a coping mechanism.”
“I can see that,” Sam said, highly amused.
“Anyway, the real reason I ran over is because we’re having a few people from the block over this Saturday,” Evelyn said, leaning in. “Nothing fancy, just a casual backyard barbecue. You two should both come. Get to know the neighborhood.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked briefly toward Sam. There it was: the exact opening they needed, the entire goal of their first three days on site, delivered less than five minutes after putting the car in park.
“We’d absolutely love to, Evelyn,” Sam said. “Thank you.”
“Wonderful. Six o’clock sharp. Don’t bring a single thing. If you ask Roy, he’ll tell you to bring a case of beer, but our garage fridge already has too much.”
“There is no such thing as too much beer!” Roy’s voice called out through an open upstairs window.
“There is when you’re seventy-two and on high-dose blood pressure medication, Roy!” Evelyn yelled back. The upstairs window slid shut with a definitive thud. Evelyn gave them a pleasant, unflappable smile. “Six o’clock.”
“We’ll be there,” Bucky said from the porch.
“Excellent. And if you boys need anything at all while you're unpacking like tools, sugar, or recommendations for decent local restaurants, just come knock on my door. Whatever you do, don’t ask the Hendersons next door at number forty-four. They honestly think that terrible chain place by the interstate counts as authentic Italian food.”
Sam’s eyes flared. He glanced at Bucky. Bucky’s head turned slowly, his eyes locking onto Sam’s. Neither of them said a single word, but the shared memory of their twenty-minute briefing room argument about Italian portion sizes hung thick in the air.
Evelyn’s gaze instantly sharpened, her eyes darting between them. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam said quickly, coughing to hide a laugh. “Nothing at all. We just… we have very strong, very specific opinions about Italian restaurants.”
“So I see.” Evelyn’s smile returned, knowing and perceptive in a way that Sam’s tactical brain did not trust even a little bit. “I’ll let you get settled. Welcome to the neighborhood, boys.”
She waved as she crossed the asphalt, already calling out for Roy before her boots even hit her own lawn. Sam waited, motionless, until her heavy front door clicked shut.
The street went quiet again, save for the rustle of the maple leaves.
Sam turned slowly toward the porch, looking up at his partner. “‘I’d follow you just about anywhere’?”
Bucky didn't look at him. He turned around, resuming his trek up the porch steps with the heavy box cradled against his chest. “She was watching us from the window before she came out, Sam.”
“Oh, I know she was. I was there.”
“I was selling the cover.”
“You sold it, all right,” Sam said, following him up the steps. “You gave it retail value.”
Bucky set the cardboard box down just inside the threshold of the entryway, the heavy wood flooring groaning under the weight. “You explicitly told me on the lawn to look like I loved you.”
“I said look like it, Bucky. You went and wrote wedding vows on the fly.”
“I improvised.”
Sam stepped into the house, the cool air conditioning hitting his face as he closed the front door behind them, shutting out the suburbs. “Is that really what that was?”
“What else would it be?”
There was an edge to the question. Faint, sharp, and unmistakable.
Sam stopped in the hallway, the words dying in his throat. Bucky didn't stall. He kept moving, walking straight through the entryway and disappearing into the staged living room before Sam could formulate an answer.
For some reason, Sam felt a strange sensation in his chest, as though he had stepped right past something important and only realized it after his foot hit the floor. He stood in the entryway for a beat, staring at the closed front door, before Bucky’s voice carried back through the quiet house, breaking the spell.
“Why on earth are there pictures of us everywhere?”
Sam gave his head a quick shake and stepped into the living room. The logistics staging team had clearly taken their assignment with terrifying, absolute seriousness. Framed photographs of varying sizes covered the wooden mantlepiece, the side tables, and the small bookshelf tucked into the corner.
There was a glossy picture of Sam and Bucky standing proudly in front of the Eiffel Tower, though Sam was reasonably sure his own body had originally belonged to a stock-photo model with slightly broader shoulders. Another frame showed them laughing on a sun-drenched beach, Bucky’s metal arm carefully hidden beneath the billowing sleeve of a loose white linen shirt. In the center of the mantle, they stood together in front of a massive, glowing Christmas tree, both wearing matching, offensively bright red cable-knit sweaters.
Bucky picked up the Christmas photograph with two fingers, staring at it with profound disgust. “I’m going to personally kill Torres.”
Sam strolled over, peering over Bucky’s broad shoulder at the frame. “I don't know, man. I think red is really your color. Brings out the absolute misery in your eyes.”
“I look ridiculous.”
“You look festive, Buck.”
“I look like I’m actively being held hostage by a festive cult.”
“To be fair, you always look like that in pictures,” Sam pointed out, tapping the glass.
Bucky let out a low grunt and placed the frame facedown on the mahogany side table. Sam immediately reached over and flipped it upright again.
“Leave it,” Bucky muttered.
“If the neighbors come inside, they’re going to notice a facedown photo, Bucky. It looks suspicious.”
“The neighbors aren’t coming inside.”
Right on cue, a sharp, polite knock sounded at the front door.
Bucky closed his eyes, his shoulders dropping in deep, spiritual exhaustion. Sam’s face split into a triumphant, massive smile. “You were saying, sweetheart?”
He returned to the entryway, smoothing down his shirt, and swung the door open. A young, bright-eyed couple stood on the porch. The man was holding a neatly potted snake plant, and the woman carried a heavy ceramic casserole dish tightly covered with aluminum foil.
“Hi!” the woman said brightly, her smile radiating pure suburban warmth. “We’re Naomi and Alex. We live right next door at forty-four.”
“Of course you do,” Bucky muttered from the shadows of the hallway behind Sam.
Sam stepped aside with an easy, welcoming sweep of his arm. “Come on in, guys. Great to meet you.”
Bucky shot him a lethal look as they crossed the threshold. Sam ignored it entirely. Within minutes, Naomi and Alex were comfortably seated on the staged beige sofa while Sam accepted the plant, placing it on the entryway table. Bucky remained standing near the living room doorway, arms crossed tight over his chest, adopting the exact posture of a highly reluctant guard dog.
“We didn’t know if you had dinner plans yet,” Naomi said, gesturing toward the dish Sam was now holding. “Moving day is always an absolute nightmare, so I just whipped up a big baked ziti.”
Sam looked down at the foil, the rich scent of baked garlic and cheese already wafting through the seams. “Wow, this is incredibly nice of you.”
From behind him, Bucky’s voice cut through the air, dry as sandpaper. “He’ll complain about the portion size.”
Sam turned his head slowly, leveling Bucky with a look. “I don’t complain about home-cooked, neighborhood Italian food, James.”
“Food’s food,” Bucky stated flatly.
“That might actually be the saddest thing you’ve ever said out loud.”
“I’ve said much sadder things.”
The words came out entirely flat, casual, and heavy with a century of dark history. Naomi’s bright suburban smile faltered, her eyebrows twitching with sudden confusion.
Sam crossed the room before the awkward silence could truly settle into the floorboards. He stepped into Bucky’s personal space, reaching out to touch two fingers lightly to Bucky’s left wrist, right where the cold vibranium disappeared beneath the fabric sleeve of his jacket. It was an old, well-worn field signal between them. Enough. Stand down.
Bucky looked down at Sam’s hand on his wrist. Sam felt the rigid, defensive tension slowly leave his partner’s shoulders. Bucky cleared his throat, nodding toward the foil-covered dish. “Smells really good.”
Naomi instantly relaxed, her posture softening. “Oh, thank you! It’s my grandmother’s recipe from Sicily.”
“Then he definitely won’t find a single thing to complain about,” Sam said quickly, flashing a warm grin. “Thank you so much, Naomi.”
Meanwhile, Alex had drifted over to the fireplace, examining the staged photographs on the mantlepiece. He picked up the edited wedding picture, squinting at the sunlit backdrop. “Hey, this is a really great shot of you guys. The lighting is perfect.”
Bucky stiffened instantly, his muscles locking up. Sam stepped forward, smoothly taking the frame from Alex’s hands before Bucky could say anything remotely unhelpful or violent. “Thanks, man. We got lucky with the weather.”
“Where did you two end up getting married?” Naomi asked, leaning forward on the couch.
The manila folder from the briefing room had listed a specific, highly detailed federal venue, but Sam’s mind went abruptly, completely blank. It had been something elegant. A garden, maybe? An estate? One of those high-end places where people spent an unreasonable amount of taxpayer money to sit on white folding chairs.
Beside him, Bucky spoke up, his voice steady. “A small botanical garden just outside Baltimore.”
Sam glanced at him, surprised. That was definitely not in the official file.
“There was this beautiful hidden courtyard,” Bucky continued, his gaze remaining fixed on the photograph in Sam's hand, his voice dropping into a softer, rhythmic cadence. “An old stone wall running all the way around it. Flowers everywhere.”
“Oh, roses?” Naomi asked, her eyes shining.
“Hydrangeas,” Sam chimed in, catching the rhythm and following Bucky’s lead seamlessly.
Bucky looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. Sam just shrugged. “You wanted roses, remember?”
“I didn’t want roses,” Bucky countered, his tone falling right back into their natural bickering stride.
“You specifically said roses were classic, Buck.”
“I said you couldn’t go wrong with roses if you couldn't make up your mind. That's different.”
“Sounds an awful lot like you wanted roses.”
“It sounds like you asked for my opinion and then entirely ignored it, Sam.”
Sam turned toward Naomi, throwing his hands up in mock exasperation. “He does this all the time. He pretends he doesn’t care about the details, and then suddenly he has seventeen distinct opinions.”
“I had exactly one opinion.”
“Seventeen, minimum.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“Fine, sixteen, then.”
Alex let out a hearty laugh, leaning back against the mantle. “Man, you two sound exactly like us.”
Naomi nudged Alex sharply in the ribs with her elbow. “No, they don’t.”
“Come on, honey, we argued about the floral arrangements for two straight months before the wedding,” Alex protested.
“You argued,” Naomi corrected smoothly. “I had already made the executive decision on day one.”
“That’s usually how it goes,” Bucky said, a faint, genuine glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
Sam looked over at him, a playful challenge in his eyes. “You want to repeat that, Barnes?”
Bucky’s mouth curved up at one corner, a rare, relaxed expression breaking through his guard. “No, dear.”
Naomi laughed so hard she nearly spilled the iced water Sam had poured her. Sam pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “You’re incredibly lucky we have company right now.”
“And witnesses,” Bucky added without missing a beat.
Their visitors stayed for another fifteen minutes, happily explaining the neighborhood’s unofficial social hierarchy and explicitly warning them about the homeowners’ association president. A terrifying woman named Meredith whose primary purpose in life appeared to be measuring the exact height of other people’s grass with a ruler.
Adrian Vale’s name came up only once, tucked neatly into the gossip.
“You’ll probably meet Adrian and Claire at Evelyn’s barbecue this Saturday,” Alex said, pointing down the street. “They live right near the end of the cul-de-sac. Big brick house with the black wrought-iron fence.”
“Yeah, we saw it when we drove in,” Sam said, keeping his tone casual. “Looks nice.”
“Adrian mostly keeps to himself, busy with his firm,” Naomi added, though her expression tightened so briefly Sam might have missed it if he hadn't been a trained investigator. “But Claire’s very nice. She organizes about half the social events around here. She likes everyone to feel… included.”
Something in her specific cadence suggested that inclusion under Claire Vale was not always optional. Sam mentally filed that away for later.
When Naomi and Alex finally left, taking with them enthusiastic promises that Sam and Bucky would join them on their patio for drinks sometime next week, Bucky locked the heavy front door and pulled the sheer curtain across the narrow window beside it.
“We’ve been in this house for exactly twenty minutes,” Bucky said, turning around.
“And we already have an organic invitation to the target's barbecue, a solid layout of the cul-de-sac, and useful psychological information about the target’s wife,” Sam countered, holding up the casserole. “I call that an absolute win.”
“We also have baked ziti, a strange plant, and an entire street tracking our every movement.” Sam carried the heavy ceramic dish toward the kitchen. Bucky followed close behind him. “You say that like the ziti is a problem, Buck.”
“The plant’s a problem.”
“What on earth do you have against a snake plant?”
“I have to keep it alive.”
“We have to keep it alive.”
Bucky crossed his arms as they entered the kitchen. “You kill every single green thing you own, Sam.”
“That is a blatant lie!”
“You had a cactus in Louisiana.”
“It was sick when I bought it from the grocery store, Bucky!”
“It was a desert cactus, Sam. It thrives on neglect.”
“I overwatered it because I cared too much, okay? I wanted it to feel loved.”
“You drowned a desert plant.”
Sam placed the ziti firmly on the pristine stone counter. “You know, this constant, unprovoked criticism is exactly why our marriage is failing.”
“We’ve been over this, Wilson. Our marriage failed during the forty-five-minute briefing yesterday.”
“Then stop following me around the house.”
“It’s also my house. Federal government says so.”
The kitchen was bright, spotless, and completely immaculate, featuring gleaming white cabinets, pale stone countertops, and enough brand-new, high-end appliances to make Sam deeply suspicious of the defense budget. A decorative glass bowl filled with perfectly yellow lemons sat right in the center of the kitchen island. Sam picked one up and gave it a firm squeeze.
“Fake,” Sam sighed, tossing it back.
Bucky stared at him like he had lost his mind. “Did you honestly think the United States government stocked our safehouse with fresh organic lemons?”
“Hey, they stocked us with seventeen high-resolution pictures and matching Christmas sweaters, Bucky. Lemons wouldn’t even crack the top ten strangest things in this house.”
Bucky shook his head and opened the large stainless-steel refrigerator. It was completely packed with fresh groceries. Sam stepped up beside him, peering inside. “Okay. Now that’s actually a little unsettling.”
Cartons of milk, fresh eggs, crisp produce, deli lunch meats, gourmet condiments, and several neatly labeled meal-prep containers filled the glowing shelves. Whoever had prepared the house had even gone to the trouble of buying the exact pulp-free brand of orange juice Sam preferred.
Bucky reached past his shoulder, his arm brushing Sam’s jacket as he lifted a tall glass jar from the refrigerator door. “Olives.”
Sam grinned, the tension breaking. “See? They know you so well, honey.”
“Those are explicitly yours.”
“I don’t eat olives, Bucky.”
“Neither do I. Great. We’re throwing them away.”
“We’re not wasting perfectly good food,” Sam countered, grasping for the jar that was being held hostage in Bucky’s hand. “Also, you literally just said 'food's food' five minutes ago to our neighbors.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to actively eat something disgusting.”
Sam reached out, took the jar from Bucky's hand, and placed it firmly back onto the refrigerator shelf. “We’ll just serve them the next time we have company over.”
“We’re not having company over ever again.”
“People have knocked on our door twice in twenty minutes, Bucky.”
“They’ll lose interest,” Bucky said, his jaw tightening slightly.
Sam gave him a long, knowing look, leaning against the counter. “You really think so?”
Bucky sighed a whistling sound of pure defeat. “Fine. We’ll keep the damn olives.”
“Excellent,” Sam beamed, crossing his arms. “Our first major decision as a married couple.”
“It was a compromise.”
“Look at us. Growing together already.”
Bucky closed the refrigerator door with slightly more force than necessary, the seals clicking shut with an aggressive snap.
They returned to the rented SUV to retrieve the rest of their luggage. Most of the logistics boxes contained seasonally appropriate clothing and staged personal items like sentimental trinkets meant to fool a nosy neighbor, but several held belongings they had actually packed themselves. Sam had brought enough clothes for two weeks and a heavy tactical bag containing his flight gear.
Bucky had brought exactly one battered canvas duffel bag.
“One bag?” Sam asked, raising an eyebrow as Bucky effortlessly lifted it from the trunk with his right hand. “That’s it?”
“I travel light.”
“You packed three shirts, didn’t you?”
“I packed enough.”
“Which, in Barnes-speak, means exactly three shirts.”
Bucky slammed the SUV’s trunk shut. “You’re not my mother, Sam.”
“No, I’m your husband. Apparently, that comes with shared laundry privileges.”
Bucky halted in the middle of the driveway, glare locking onto him. “You touch my laundry, and I’m moving out.”
“Where are you going to go?” Sam chuckled, lifting his own heavy bags.
Bucky gestured vaguely toward the house across the street. “Evelyn seems nice. I’ll ask to crash on her sofa.”
“Roy would send you right back.”
“He’d understand my plight.”
“Roy’s been happily married for thirty-two years, Buck. He knows exactly when not to get involved in domestic disputes.”
They carried the final set of boxes upstairs, their boots thudding against the carpeted risers. The main bedroom was located at the very end of the hallway, its white door standing partially open. Sam reached it first, using his forearm to push it wider.
Then he stopped dead in the threshold. “Oh,” he said simply.
Bucky nearly walked directly into his back, pulling up short. “What is it?”
Sam moved aside without a word.
A massive, plush king-sized bed occupied the absolute center of the room. Unlike the rest of the house, which had been decorated by the staging team in neutral, thoroughly boring corporate shades, the logistics crew had apparently decided the master bedroom required a heavy romantic touch. Rich, dark blue velvet pillows covered the head of the bed, and a soft gray cashmere blanket had been artfully folded across the bottom.
Their staged wedding photograph sat prominently on the left nightstand. To top it all off, two shiny foil-wrapped chocolate hearts rested precisely in the center of the pillows.
Bucky stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the layout. “No.”
Sam leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, highly amused. “You say that a lot.”
“We’re not sleeping in here.”
“It’s the main bedroom, Buck. It's where the married people sleep.”
“There are three other bedrooms down the hall.”
“The neighbors might see you slipping into the guest room.”
“How?”
“Windows. Surprise visits. Evelyn probably has high-powered binoculars,” Sam argued.
“Then we keep the curtains permanently closed.”
Sam walked over to the built-in closet and slid the double doors open. Clothes already hung in neat, color-coded rows on both sides. Sam’s familiar jackets on the left, Bucky’s dark layers on the right. A shoe rack beneath them held their respective footwear in perfect, eerie symmetry. On the top shelf sat two neatly folded, high-end white bathrobes.
Sam reached up and took one down. The word HIS had been meticulously embroidered in elegant silver thread across the chest. He checked the second robe. Also HIS.
A sudden laugh escaped him before he could suppress it.
Bucky snatched both robes out of his hands with a scowl and threw them into the dark corner of the closet floor. “Torres is a dead man.”
“Come on, man, that’s genuinely funny.”
“They could’ve left the bedroom alone.”
“It has to look lived in, Bucky. That's how deep cover works.”
“So we move some things around. We fake it.”
“We should just sleep in here,” Sam said reasonably, tossing his tactical bag to the side.
Bucky turned around slowly, his expression shifting into a hard line. “No.”
“There’s plenty of room, man. It's a king-size.”
“No.”
“We’ve slept in much tighter spaces, Bucky.”
“During missions.”
Sam spread his hands wide. “This is a mission.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“There were usually people shooting at us,” Bucky muttered.
“Would a live gunfight make you feel more comfortable sharing a mattress with me?”
Bucky’s expression suggested it might.
Sam’s amusement faded slightly, his tone softening. “Buck, I’m not saying we have to cuddle. Put a literal fortress of pillows right down the middle if you’re worried I’ll violate your virtue.”
“I’m not worried about my virtue, Sam.”
“Then what exactly are you worried about?”
Bucky looked at the bed, his eyes tracking the smooth lines of the gray blanket. The pause lasted a fraction too long, the silence stretching thick and heavy between them.
“Your snoring,” Bucky finally said, breaking the tension.
Sam scoffed loudly, rolling his eyes. “I don’t snore.”
“You do.”
“You’ve never actually slept right next to me.”
“I’ve been in the same safehouses.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts when you’re loud enough to wake the dead, Sam.”
“You were only awake because you don’t sleep, Barnes.”
“That is not helping your argument.”
Sam dropped his cardboard box beside the mahogany dresser. “Fine. Take one of the guest rooms tonight. Tomorrow morning, we make this room look like we’re both actively using it.”
Bucky nodded once, a sharp, tense movement, though he did not look relieved.
“We’ll put some of your stuff in the master bathroom,” Sam continued, walking toward the ensuite. “Toothbrush, razor, whatever creepy old-man products you use.”
“I use regular soap.”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Zero routine.”
“I’m not taking skin-care advice from someone who currently owns eight different moisturizers.”
Sam froze, turning around to stare at him. Bucky stared back, unflinching.
“How on earth do you know how many moisturizers I own?”
“They were scattered all over your bathroom counter the last time I stayed over at your place in Louisiana.”
“You counted them?”
“I had to move them.”
“Why?”
“So I could actually find a flat surface to put my toothbrush down, Sam.”
Sam opened his mouth to launch a defense, then closed it. The memory returned to him with uncomfortable, vivid clarity: Bucky standing barefoot in Sam’s small house in Delacroix one early morning, after a midnight mission had run too late for him to bother finding a hotel. His hair had been a wild mess, his eyes half-closed against the morning sun, and he had complained bitterly that Sam’s bathroom counter was a public safety hazard.
There had been two toothbrushes sitting by the sink that morning. Sam hadn't thought anything of it at the time.
He looked past Bucky now, his eyes landing on the staged wedding photograph on the nightstand. This wasn't their home. The pictures were elaborate fabrications. The history printed in their folders was a series of neat lies. The rings they would begin wearing tomorrow morning were props.
But the clothes neatly divided between two halves of a single closet didn't feel as entirely strange as they should have. Neither did the thought of Bucky’s toothbrush sitting beside his own.
Bucky shifted his weight, breaking the silence. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re making that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you start thinking way too hard about things.”
“I don’t have a specific face for that, Bucky.”
“You do. Your left eyebrow hitches.”
Sam reached onto the bed, picked up one of the foil-wrapped chocolate hearts, and tossed it across the room. Bucky caught it automatically with his right hand.
“Go unpack your three shirts,” Sam said.
“I brought four.”
“My mistake. We’re prepared for any tactical situation.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, and headed toward the bedroom door. But before he passed, Sam caught sight of a sharp fold in the collar of Bucky’s jacket—it was tucked inward, ruined by the heavy strap of the duffel bag.
Without thinking, Sam reached up, his fingers brushing against the fabric to smooth the collar flat.
Bucky stopped instantly.
Sam’s fingers lingered for a fraction of a second against the collarbone. They had stood this close hundreds of times before. Sam had adjusted Bucky’s tactical harness before jumping from planes, checked his armor for hidden injuries, hauled him upright by the front of his jacket in mud and debris. There was absolutely no reason this specific gesture should feel any different.
But Bucky had gone completely, utterly still under his touch.
Sam slowly lowered his hand, stepping back. “Your collar was messed up.”
Bucky’s blue eyes searched his face, intense and quiet. “Right. Thanks.”
From somewhere down the block, a loud lawn mower roared to life, its mundane, mechanical hum breaking the sudden silence between them.
Bucky stepped backward into the hallway. “I’ll take the room directly across from yours.”
“The room across from ours,” Sam corrected automatically, leaning against the door frame.
Bucky glanced back. For a brief, fleeting instant, Sam thought he might actually say something. Instead, Bucky looked down at the small chocolate heart resting in his metal hand. Then he shook his head, a quiet movement, and walked across the hall.
Sam remained standing in the doorway of the master bedroom, surrounded by the physical evidence of a marriage that had never happened. From across the hall, the faint sound of Bucky opening wooden drawers carried through the quiet air, followed by a muffled, distant complaint about a decorative throw pillow.
Sam smiled despite himself.
He walked over to the bed, picked up the remaining chocolate heart, and slowly unwrapped the foil. He looked once more at the sunlit photograph sitting beside the bed.
It was only a cover. The entire house had been meticulously built to support a massive lie.
So why, Sam wondered as he bit into the chocolate, did it already feel so much like they had finally come home?