Chapter Text
Bucky has nowhere he needs to go after he finishes tying up all of his loose ends in Brooklyn, which is probably why he ends up following Sam back to Louisiana.
Sam had offered his place up, way back when the dust was still settling following the attack on the GRC, one afternoon in between press conferences and meetings with various government officials. At the time, Bucky had declined. He’d thought he would want to stay in Brooklyn, because as much as things have changed over the previous seventy years, let alone over the past five, it’s still home. But, well, after dropping off the completed notebook at Raynor’s office and checking all the necessary boxes on the paperwork to confirm he’s no longer a danger to himself or others, he’d found himself wandering the streets in an attempt to avoid going back to his empty, still unfurnished apartment. The idea of heading back for another sleepless night on the floor just didn’t seem all that appealing.
He’d slept great on Sarah’s couch, he’d remembered. Probably the best sleep he’d had since his hut in Wakanda. No nightmares or anything.
Looking back, that had probably been the moment when he decided to go back to Delacroix. It still took him two more days to get around to texting Sam, though. Not for fear of rejection or anything, just. He knew Sam would say he could come down whenever, and Bucky wanted to give Sam more time with his family, without Bucky hanging about and making things awkward. God knows Sam deserved it.
Unsurprisingly, he’s proven right when Sam replies to his text not even an hour later saying that ‘of course’ he can come stay with his family, ‘there’s no need to ask ’. What is surprising is the following text asking Bucky to let Sam know when his flight’s supposed to land, so that Sam can pick him up from the airport. He frowns at his phone, and types out a reply awkwardly with his right hand:
Me: I can get an ubee like last time, don’t worry
Me: ubee
Me: Uber
Sam: Don’t bother, I can pick you up in the truck
Sam: No need to get an Ubee
Bucky snorts at the second text and shakes his head fondly. Good to confirm that Sam’s still an asshole, even over text. Absent-mindedly, he recognizes that he looks like one of the many teenagers he sees on the subway, smiling at their phones and texting with rapid fingers flying over the screen. Well, Bucky can only text with one hand - vibranium still won’t register on the iPhone touch screen, no matter what Shuri tries, and she refuses to let him take a Wakandan phone out of Wakanda - but hey, it’s not the worst comparison.
He replies with an ‘ok’ followed soon after by his flight details. Sam ‘likes’ his messages in response. Bucky stares at the little grey thumbs up, and feels the corners of his mouth pull up into a grin.
The flight itself is uneventful. Flying commercial is still a trip and a half. It’s not the first time Bucky’s flown commercial; he flew down to Louisiana to deliver the suit to Sam, and before that he’d taken a few flights across the States in order to cross a name or two off his lists, but still. It was a lot then, and it’s a lot now. The airport is packed with families and kids and college students returning home for the summer. It’s loud and crowded, but not unbearable.
His bag gets checked without any issue. In the line following, he gives his Disability Notification Card to the security agent, which is then followed by the usual song and dance of 'Yes, my arm is vibranium, you can swab and scan it if you need to. Photo ID? Here - yes, that’s my date of birth - yep, Bucky Barnes, that’s me. Nice to meet you too. Yeah, it’s the hair. It gets a lot of people. Mhm. Oh, my back is reinforced with metal, too, that’s probably what’s getting picked up - yeah, the whole spine, it’s for the arm - great, thanks. Can I have my passport back? Thanks. Yeah, I’ll tell Cap you say hi.’ That last part is new, and he welcomes the addition. It makes the whole process a bit less trying.
The plane is full. He’s sat in a window seat, his left arm pressed up against the interior wall, with a window awkwardly positioned halfway between his seat and the seat in front so he has to strain awkwardly to look out it. The elderly couple in the seats to his right manage to complete no fewer than forty-eight sudokus in the three hours from take off until landing. Bucky watches them with awe, admiration, and only a slight bit of fear.
Once the plane lands, he’s the last passenger to disembark by virtue of his seat being at the back of the plane. He grabs his solitary black duffel from the luggage carousel, distinguishing his bag from the million other identical black bags by the band of colourful Wakandan beadwork wrapped around its width, and heads out the airport exit, passing the designated Uber pick-up spot with a forlorn glance. The muggy mid-afternoon Louisiana air hits him full force once he steps outside, which makes for a nice change from the cool recycled airplane air conditioning.
Carrying his duffel in his left hand, he pulls out his phone with his right and texts Sam.
Me: I’m here
Sam: I’ll pull up to the curbside pickup
Sam: Big gray truck
Me: I know, I’ve seen your truck before
Sam: You have???
Bucky spots the truck in question before he can respond. He picks up his pace, pushing through a group of twenty-somethings with a halfhearted apology, and manages to arrive at the edge of the sidewalk just as the truck pulls up to the curb.
The driver’s seat door opens and closes, and then there’s Sam.
He hasn’t changed much physically since Bucky last saw him two odd weeks ago, but something new in the way he carries himself makes Bucky instinctively stand up straighter. Sam looks well rested, and seems to be settled in a way he hadn’t been during the whole Flag Smashers situation. The quiet confidence looks good on him, Bucky thinks. Or maybe it’s just his neatly trimmed beard. Bucky has an odd flash of feeling like he looks distinctly unkempt compared to Sam, what with his day-three stubble and general air of frazzled-ness.
He then realizes he’s been practically staring at Sam for two full seconds. “Hi,” he greets dumbly.
“Hey man,” Sam says with a warm grin, and oh. Okay. Strong arms wrap around Bucky’s shoulder’s before he can even register it as Sam pulls him in for a brief but tight hug, pressing the fronts of their bodies together. Bucky’s brain whites out. The bubbly feeling that had been building in his stomach floods up through his chest, out into his arms.
Sam pulls back not even a moment later, and Bucky blinks, dazed. “Hi,” Bucky repeats, then frowns internally. He’s not sure why he said that again. He’s not sure why he can hear his blood rushing in his ears.
Luckily, Sam doesn’t seem to notice that Bucky’s brain is more fuzzed out than usual. “You can throw your bag in the back,” he says, opening the passenger side door, “there’s lots of room, I just cleared a bunch of Sarah’s shit out. Don’t tell her I called it ‘shit’, though.”
“Sure, no, I won’t,” Bucky says. He shakes his head slightly. Right. No more weird feelings, Barnes, get your head on straight. He climbs into the passenger seat, reaching over the back to place his duffel in the space behind. “Thanks again for picking me up. You didn’t have to.”
“And let you take an hour long Uber ride? Sarah woulda killed me,” Sam replies from the driver’s seat. He lets a car pass by before pulling out from the curb.
Bucky keeps staring at where Sam’s hands grip the wheel. His mouth is suddenly dry for no discernable reason. “And, uh, how is Sarah?” he asks, somewhat distractedly.
“She’s good, yeah. Keeps asking after you. AJ and Cass too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. The guys at the dock keep wondering when ‘that strong white boy’ is gonna come back as well. Seems like you made an impression on ‘em.”
Bucky tears his eyes away from the wheel to look outside the passenger window at the trees planted in straight rows beside the road. “Huh.”
Out of the corner of his vision, he sees Sam turn slightly to glance at him, then quickly look back at the road ahead. “So, how’ve thing’s been in New York since I left?”
Boring and quiet, mostly. Lonely. Bucky doesn’t want to tell that to Sam, though. “Uh, the same,” he says instead. “I, uh, finished my book. The lists.”
“Woah, hey, that’s great!”
It hadn’t been all that great, actually; he still feels the acute sting of Yori’s rejection and grief, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. “Yeah,” Bucky says, still staring out the window. The trees give way to a bunch of houses as they head towards the highway. Bucky remembers this route from his first time visiting, sitting in the back of an Uber with an overnight bag on his lap and the case containing Sam’s suit on the seat beside him. “I gave the book to Raynor. I’m not seeing her anymore.”
He feels, rather than sees, Sam’s look. “Are you seeing anybody?” he asks in a tone that Bucky can tell is being kept carefully level.
Bucky shakes his head. “Not at the moment, no.”
The truck is silent for a second. “Huh,” is all Sam says as he merges onto the highway between a steady stream of cars. Bucky’s flight had landed mid afternoon, so they must be hitting rush hour heading out of New Orleans. Hopefully the traffic isn’t as bad as New York.
“I was finished with Raynor,” Bucky finds himself saying to break the silence. “Once I crossed the last name off my list. The amends were her thing in the first place, so...”
“So now what?” Sam asks.
Bucky pulls his gaze back from the window to glance over to him. “Now, I dunno.” He shrugs with one shoulder, the strap of his seatbelt shifting with the movement.
“So you decided to come bother me,” Sam says, nodding to himself. “Yeah, I get it.”
Bucky nods distractedly in agreement, but he can barely make out what Sam’s saying. It sounds like Sam is speaking to him from underwater, like Bucky’s ears have been stuffed with cotton. His eyes have dropped back down to the steering wheel of their own accord, and they seem to be locked there no matter how hard he tries to look elsewhere, and for fuck’s sake, Bucky knows what’s about to happen. He can tell from the pressure headache that’s rapidly building right in between his eyebrows, and from the familiar feeling that’s started to form in the pit of his stomach. Unlike the warm, bubbly feeling from earlier, this one is decidedly unpleasant, like a sudden wave of vertigo.
And then, in the space between two breaths, the memory slams into him with an almost physical force, and he jerks back.
He - fuck , of course seeing Sam behind a steering wheel would be disorienting. The last time Bucky had seen Sam drive had been right before he’d punched through the windshield and ripped the wheel out of Sam’s hands, right out of the car itself.
Bucky blinks rapidly, trying to get rid of the double vision overlay of the memory. This isn’t the first time a flashback has been triggered from something innocuous while Bucky’s awake, but it’s not like it’s gotten any easier to deal with. The randomest things set him off, too, and so far the triggers haven’t been consistent enough for him to notice a pattern.
It’s still better than the nightmares, though. He’s awake, for one thing.
“- me to pull over?” The steady timbre of Sam’s voice cuts right through the ringing in his ears.
Bucky shakes his head, both to turn down the offer and to clear the lingering afterimage from his vision. “No, I’m fine,” he says, voice hoarse. He coughs slightly. “Do you have any water?”
Sam looks at him with an unreadable expression, but doesn’t pull over. “There should be a bottle by your feet.”
Bucky finds the water bottle in question and takes a couple sips. The water tastes like warm plastic. He tells Sam as much: “This tastes like warm plastic.”
“You’re welcome to not drink it,” Sam says dryly.
Bucky takes another sip instead of responding, and twists the cap back on. He fiddles with the bottle in his lap for a second, keeping his gaze turned down, before he takes a deep breath and steels himself, turning his head to face Sam. He has one last amendment to make, and he’s gonna make it while maintaining eye contact, goddamn it. Nevermind that this last apology seems to be infinitely more terrifying than all of the previous ones had been combined. “I ripped out your steering wheel,” he begins, and immediately winces, mentally kicking himself. Very smooth, Barnes.
“I know, I was there,” Sam replies after only a beat of confused silence.
A white minivan races past them out of nowhere and cuts into the lane in front of them. Sam lays on the horn for a full five seconds. Bucky huffs at the interruption, but he refuses to give up. “I mean,” he says, once Sam’s done honking at the Jeep, “I’m sorry. For ripping out your steering wheel. And for punching through your windshield -”
“And shooting at me through the roof of my car?”
“- yeah, and that too, I guess -”
“You guess?”
“Would you please let me finish,” Bucky says loudly.
Sam stays quiet. The minivan changes out of their lane, and gets stuck behind an ATV.
“I’m not sure how I can make up for doing that. Or for the other times I tried to hurt you. Or for the times when I actually did manage to hurt you, but. I want to. If you’ll let me.”
Bucky’s words seem to hang in the air as another beat of silence passes, undercut by the humming of the truck’s engine. Bucky hears Sam sigh softly, before he says, “Man, you know you don’t have to -”
“I know,” Bucky interrupts. “I know. But I want to.”
“Okay,” Sam says after a moment. “Sure, yeah, alright. You can start with helping me with the yardwork, Sarah’s got me busting my ass out there like I’m not Captain America, I’m telling you.”
Bucky lets out a laugh that’s partially a sigh of relief. God, not even an hour into this visit and he’s already had one deep talk with Sam. Bucky’s not sure he’ll survive this, all this discussion about emotions and feelings. “So you just want me for my incredible feats of strength,” he says, relieved that they’re back to their usual banter.
If Sam notices the semi-forced levity of his voice, he doesn’t make any indication of it. “Uh, who ever said anything about ‘wanting you’, excuse me?”
“I’m happy to help out, Sam,” Bucky says. He means it, too. He hopes Sam can tell.
Sam glances away from the road towards Bucky, and a soft smile appears on his face. “Good,” he says quietly, as if speaking to himself.
They lapse into silence once more. Sam breaks the eye contact with a blink, before he shakes his head slightly and turns his gaze back to the highway in front of them. The traffic doesn’t seem to be all too terrible, actually. It’s certainly moving faster than it would be in New York.
The drive to Sarah’s house takes just over an hour. By the time they arrive, the sun’s hit golden hour, which casts the yard in front of the house in dappled shadows as the light hits the trees and filters through the leaves. The front door to the house swings before Sam can even park the truck, and Bucky watches as Sarah steps out onto the porch, leans against one of the support pillars, and crosses her arms in front of her chest.
“That was awfully quick,” she calls out as Bucky and Sam exit the truck. Bucky grabs his duffel from the back and hefts it up onto his left shoulder. He hip-checks the passenger side door to close it and follows Sam up towards the house.
“Traffic was light,” Sam replies easily.
Bucky can see Sarah’s disbelieving eyebrow raise from meters away. “That seems unlikely,” she says knowingly, although Bucky can’t tell what exactly it is that she knows. Before he can spend any time figuring it out, though, she turns to face him and smiles. “Hi Bucky, it’s great to have you back,” she says, ignoring her brother’s indignant spluttering from the doorway.
Bucky tries for a grin in return. He hopes it looks a lot more natural than it feels. “Thanks for letting me stay again, you didn’t have to -”
“Pssh,” Sarah interrupts with an easy flap of her hand, “letting you sleep on the couch ain’t exactly a hardship. Besides, there’s no shortage of heavy stuff that needs to be lifted around here, if you’re keen to prove your gratefulness.”
“I told him he could help with the yardwork,” Sam says, speaking loudly to be heard from inside the house.
Sarah rolls her eyes, and gestures for Bucky to enter through the door before her. He hastens to do so. “Uh huh, and let him clean up the mess you made with that shield of yours? Nah, you guys should help with the crates at the dock, if you wanna be useful.”
“He leave any trees standing?” Bucky asks Sarah conversationally.
Sarah snorts and closes the door to the house behind her. In the back of his mind, Bucky absently registers the barely audible click of the lock sliding into place. He wishes he could shut that part of his brain off - if he’s not safe here , then where the hell is he safe? - but some habits are harder to break than others. Besides, a slight bit of paranoia isn’t necessarily a bad holdover to hang onto, all things considered.
He figures that Sam went straight to the kitchen, so he heads there after sliding his shoes off at the front. He sets his duffel down on the sofa when he cuts through the living room.
“Barely,” Sarah answers his question as she follows Bucky into the kitchen.
“Woah, hold on,” Sam begins over Bucky’s quiet huff of laughter. He points a finger at Sarah as if about to launch into a speech, but the sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs interrupts him before he’s able to continue.
Cass and AJ round the corner into the kitchen together in a blur. “Hi Bucky!” they exclaim at the same time. Bucky waves awkwardly from where he’s leaning against the countertop. “Can you show us some cool shield tricks?” AJ continues before he can respond.
Bucky glances to Sam, who just raises his eyebrows unhelpfully and gives Bucky an expectant look that makes him want to roll his eyes. “Um,” Bucky says, to the two boys, “I think you’ll want your uncle for that, I actually don’t know that many, uh, shield tricks -”
“But Sam told us that you can do super cool throws with your metal arm,” Cass says, staring up at Bucky with a pleading expression.
That’s interesting. “Did he now,” Bucky says, feeling the corner of his mouth begin to creep up into a grin.
“Okay!” Sam says loudly. “If you guys help your mom clean up after dinner, me ‘n Buck will show you some tricks, alright?” He raises an eyebrow at Bucky, as if to ask, that okay?
Bucky nods. Of course that’s fine, Sam should know that. He would have said yes anyways; he knows how Cass and AJ think the shield is pretty much the coolest thing, even cooler than, like, Fortnite, or whatever it is kids are obsessed with these days, Bucky doesn’t even want to know. Sam had told him about how they’d watched him as he practiced with the shield, back before the final showdown with the Flag Smashers, and Bucky had pretended not to notice the way his voice had wavered during the retelling. He’d figured that it was off-limits for teasing. Bucky might try to annoy Sam more often than not, but he won’t make fun of him for loving his family.
And shit, Bucky doesn’t even blame the kids. He’s found himself looking up to Sam more and more these days too.
“Awesome! Thanks, Uncle Sam,” Cass says, and the two boys dart back out of the kitchen, heading God knows where at breakneck speeds.
Bucky doesn’t even try to hide his grin. “‘Uncle Sam’? That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think?” he asks, delighted when Sam actually groans in response and covers his face with his hands.
“Shut up, I know,” Sam says into his palms. “I’m dreading when the news figures out I’m an uncle. They’ll run that to the ground in no time.”
“I think it’s cute,” Sarah says, nudging Bucky’s arm with her elbow like they’re both in on the same joke.
Sam glares at Sarah through his fingers. “Shut up, Sarah.”
“Hey,” Bucky says, “be nice to your sister, Samuel.”
“Why did I let you into my home.”
“Excuse you, my home. Ignore him, you can stay as long as you’d like,” Sarah tells Bucky. He can tell by the glint in her eyes that she’s half saying that to get a rise out of Sam, but the expression on her face is genuine. “As long as you use that arm of yours for helpin’ out as well as throwing that shield around, of course.”
Bucky nods. “Of course,” he agrees earnestly.
“Y’all are the worst,” Sam says, but he’s smiling.
“Mhm. Now get out of my kitchen before I get even more worse,” Sarah threatens. She reaches behind her and snatches a dishtowel from where it’s hanging on the oven handle, but Sam’s obviously experienced in the art of kitchen warfare and quickly moves to grab Bucky’s arm. Bucky’s yanked out of the way right as the dishtowel snaps in his direction. “Out,” Sarah commands, in a tone of voice that reminds Bucky of his drill sergeants from ‘43.
“C’mon, before she starts throwin’ stuff at us.” Sam’s hand is still on Bucky’s arm, and he uses it to steer Bucky towards the direction of the door. He’s pushing the metal arm, but Bucky allows the force to move him forward anyways, and lets Sam maneuver him out of the kitchen and onto the deck behind the house.
Sam sits on the steps that lead up the deck from the grass below; Bucky settles down beside him and looks out at the water. The last vestiges of golden light glint off the water’s surface as the edge of the house’s long shadow extends out towards the water’s edge. Just above the surface, Bucky can see a swarm of insects hovering in a swirling cloud.
A part of Bucky is glad to have escaped from the kitchen when he did. The familiarity of Sam and Sarah’s bickering had tugged on memories that he’d been burying since the last time he’d stayed in Delacroix, memories of domestic scenes playing out in his Ma’s kitchen. And he’d been a lot more focused on Sam picking up the shield and the whole deal with the Flag Smashers last time, so pushing those memories (and the feelings they dredged up) aside had been a lot easier to justify to himself. Now, though, he doesn’t have any pressing matters to distract himself with, so he knows it isn’t long before those feelings hit him full force. And when they do, he knows it’s going to suck.
A smacking sound catches Bucky’s attention, yanking him out of his thoughts. He glances over to see Sam flicking something off his arm, looking disproportionately offended as he does so.
“Mosquito,” Sam offers when he notices Bucky watching.
Bucky hmms in response. He looks back towards the water as a rust-coloured heron lands and dispels the cloud of flies. In his peripheral vision, he can see Sam’s gaze linger on Bucky for a moment, before he moves to match Bucky’s position, watching the water and the birds and the grass as it sways in the evening breeze.
Eventually, Sarah calls them back inside for dinner, which consists of a jambalaya that has Bucky sweating profusely by the end of the meal. Sam mocks him relentlessly for it, getting the boys in on the joke too, and Bucky bears their teasing while exchanging longsuffering looks and eyerolls with Sarah from across the table. Cleaning up after the meal is quick, Bucky loading up the dishwasher and washing the largest skillet he’s ever seen once Sam’s finished scooping the leftovers into tupperware containers with a, “Hell yeah, we got this for lunch tomorrow.”
Bucky just looks over at the two massive containers on the counter, then back towards Sam. “More like for the next week.”
“With the way you eat? We’d be lucky to stretch this two days, even.”
“You can admit that you’re jealous of my incredible metabolism, it’s okay.”
“And your incredible sweating skills.”
Bucky places the skillet in the drying rack. “And now you’ve made it weird,” he says.
He hears Sam laugh behind him, and grins to himself as he shuts off the sink. The fridge opens and then closes behind him, and then Sam says, “alright, you down to throw that shield around?”
They head out the front door, Sam grabbing the shield in its brown leather case from its spot on the coat rack. Cass and AJ follow them out; they’d been sitting in the living room, AJ looking over Cass’s shoulder at some handheld device, but had jumped up from the sofa as soon as Sam and Bucky had passed through.
“Stay on the deck. Duck if I tell you to,” Sam tells the two boys once they’re outside. Cass and AJ both nod as if they’ve heard those instructions a hundred times before, which, knowing Sam, isn’t unlikely. From what Bucky had heard about Sam’s training with the shield, the first few sessions had involved some pretty wilder throws with even wilder rebounds, which had resulted in more than one smashed window. Bucky figures that it had taken Sam a bit to become confident enough with the shield to allow his nephews to watch. And, judging by the bored familiarity with which Sam’s instructions had just been received, he’d likely given them a lecture on safety each and every time.
The sound of a zipper catches Bucky’s attention. He glances over to see Sam unzip the carrying case and pull out the shield. Sam tosses the case onto the grass behind him where it lands with a soft thud, and then extends his arm and, raising his eyebrows, offers the shield to Bucky.
After a half-second’s hesitation, Bucky takes it and puts his non-vibranium arm through the straps on the back. “You manage to get five rebounds yet?” he asks, shrugging his right shoulder to remind himself of the shield’s heft and weight.
Sam gives Bucky a grin, pausing as he stretches out his shoulders. “Wait and see, Buck.”
Rolling his eyes at the nickname, Bucky turns to where AJ and Cass are sitting on the edge of the porch. “Has he?”
“No,” AJ replies instantly.
“You traitor,” Sam says.
Bucky chuckles softly as he turns back to assess the trees in front of them, eyes landing a group of three that are arranged in a particularly interesting manner. He squints as he figures out the angles, running through quick calculations in the back of his mind, calculations that are honestly more of an assurance than a necessity at this point. “Well,” Bucky says, flinging the shield off his arm towards the right-most of the three trees, “there’s always room for improvement.”
The shield bounces between the trees four times, ricocheting off the black padding in a barely visible blur. The last bounce sends it spinning back towards Sam. A small huff of exertion escapes Sam as he stops it neatly; he definitely catches it with more confidence than he’d shown the last time he and Bucky had thrown the shield around, back before the GRC showdown. And Bucky had certainly thrown the thing with more strength this time.
Damn, Sam must have been putting in work, then. Bucky can’t help but be impressed.
“Damn,” Sam mutters, echoing Bucky’s thoughts so precisely that Bucky worries for a brief but incredibly panicked moment that he had spoken out loud. “You gotta tell me how to get it to ricochet like that, half of the time I feel like it’s just luck.”
“It’s mostly angles,” Bucky offers. “And practice.” He shrugs, hoping the movement comes across as casual instead of calculated. He really doesn’t want to come across as condescending, especially while AJ and Cass are watching. “You seemed comfortable enough using it in New York, I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit. Besides, it took Steve about a month before he was comfortable throwing it in combat, so you got him beat there.”
Sam considers him for a moment. “That so?” he asks as he throws the shield towards that same group of three trees.
Bucky can tell that Sam doesn’t really believe him. For all that Sam is great about complimenting the people around him, he can be absolutely terrible at taking compliments himself. He’d seen it in New York, in the bashful shake of Sam's head after Bucky had told him, truthfully, that he’d done a nice job.
Well. It’s not like Bucky has much of a leg to stand on. Not that he’s receiving a ton of praise these days from anybody who isn’t Sam, but still.
“Oh, yeah. And I was the one chasing after the damn thing when he miscalculated and sent it flying into the Italian wilderness, which was great.” Bucky uses his left hand to catch the shield by its edge when it rebounds back to him, resulting in an incredible metallic clang. He hears Cass and AJ react with simultaneous gasps, and preens internally. The vibranium-on-vibranium clash is pretty sweet. “And honestly, having it bounce four, five times isn’t actually that practical. As long as you can make it come back, and can catch it on the rebound, you’re fine.”
He throws the shield like a discus, rotating his whole body and using the momentum to send it spinning from his left hand. So he might be showing off slightly. Whatever. He’s got an audience to impress now, anyways.
Sam easily catches the shield off its rebound once more, spinning slightly in order to lessen the impact. “So if I send this flying into the Louisiana wilderness, you’ll go fetch it?”
“This ain’t wilderness. And I’m not a dog,” Bucky says flatly, “so no.”
“Huh.” Sam gives him a full up and down. Bucky fights the urge to fidget under his gaze. “And here I thought you were the - what did Ayo call you? ‘White Wolf ’? What was that about, anyways?”
Bucky watches Sam throw the shield towards another group of trees. “It’s a nickname, I guess. Shuri refused to tell me what it meant, but from what I gathered it’s what Wakandans call white foreigners. Don’t really know where it came from, but,” he shrugs, “I’ve been called worse things.”
“Didn’t hear them calling Steve that.”
“Well,” Bucky catches the shield on his right arm, “Steve was never there for months on end.”
Sam tilts his head in a gesture of agreement, then says, “So it’s not a - you know.” He flounders for a second, and Bucky braces himself for wherever this line of questioning is about to head. “It’s not your new title or callsign then?”
Trust Sam to ask the questions that had plagued Bucky on more than one sleepless night. “No,” Bucky says, flinging the shield towards the trees. If he throws it with a bit more force than necessary, well, Sam doesn’t say anything. “It’s not. I mean,” he gives Sam a wry grin, “I had enough of an identity crisis trying to figure out how to be Bucky Barnes. I’m not really ready to deal with a new name on top of that.”
The shield ricochets between the trees four times before speeding back towards Sam. He catches it with both hands, bringing it close to his chest to absorb the impact. Bucky sees him glance down at it, then at Bucky with an inscrutable expression on his face, then back down at the shield. “Fair enough.”
There’s that conversation done, then. God, two deep talks in one day. Bucky’s heading for a new record for ‘most times in a row telling the truth when discussing feelings or emotions’. Granted, the bar had been on the floor, but still. Growth. Raynor would be so proud of him, he thinks sardonically. Too bad she’s not there to write it down in her notebook. It would probably be the first positive note about him she’s ever written.
But there’s just something about Sam that just makes him want to open up and tell the truth, something that Raynor had lacked. Bucky can’t quite define what it is. At least, not yet.
Sam straightens up and slings the shield onto his arm. “Y’all got any requests?” he calls over his shoulder at Cass and AJ.
“You haven’t done any flips! And you said you were gonna teach us how to backflip,” AJ says.
“Uh, not today,” Sam replies hastily.
Bucky raises both eyebrows at Sam. “Flips ? This I gotta see.”
“It was to practice catching at different angles - you know what, I don’t have to explain myself to you.”
“Alright, keep your acrobatic secrets.”
Sam glares at him. “I will, thanks.”
Bucky turns to Cass and AJ. “So since Cirque du Soleil is a no go for tonight -”
“I swear to God.”
“- any other, uh, ‘shield tricks’ that you guys wanna see?”
“Throw it at each other!” AJ suggests eagerly, with all the enthusiasm of a kid who’s unaware of the times Sam and Bucky had actually fought against each other, and that they might accordingly be a little hesitant about throwing a weapon at each other for funsies.
Sam and Bucky just look at each other simultaneously.
“I don’t -”
“I guess -”
They both cut themselves off. Sam gives a longsuffering sigh. “You first.”
Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know if that’s the best idea,” he says.
Sam squints at him. “You saying I can’t handle it?”
Well, if Sam wants to take it as a challenge, far be it for Bucky to say otherwise. He raises his hands, palms up as if to say, you said it, not me .
“Oh, it’s on.”
They end up throwing the shield back and forth across the yard like it’s the world’s most dangerous frisbee, and to Bucky’s surprise (and happiness) it doesn’t feel awkward at all. The two settle into a comfortable rhythm, punctuated by Cass and AJ taking turns to call out instructions and maneuvers that just get increasingly specific as the evening continues. The sky gets dark eventually, but the heat sticks around, the evening air becoming almost heavy with humidity. It means that both Bucky and Sam have worked up quite a sweat by the time Sarah pokes her head out to collect AJ and Cass, because it is a school night, so they can’t be up too late, despite how awesome the shield is to watch.
After a chorus of ‘goodnight’s, Sam lets out a long exhale, and uses the hand that’s not holding the shield to fan himself with the neck of his shirt. Bucky’s night vision is good enough that he can make out the darkened patch of fabric on the lower half of Sam’s shirt, which makes him avert his gaze for some unknowable reason. His hearing still picks up Sam’s heavy breathing, audible over the low din of cicadas and other insects buzzing around. They’d been out there for just shy of two hours, Bucky realizes then. The evening had slipped away without him even noticing.
“Man, I’m beat. This thing is hell on your shoulders,” Sam says.
Bucky can’t help himself. “Yeah, it’s definitely the most pain I’ve ever felt in my shoulder.”
He doesn’t need to use his night vision to know that Sam is glaring at him. They manage to keep straight faces for a second, before Sam snorts and shakes his head. He moves back towards the house, grabbing the shield case on his way, and calls over his shoulder, “You’re such an asshole.”
“I know, it keeps me up at night.”
Sam leads the way back into the house. Bucky makes sure to lock the door behind him, then toes off his shoes and shifts them so they’re left neatly by the door. He then has to take a second to fight down the urge to physically do a complete perimeter check, instead running through the mental checklist of all the possible entrances and reminding himself that Sarah is definitely smart enough to ensure the ground-level windows aren’t fully open.
Sam’s pouring a second glass of water when Bucky steps into the kitchen. Sam slides the first glass over to him, and Bucky smiles in thanks before downing the glass in one.
Once Sam’s finished his water, they head out of the kitchen and through the living room without exchanging any words. They pause at the bottom of the stairs just past the living room. Sam leans against the bottom of the bannister, and asks, keeping his voice down in case Cass and AJ are already asleep, “You remember where the bathroom is?”
Bucky nods. The house is almost eerily silent compared to the yard, so the hesitant breath he takes seems improbably loud. “I - thanks again for letting me stay. It, um,” he swallows, shakes his head, “I think it’ll help.”
The look Sam gives him makes that warm gooey feeling return to the depths of Bucky’s stomach, for reasons that Bucky is too tired to dissect. “Anytime, Buck. I mean it.”
“Yeah. Um.” Bucky lets himself grin, just a little bit. “Goodnight, I guess.”
Bucky doesn’t think he’s imagining the soft smile on Sam’s face as he says, “G’night.” And if Bucky stays by the foot of the stairs for a few minutes after Sam’s disappeared up them, that’s nobody's business but his own.
Of course, his contentment doesn’t last through the night.
Bucky awakens with a gasp, the sound of tires screeching on asphalt ringing in his ears. A wave of nausea crashes over him, and he forces himself to sit up and swing his legs over so he can sit normally on the couch, resting his hands on his knees and staring at the ground between his feet as he rides out the queasiness. Any lingering disorientation from the nightmare has already vanished; he knows where he is, remembers who’s sofa he’s on.
Remembers who else is in the house with him. Thank God he didn’t wake up screaming, at least.
He opens his eyes slowly, one at a time, letting them adjust to the pale morning light spilling in through the windows. Another wave of nausea hits him, and he fights the urge to heave all over Sarah’s floor. Once the feeling recedes he makes himself look up from the floor, casting his eyes about for where he’d left his phone charging overnight. He spots it on the floor right next to the couch. It’s right as he turns it on to check the time - 5:32 AM - that he hears soft footsteps treating lightly down the stairs.
He looks up right as Sam rounds the corner into the living room. Sam stares at him for a second. Bucky stares back, absently taking in Sam’s t-shirt top and athletic shorts.
“You going for a run?” Bucky asks to break the silence, at the same exact time Sam asks, “Did I wake you?”
Sam nods slowly, still squinting at Bucky. The furrow between his eyebrows is visible from across the room.
“I actually just woke up. Nightmare,” Bucky says, figuring that he might as well get a headstart on today’s honesty.
“Huh,” Sam says after a moment, then makes as if about to exit the living room.
Bucky suddenly and intensely does not want to stay in Sarah’s living room and ruminate on his nightmares alone anymore. “Care for some company?” he asks at Sam’s back before he can decide against it.
Sam stops in the doorway between the living room and kitchen. “You wanna come with?”
Shrugging, Bucky stands up from the couch, emboldened when a third wave of nausea fails to hit him. “If you give me a minute to get changed, then sure.”
“Right, yeah. I can wait. I’ll, uh, wait by the front,” Sam says, sounding oddly flustered.
Bucky rummages around in his duffel for something that approximates what Sam’s wearing. He finds a pair of running shorts easily enough, but then spends a good thirty seconds deliberating over whether or not he should wear a longsleeve. Eventually, he decides to just fuck it and go with the t-shirt. It’s already pretty warm, and he figures they probably won’t be passing a huge amount of people at this time of day.
Once he’s changed, dogtags tucked underneath his shirt collar, he exits the bathroom to find Sam pulling on his running shoes by the front door. “You’re not gonna lap me a million times, are you?” Sam asks.
“I don’t even know where we’re going.”
“That’s not a no.”
Bucky just grins as he bends down to lace up his shoes, hearing a huff of exasperation from beside him.
They set off down the road at an easy pace somewhere between a jog and a walk. It’s just before sunrise, and the dawn air seems to settle around Bucky’s skin, making him shiver slightly despite the relative warmth. His left arm is as silent as ever as he jogs, but there’s a lingering stiffness in the elbow joint that’s making him feel off. He figures it’s probably from a combination of him sleeping on it at a weird angle and phantom limb syndrome. It’s ironic how the more high-tech his prosthesis becomes, the more he feels those phantom sensations. There’s probably a logical explanation for it. He doesn’t really care to find out.
Bucky flexes his shoulder without breaking his stride. The vibranium plates shift in a ripple down towards his wrist as the internal structure recalibrates, relieving some of that residual stiffness in the elbow. The recalibration process isn’t as noisy as it had been with his old prosthesis, but it still makes a soft whirring noise that’s audible over the sound of Sam and Bucky’s footsteps hitting the pavement.
Sam glances over when he hears it and raises an eyebrow. “Arm bothering you?” he asks after an almost unnoticeable hesitation.
“Elbow joint was stiff,” Bucky replies. He swings his arm around in a circle perpendicular to his body, moving slightly away from Sam as he does so in order to avoid smacking him in either the crotch or the back of the head. “It’s fine now.”
“Huh,” Sam says with an odd inflection, his eyes still trained on Bucky’s left shoulder.
Just then, there’s a mechanical buzzing noise from Sam’s wrist, making it Bucky’s turn to raise an inquisitive eyebrow. “You have a FitBit?”
“You know what a FitBit is?”
“Yes. Evidently.”
Sam rolls his eyes and picks up his pace, settling into a medium-level jog. “Yeah, I have a FitBit. Some of us need to actually work out, you know.”
Bucky matches his stride easily. “Hey, I work out.”
“Running away from your problems does not count.”
“I don’t run away from my problems. I punch them with a metal arm.”
“Right,” Sam says. He directs them around a corner and onto a new sidewalk. “You gonna punch me if I ask about that nightmare?”
Bucky lets out a huff, and not from exertion. “It was about the freeway,” he says after only a slight hesitation. He keeps his eyes trained at the path ahead, purposefully not looking over to gauge Sam’s reaction. “Me tearing out your steering wheel, except I, uh,” he pauses, then figures, fuck it. Sam was there for his flashback yesterday, he’d probably figure it out on his own if he wanted to. “I threw you into oncoming traffic as well, not just the steering wheel.”
There’s a beat of silence where Sam doesn’t speak.
Way to go, Barnes. Scared him off with your dreams about killing him.
Sam speaks before the voice in Bucky’s head can get too nasty. “Huh.”
Bucky tilts his head, shrugs his non-metal shoulder. Pushes back every thought that tries to enter his mind. “Yeah.”
“You get that often? Nightmares about shit that didn’t actually happen?”
He doesn’t usually, but he has a pretty good idea as to why he’d had that particular nightmare last night, and he doesn’t exactly want to share those with Sam. “Sometimes,” Bucky admits. “Not as often as the real ones. But those are already pretty shitty, so.”
They cross a street, Sam making sure to look both ways like the model citizen he is. “It was the same for me when I first came back from Afghanistan. Half the time I was reliving the worst moments of my life, and the other half my brain was coming up with its own scenarios.”
Bucky glances over at Sam in surprise. Honestly, Bucky had expected that Sam wouldn’t want to talk about nightmares once he learned the subject manner of Bucky’s most recent one, but he actually doesn’t seem to be adverse to continuing the conversation. Bucky wonders if it’s because he wants to ease Bucky into talking about this kind of stuff, or if he’s just that comfortable sharing about his nightmares. “How’d you make ‘em stop?”
A sharp, sarcastic laugh escapes from Sam. “I didn’t. Did everything I was supposed to: saw a therapist, practiced ‘mindfulness’ -” he makes air quotes around the word, “- whatever the hell that means, I still don’t know. I even tried meditating for a bit. But it’s not something you cure, I know that now. PTSD’s like that. Depression too.”
The admission is startling in its easy vulnerability. Bucky almost trips over an invisible pebble. “I don’t have depression,” he hastens to say, feeling inexplicably like he has to justify himself to Sam.
“Not saying you do. I did. It didn’t go away, but,” Sam shrugs, glancing over at Bucky, “it got easier.”
“Well,” Bucky says awkwardly. “Here’s hoping, then.”
Sam chuckles at that, the laughter seemingly genuine this time. Bucky feels himself grin softly in return. A small, persistent part of him knows he should quit complaining to Sam all the time; he doesn’t want Sam to feel as though he should be acting like Bucky’s therapist just because Bucky isn’t seeing anybody else. But his conversations with Sam feel night and day from his conversations with Raynor. Sam’s coming to him as a friend, far as Bucky can tell. If Sam asks, Bucky doesn’t see the point in not answering.
Plus, Bucky likes talking to Sam, much as he’ll never admit it. And Sam seems to genuinely care about Bucky’s wellbeing, which is… nice.
They jog in silence after that, with only the sound of their shoes on the pavement or gravel to soften the quiet. Sam’s FitBit goes off again after a few minutes, and he elbows Bucky in the side before increasing his pace once more. Bucky’s happy to let Sam set the speed - he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he doesn’t know where they’re going - and Sam doesn’t seem to mind his company, so Bucky stays beside Sam, a respectable foot apart. Pretty soon, all thoughts of nightmares and steering wheels are gone, replaced by the repetitive rhythm of their footfalls on the sidewalk.
The route that Sam leads him on steers clear of people for at least the first twenty minutes. One turn, though, takes them down a more residential street where everybody seems to be out walking their dogs or going on similar morning runs, with the sidewalk crowded enough that they have to jog on the road for a solid stretch. Bucky catches a few people who do a subtle double-take once they spot his vibranium arm, but all in all nobody seems to freak out too badly. Sam gets more than a couple glances thrown his way too, which makes him visibly preen and Bucky fight back a smirk. The streets are less crowded once they turn off that block, but their path is definitely no longer completely empty, and Bucky resigns himself to being on the receiving end of a couple more curious stares, reminding himself that it could be worse.
By the time the sun has begun to creep over the horizon, Sam’s FitBit has chimed once more. Sam himself has started to show signs of fatigue, his breaths becoming increasingly laboured and a patch of sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. Not that Bucky’s looking towards Sam’s neck, or anything. He just happened to be looking in Sam’s direction in general curiosity about the surrounding houses. Or something like that.
“How much longer we got left?” Bucky asks once they overtake a man walking two small white dogs who try to attack Bucky’s ankle as they pass.
Sam glances over without slowing. “About a mile. Why, you gettin’ sleepy?”
“No.” He’s definitely not getting tired; if anything, he’s even more energized than he was when they set out.
“It’s a right at the next stop sign, then that street’ll take you to an area you recognize, if you wanna go ahead.”
“You sure?” Bucky asks, frowning. He doesn’t want to just sprint out on Sam… but he does kind of want to go a bit faster, see if he can stretch his legs. He won’t unless Sam’s certain, though.
Luckily for him, Sam nods his assent with a dry smile. “Yeah, I can tell you’re bored. Go run your heart out.”
Bucky fires a grin over his shoulder as he pulls ahead of Sam, calling out “I’ll see you at the house!” in farewell and getting a sarcastic wave in response. He doesn’t increase his pace too much, instead getting to what a normal runner would consider to be just below a sprint and then staying there. It’s nowhere near his top possible speed, but there’s not any need for him to go all out when he can stay at a comfortable rate. He’s never had the chance to run for the sake of running before, and it’s actually surprisingly nice, being able to push himself without a particular goal in mind.
He overtakes a pair of startled joggers who jump slightly as he passes. He reaches the stop sign that Sam had mentioned a minute later, and turns right as per Sam’s instructions onto a relatively quiet gravel road. Seeing that the street is empty, he ups his pace into something that most runners wouldn’t feasibly be able to sustain, sending gravel flying behind him. Soon enough, he gets lost in the steady tempo of his footsteps, his pulse beating almost at the same rhythm, adrenaline buzzing pleasantly through his veins. He should really do this more often.
A few more minutes at the same pace brings him to an intersection that he recognizes. Bucky turns onto the tree-lined road that leads up to Sarah’s house, and spontaneously decides to take another lap of the route. He remembers the path clearly; photographic memory is another perk of the serum that Bucky finds wonderfully ironic, given his extensive and well-documented history of memory loss. And it’s not like he’s tired.
The second lap goes by much quicker. He lets himself run on autopilot, automatically keeping his pace quick and steady while he follows the route in his mind without needing to think about it. The sidewalks in residential areas are more crowded this time around, and he definitely receives more glances in his direction, but it’s still a surprisingly enjoyable experience. Certainly different without Sam’s presence by his side. Not necessarily better or worse, just different.
He slows down to a jog as he approaches the Wilson’s house for the second time. He opens the front door quietly, unsure if Cass and AJ are still sleeping and not wanting to wake them if they are, and slips off his shoes to the side of the door.
He’s unsurprised to find Sam in the kitchen, cracking eggs into a pan.
“D’ya get lost?” Sam asks over his shoulder, keeping his voice low. “I’m surprised I beat you back.”
“Nah, I took another lap.”
“Huh.” The kitchen is silent, save for the sound of sizzling eggs, then Sam asks, “Want some eggs?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“No problem.” There’s another beat of silence as Sam grabs another three eggs from the carton on the counter.
Bucky shifts, uncomfortable with just watching somebody else cook for him. “Uh, anything I can do to help?”
“I think I can manage eggs.”
“Other than the eggs, I mean.”
“You wanna put some bread in the toaster?” Then, “You do know how to work a toaster, right?”
Good God, Sam can be difficult. “I have an arm from Wakanda. I can manage a toaster.”
“Hey, I’m just checking.”
Bucky puts the bread in the toaster (like a fucking champ, thank you very much). They wait in silence until the eggs are finished cooking, Sam moving to grab plates from a cupboard and tasking Bucky with getting various condiments from the fridge. Once the toast has popped up, they eat in comfortable silence too, until Sam asks, “You got any plans for today?”
“Uh.” Honestly, Bucky hasn’t thought that far ahead. “Not really, no. You guys need help with anything with the boat, or on the docks, or anything really -”
“Yeah, we could use some help with transporting stuff. You’ll be stuck with me all day, though.”
Bucky grins. “Well that’s just terrible.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I know.”
They set off for the dock once Sarah’s left to take Cass and AJ to school. The guys at the pier are happy to see Bucky again, cracking jokes about how they knew Bucky couldn’t stay away for long, which are funny because they’re true. Sam puts him to work loading crates into the back of his truck while he just sits at a table talking with a handful of the other guys, watching Bucky and providing unhelpful commentary.
“You gonna help out any time soon?” Bucky asks half-jokingly, hefting his second crate onto his shoulder from the deck of the boat.
“It takes three of us normal folk to lift one of those, we’ll leave you to it,” one of the other workers, a shorter, broad-shouldered man named Phillipe, calls out in reply.
“Yeah, you need to earn your keep,” Sam chimes in, eliciting a round of laughter from all the other guys.
It only takes a couple of minutes for Bucky to load the truck with a half-dozen of the crates, after which Sam drives them half an hour down the road to the storehouse, where they’ll be loaded onto a truck for transport down to Point à la Hache that afternoon. Bucky carefully does not look at Sam’s hands on the steering wheel as he drives. Although it’s unlikely that it’d trigger another flashback, he doesn’t want to even risk it. And besides, having two flashbacks on two consecutive days, both caused by the same thing? That would just be embarrassing.
They do two more rounds of delivering crates to the storehouse, stopping back at the house in between to grab a bite of the endless jambalaya for lunch. They spend the rest of the afternoon on the boat, fixing and cleaning various parts at Sarah’s texted instructions. A couple times, Bucky gets stolen by somebody else to lift or push or hold one thing or another. He sees Sam watch him once or twice, which, for an indiscernible reason, makes him blush.
Dinnertime comes soon enough. Bucky and Sam head back to help Sarah in the kitchen, then help her clean up after the meal while Cass and AJ finish up their respective homework. The boys ask to watch Sam and Bucky with the shield again after dinner, which dissolves into Sam and Bucky teaching them how to throw it. Well, Sam teaches them. Bucky’s responsible for fetching it and, once they manage to get some distance with their tosses, act as the target for Cass and AJ to aim at. Every time they get him, he makes sure to play it up, falling back and sprawling on the grass. The boys eat it up each time, but they still tire out before long. Sarah definitely seems grateful when she takes them inside for bed.
The next two days progress in much of the same manner. It’s just before the start of tourist season, so Bucky’s been enlisted to help Wilson Family Seafood in its preparation, which consists of moving a lot of crates between the dock to a storehouse, then back again. Sam takes Bucky out on the boat once, which gets cut short by a sudden, unforecasted downpour while they’re out on the water. While Bucky doesn’t throw up from the movement of the boat on the choppy waves, it’s a close thing.
Bucky doesn’t have a nightmare either night, or if he does, it’s not anything that he remembers the next morning. He still joins Sam on his runs, though. Sam takes him on a slightly different route each time, leading him on a trail that winds through the trees or through different areas of the surrounding neighborhood. They do one lap together, then Bucky does a second, much faster lap by himself. It’s a nice routine, running with Sam before setting out to the docks.
It’s nice to have a routine, in general.
Well, Bucky had a routine in Brooklyn, but it was a pretty depressing one that consisted of waking up from a nightmare, choking down a flavourless breakfast, checking the Google alerts he’d set up for the different names on his amendment list, picking a random thing from Steve’s section of the notebook to watch/read/listen to, choking down a flavourless lunch, going to therapy (if he had it that day), sitting on his phone for an endless amount of time, and going to see Yori for dinner (on Tuesdays) or ordering something off UberEats for himself. Of course, once he goes back to Brooklyn he won’t be going to therapy anymore, and, well, he’s pretty sure that dinners with Yori are over for the time being. But being here with Sam, spending time with Sarah and Cass and AJ… it’s settling a part of him that’s been unsettled for a pretty long time, the part of him that had missed the easy comfort that comes with having a place to call home.
He doesn’t want to dwell on that, though, because he knows that thinking of Delacroix as home will just be a gateway into thinking of Sam as home, and well, Bucky knows now that it’s dangerous to think of a person as your home.
Plus, thoughts of ‘home’ make him miss Brooklyn, his Brooklyn, with a Steve that only came up to his shoulders and his sisters playing clapping games in the next room. And those thoughts will make him feel guilty about not seeing Becca, which he’s trying his damndest to not think about. But God if it isn’t difficult to not think about his own sisters when watching Sam and Sarah’s easy back-and-forth. He’s not jealous, per se; if anything, it just makes him feel lonlier, which he knows isn’t fair. It’s not like it’s their fault. But he can’t help it sometimes.
One evening finds Bucky with Sam in the kitchen. Sarah’s running late, so she’d texted Sam to make dinner in her stead, which Sam had taken as his cue to teach Bucky how to make his ‘signature’ pasta sauce. Privately, Bucky had wondered why they didn’t just order takeout, but hey, he won’t complain about eating a home cooked meal. Even if a part of him had been just a little dubious about Sam’s cooking skills.
The ability to cook apparently runs in the Wilson family, though, because Sam definitely seems to know what he’s doing in the kitchen. He’d set Bucky up cutting onions and garlic, which Bucky can thankfully manage. Sam had then slipped out the back door, returning with a few green leaves pinched in between his index finger and thumb and a triumphant expression on his face, just as Bucky separates a bulb of garlic into its individual cloves.
“Fresh basil!” he exclaims. “I knew Sarah would have some. Man, this makes it so much better, you have no idea.”
“No, I don’t,” Bucky agrees, peeling the paper-like skin off a clove. “I don’t think I’ve ever eaten anything with fresh basil in my life.”
Sam snorts, setting the basil leaves down on a second cutting board. “I take it there wasn’t much fresh basil to go around during the Great Depression, then?”
Bucky raises his eyebrows and inclines his head, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Yeah, no, there wasn’t much of anything in terms of fresh stuff. I mean, we mostly -”
“Boiled everything?” Sam finishes with an audible grin.
Bucky glances over at where he’s pulling out a giant pot, and squints. “Yes,” he says slowly.
Sam laughs. “Yeah, that’s what Steve said.”
“God,” Bucky groans as vivid memories of kitchen disaster after kitchen disaster rise to the front of his mind. “Steve was the worst at cooking. He managed to set a pot of water on fire once.”
“That’s almost impressive.”
“Yeah, if you’re not the one who had to put it out.”
“What about you?” Sam asks over the sound of water running from the tap into the pot. “You cook much these days?”
Bucky sighs, shakes his head. “Nah. I mean, I can handle putting together a breakfast and lunch, but I end up ordering takeout for dinner most nights.”
Sam shuts the tap off. “Well, that’s a good way to try new foods.”
It’s not why Bucky orders takeout, but he’ll let Sam believe it. “Sure,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on the garlic cloves he’s peeling.
If Sam can hear the uncertainty in Bucky’s voice, he doesn’t make any indication of it. He sets the pot on the stovetop, where it lets out a dull clang as he sets it down on one of the back burners.
Bucky glances over. “You’re making the pasta now?”
“No.” Sam draws the word out slowly. “This is for the tomatoes. Makes it easier to peel the skin off.”
“Right,” Bucky responds as if it's obvious. He minces the garlic; he knows how to do that much in the kitchen, at least. He hears Sam rummaging around in the fridge as he pushes the garlic to the side of the cutting board. “How big d’you want this onion cut?” he asks.
“Uh, diced would be ideal.”
“Okay.” Bucky hears the sound of the fridge closing, then the tap being run again briefly. He cuts into the large onion from root to stem, holding it still in his left hand, then cuts the stem portion off and peels the skin off both halves, setting the skin off to the side with the scraps from the garlic. He starts quickly dicing the onion, his knife barely leaving the cutting board for more than a blink.
“Look at you, knife expert,” Sam says, appearing at Bucky’s elbow.
“Thanks,” Bucky says, forcing himself not to stiffen at Sam’s sudden presence.
Sam stands behind him for another few moments, watching the swift motion of the knife over Bucky’s shoulder. At least, that’s what Bucky presumes he’s doing. Bucky himself is a bit busy trying to fight the sudden flush that’s threatening to creep up his neck from Sam’s proximity.
After what seems like an eternity, Sam moves away, and Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It’s just from the scrutiny, he tells himself. Most people who’ve gotten that close to him while he’s wielding a knife have not lived long enough to comment on it. He’s allowed to be nervous.
And that’s definitely what he’s nervous about. Nothing else.
Sam instructs him how to cut the mushrooms before he disappears behind a door, emerging with two boxes of pasta. “We’ll be needing both of these,” he tells Bucky, who laughs in agreement. Between the five of them, they can put away an enormous amount of food.
The water is boiling by the time that the mushrooms are all cut, so Sam gathers the tomatoes from their spot on the counter and adds them to the pot one at a time, removing them after a few seconds into a bowl of ice placed next to the stove. He narrates what he’s doing as he does it like he’s on some sort of cooking show. Bucky is happy to listen, happy to watch.
Bucky gets started on sauteing the onions as Sam handles the tomatoes, peeling the skin off and crushing them in some loud machine. At Sam’s instruction, he adds the garlic, then the mushrooms, then lets Sam take over to add the tomatoes and all of the herbs and spices, including the basil from earlier.
“This is the kicker, though,” Sam tells him as he leans over the skillet, a small brown bottle in his hand. “Any time you’re cooking tomatoes, add a bit of balsamic vinegar. Trust me, Michelin Star, right there.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Sam adds a small bit of the balsamic vinegar to the sauce, not bothering to measure the amount, then sets the bottle down on the counter. “And now we let it simmer,” he says. “All the hard work’s done.”
“Well.” Bucky gestures to the miscellaneous cutting boards, knives, and bowls strewn about the kitchen. “There’s this.”
Sam sighs. “Yeah, I know.”
They move about each other easily in the kitchen as they clean, Bucky collecting all the compost while Sam loads the cutting boards into the sink. It takes them barely any time at all to get the kitchen all cleaned up.
Bucky’s at the stove, giving the sauce a quick stir, when he hears Sam inhale from somewhere behind him.
“You know,” Sam begins, “I wanted to thank you, Buck. For helping out with all the stuff at the dock these last few days, and with the boat. You didn’t have to.”
“That’s - it’s not a problem,” Bucky says, oddly flustered. “I told you I wanted to help.”
Sam hums noncommittally in response. “Well, thanks for offering, then. And for, you know, entertaining the boys.”
Bucky stops his stirring, tapping the wooden spoon on the side of the skillet before resting it on its edge. “They’re good kids.”
“Yeah.” Sam is silent for a moment, then continues, “It was a trip and a half coming back, seeing these two lil’ men. I mean, when I’d seen them last, they’d been tiny .” There’s another pause. Bucky hears Sam take a heavy breath. “Feels like I missed out on their whole lives.”
Well. Bucky could relate to that, missing out on people’s whole lives. After all, he’d missed his parents growing old together, missed his sisters getting married and starting their own families. The five years he’d missed during the Blip had been comparatively easy for him to cope with, but he gets how it’s difficult for Sam.
“It sucks,” Bucky says, not sure how he can even begin to convey the depth of his understanding.
“Yeah.” From the tone of Sam’s voice, it sounds like he gets it anyways.
Bucky turns away from the stove and leans back on the counter adjacent to it, facing the rest of the kitchen. “Well,” he says, “I’m a bit out of practice with the whole family thing, but you seem to be doing a pretty good job.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“Welcome.”
“You know,” Sam starts. “I actually wanted to ask you -”
The sound of Sam’s phone ringing interrupts whatever he was about to say. Sam glances up at the ceiling in frustration, then grabs his phone from where it’s charging on the nearby counter.
“Hello?” he says, bringing his phone to his ear. “I - yeah, the sauce is done, it’s just simmering. Alright. Perfect. We’ll start the pasta in about ten then. Yeah, he’s helpin’ out - sure, I’ll tell him. Alright. See you soon, bye.”
Bucky raises an eyebrow once Sam puts his phone down. “That Sarah?” he asks, only out of politeness. He knows it was, he could hear her responding on the other line, but listening in on people’s phone calls is ‘not normal person behaviour’ according to Raynor, and that had actually been one of her lessons that Bucky figured was probably accurate. And the last thing he wants to do is give Sam reason to think he's, like, eavesdropping on his conversations with his sister. Bucky may be a little behind on some social cues (hello, staring problem), but he's not an asshole, no matter what Sam says.
“Yeah. She says thanks for helping to cook, by the way.”
“Didn’t really do anything.”
“Hey, chopping onions and garlic is an essential part of the cooking process -”
“Alright, alright,” Bucky says, holding his hands up in mock surrender. He chews at his lip, considers. “And besides, you guys keep thanking me for stuff I want to do. I meant it when I said I’m happy to help, I don’t wanna just freeload off you guys.”
It’s Sam’s turn to raise an eyebrow now. “What do you mean?”
Bucky falters. “I mean, I - I like cooking, or at least I think I could. I like being useful on the docks, and I like families, and - you,” he finishes, the last word slipping out before he can even realize it. Well, too late to take it back now.
Sam looks at him with a slight glint to his eyes. “Me,” he says, the corner of his mouth curling up into a lopsided grin.
The blood rushes to Bucky’s face, and it’s not because of the heat rising from the stove. He hopes Sam can’t tell the difference. “Against my better instincts, yeah.” He swallows. “Is that - don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird.”
“Well, that’s good.”
“Good.”
“Glad we agree.”
“I like you too,” Sam says. “You know that, right?”
Bucky can’t take the sudden sincerity in Sam’s tone, in his expression. He grabs the wooden spoon and gives the sauce a halfhearted stir. “Yeah, well.”
“I mean it. I like having you around.”
“You’re making me blush,” Bucky says truthfully.
Sam laughs, the sound bright and clear. Bucky grins in return, sets the spoon down. It’s nice, whenever he can startle a laugh out of Sam. He likes hearing Sam’s laugh, likes it especially when it’s in response to something that Bucky’s said.
“It’s true, though,” Sam says once he’s stopped laughing. “And, I, uh. I wanted to ask if you... you know.”
“I… don’t,” Bucky says slowly, confused when Sam doesn’t elaborate.
Sam gets an odd expression then, his face pinching as if he just swallowed something incredibly sour. He swallows, then breathes out heavily. “I was wondering if you wanted to come back with me to DC.” The sentence leaves his mouth in a rush, and before Bucky can even begin to digest it he continues talking. “I know you got a place in Brooklyn, but if I’m being honest, I could probably use your help there. In DC, that is. If you want to come.”
What .
“Um,” Bucky says eloquently.
“You don’t have to let me know now, I get it’s a big ask, but. I’ve gotten used to having you around, and I’ve got the spare room, so -”
“Yes,” Bucky says suddenly, before he can think himself out of it. “I - yes. I’ll come with you. To DC.”
Sam’s face splits into a blinding smile. “Good. Great,” he says.
“Great,” Bucky echoes.
They stay grinning at each other for what is probably seconds, but feels like it could be hours, days. An unnamable emotion is rising in Bucky, something bubbly and bright and shiny and new. He hadn’t realized before just how much he had been dreading the idea of returning to his empty apartment once Sam got sick of him, but apparently Sam wants to keep him around for the time being, and Bucky would much rather stay with him than be alone.
The pasta ends up being delicious. Bucky and Sam both go back for seconds, and when Bucky goes to sleep that night, it’s with a full stomach and an even fuller heart.