Chapter Text
Anonymous asked: I wish you would write a fic where Bucky gets to see Sam use his wings- in the Make a thing go right universe. Absolutely love that story, so really anything you want to add to it would be amazing.
Originally posted here.
-
They actually had met before, but neither of them remembered it. James’ hair had been short; Sam hadn’t taken off his helmet and goggles. It’d been - 2006, or thereabouts, all those years dragging together by the time they might’ve compared notes. Camp al-Saqr. Two fucking weeks Sam and Riley had been there, fixing up the field hospital and they’d spent most of it getting ribbed, because they were at Forward Operating Base Falcon, get it? Yeah, got it, fucking hilarious.
The night before they’d been up half the night getting shelled by insurgents, who used the thicket of civilian homes around FOB Falcon to hide. Power to the hospital had gone out around 0200, which was why Sam had been up; he’d gotten to the point where he could sleep through just about anything. So the next day he slept through the briefing, stumbled out of his bunk bleary eyed and uncaring to the news that some infantry troops had been sent off in the general direction of where the mortars had come from. No one was surprised when it came back that one of them had been shot.
Sam and Riley had gone; this was EXO-7’s premiere tour and Task Force Black was eager to show them off, let al-Qaeda know what was up. The novelty hadn’t worn off for them either, and Sam’s heart had been juddering with adrenaline and excitement when they’d touched down on the rooftop of a dusty apartment building. Two guys waiting for them up top, plus the wounded man, and all of them faking impassivity at the wings, holy shit, what are they gonna think of next.
It was James who gave Sam the sitrep, who crouched close when Sam looked him over, their wingmen on watch behind them. Bullet had clipped the guy, got through the substandard armor infantry was getting those days, and he wasn’t bleeding out but they didn’t have a lot of time to waste.
Sam had hefted the guy up in a bridal carry, not noticing the appreciative way James’ eyes raked over his arms and his shoulders. Under his helmet James was deeply tanned, and perpetually gritty with dirt and sand. His blue eyes were unsettlingly bright in his face, but Sam didn’t notice them either, except to call the guy ghostly later on, just in his head. James had slapped his buddy’s helmet twice, and Sam had felt the jolt in his arm, and then he’d stepped back to give them room to take off.
“Safe trip,” James said, and Sam nodded, and that was it - except for the handful of seconds that James gave himself, to turn and marvel, and watch them disappear into the bright winter sun.